![]() He filled page after page with his spidery black handwriting racing across the unlined paper. Sir Alfred would then begin the activity that took up much of his day: writing his journal. Passengers passed his bench, ignoring him, apart from a few who would do a double-take at the amount of hand luggage he seemed to have. He would then return to his bench and eat breakfast as the airport burst into life around him. Next, he’d buy breakfast from the McDonald’s menu, before visiting the terminal’s newsagent to buy (or be given) a newspaper or three. Sir Alfred was always extremely dignified. Every morning, before the airport became busy, he would leave his bench and go to a bathroom where he would shave and wash to “ensure best presentation of self”. Photograph: © Andrew Donkinīeing trapped in an airport terminal meant Sir Alfred’s life lacked any kind of structure, and so he had created one. We talked a lot.Īndrew Donkin with Nasseri at the airport. I stayed with Sir Alfred for three weeks to learn his life story. ![]() “Instead of our book just laying out the facts,” I said, “how about we explore the story of Sir Alfred as a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma sitting on a red bench in an airport terminal?” I suggested another approach to my new editor. And, most mysteriously of all, that his mother had been an English nurse. Many rumours and myths had attached themselves to his extraordinary story over the years. It quickly became clear that the exact truth behind Sir Alfred’s background and lost paperwork was as much of a mystery to him as to the rest of us. The selling point of most autobiographies is that they tell the truth. When they replied, their letter began “Dear Sir, Alfred …” It was on headed notepaper from the British embassy – how could it not be a knighthood, he asked with a grin. How did he come to have a knighthood? With a toothy grin he explained how he had written to the British embassy in Brussels asking for help. “More because I write on both sides to save paper,” he said. “There must be 10,000 pages there,” I ventured. I did a quick calculation based on the number of boxes. Sir Alfred explained that he had been keeping a daily diary for more than a decade on paper donated to him by the kindly airport doctor. The most precious were the many boxes of A4 paper that contained his journal. His bench was surrounded by several luggage trolleys and many boxes and bags containing his growing hoard of belongings that were becoming a nest around him. He was in his mid-50s, tall, with thinning black hair and bright, intelligent eyes. I sat talking to Sir Alfred for hours as transient airport life went on around us. Film director Steven Spielberg had bought the movie rights to fictionalise Sir Alfred’s story as the Tom Hanks vehicle The Terminal, but Sir Alfred was keen to tell his real story in the medium he loved best: print. ![]() I was introduced to Sir Alfred, who died earlier this month, by Barbara Laugwitz, the German editor who had summoned me from London. The airport was a no man’s land, an endless limbo he could never leave. He couldn’t get on a plane without a passport, and if he left the airport to go into France, he would be arrested for not having ID papers. He had arrived at the airport without proper documentation and was now trapped. Sir Alfred’s full name was Mehran Karimi Nasseri.
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