We do not speak.
In my head, I visualize a checklist, where I write in each hour. One hour, and I visualize checking the small box beside it. Two hours. Check. Three hours. Check. Four hours. Check. There is a window on the other side of the long, white room, and when I look out again it is dark. The darkness is pressing against the windows, a black, scary mass.
Eventually, he takes me by the shoulder again, like I am some kind of puppet, and we walk. We walk away from the more crowded areas of the airport, following corridors that get dirtier, smaller, and emptier as we proceed. I can feel another panic attack coming upon me, and sweat gathers in my forehead and in my palms. I fight the urge to wipe them on my pants. Eventually, we reach a small waiting area on the ground level. There is a glass door here, leading out into the darkness, guarded by two policemen. They both stare at me as I come in. Their glances are not friendly.
We sit down, which is good, because my legs start to feel like jelly. I wonder what time it is, but I do not trust my voice enough to ask, my mouth is so dry it feels like my whole throat may, at any moment, burst into dust.
I did not know what we were waiting for until the glass door swings open, and another policeman comes in, his hand having a firm grip around another shoulder. He is escorting someone in. A young woman, who looks only a few years older than me. She walks strange, stiffly. She must be on her way home again, from her sentence. But she does not look happy. Our eyes meet, for only a second. My eyes ask her a question, but she does not answer. She just looks back at me with dead eyes. Her face is very white, and her expression looks like she has seen something truly horrible. As if she has realized something so terrible, that not even her eyes can express it. Then she is gone.
I want to cry, but my face, eyes, all seem frozen. Instead I start to hyperventilate, my breathing going in and out fast and harsh, like the breathing of a heavy smoker. It is the only sound in the small waiting room, my breathing.
It is time to go. The policeman gives me a push towards the glass doors, that open with a brush of wind. I nearly fall, my legs feel so weak, as if they are made of water.
We walk out of the airport, and we continue to walk for nearly ten minutes. It feels good to walk, at least. Then I spot a very small airplane, waiting for me in the darkness. I have never seen such a small aircraft. Or so old. The jet engines are replaced by propels.
“Am I going on to that?” I ask. I know the answer, but I really can’t help asking.
I get a nod for an answer.
“Is it safe?” I ask, my voice desperate, as we approach the plane.
Another nod for an answer, as if I am not worthy of the sound of speech.
I need another push in my back before I walk up the tiny, steep steps to go into the plane. I turn around, surprised to see the policeman is not following.
“Will another police officer meet me on the island?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“You are in the hands of the locals now. They are steering the workers. We just ship them down and pick them up.”
With locals, he means those of The West who, for some weird reason, still live on the islands.
Another flight attendant stands by the small door and escorts me quickly to a seat. The tiny aircraft is full. From locals, I guess, headed back to the island from shopping on the mainland, judging from the plastic bags by their feet. I am seated beside an old man. He looks at me and grins. The seats are so tiny our shoulders become pressed against each other, and it makes me feel somewhat better, to be so close to another human being. I wonder if he knows why I am here, that I am a law-breaker. I suppose he does, but he doesn’t show it. In fact, when I look around myself, there are no eyes staring back at me from the other passengers. Maybe this is normal to them.
The airplane takes off. I become startled when the propels start to turn around, the sound is much higher than expected. My hands are clasped together, trying to find strength. I grimace in fear when the tiny wheels lift off the ground, a lift that feels much steeper in this small plane than the one before. It feels like a roller coaster, like my head and stomach is left somewhere behind me, on the ground, while the rest of me is here, up in the air. We go through the clouds, and the airplane shakes terribly. A scream almost escapes my lips when it abruptly sinks several meters and then lifts again. I look over at the old man beside me, and see that he is watching me with a big smile on his face. Obviously, he finds my reaction to the take off very funny. My cheeks go red, and I look out the window again, though there is nothing to see. I forgot to ask the policeman how long this flight would last, but it can not be more than an hour.
I spend the time reading and re-reading the short safety manual in my seat pocket. Every time the plane burst into more turbulence, which happens regularly, I force myself to focus on one of the tiny, printed words, and spell it, letter by letter, forcing my head to focus on something other than the shaking.
Eventually, about forty minutes later, we go in for landing. I am terrified, not having the slightest clue of what will come when my feet touch the ground, but I also feel a weird, thrilling fascination. My life has been so dull, so normal, this I will remember for the rest of my life. Good or bad, and in this case, very bad, it is an adventure, like in the books on Kindle.
I look out the window as we approach the ground. It is clear, even in the darkness, where the island starts and the ocean end. Complete blackness, then an invisible line, and lots of lights, from all the houses and roads. It could have been a night sky, I think, all those lights being stars, seen from up-side-down. From up here it looks like any other place. I look intently at the black spots between the gathered lights. It could be mountains or woods. It could be The Camps.
There must be a strong wind here, coming in from the sea, because the whole plane shakes dizzily from side to side, like a boat going up and down in high waves. For a wild moment, I think one of the wings, next to where I am seated, will touch the pavement on the rollway and break off, but it stabilizes right before, and once again I am pushed forward in my seat.
Then the strangest thing happens. All around me, people start clapping, cheering, like it is New Year’s Eve or something. How weird. Maybe it is a custom here. With these old planes and such strong winds, it is no wonder they cheer when they make it back home. I give a few claps myself, even.
We leave, again, not through a corridor, but down the steep stairs, and then walk towards the airport. First I can not believe my eyes. Is that the airport? It looks to me like only one building. A lonely, white stone house, probably smaller than my parents’ house back home. Everyone around me is walking in that direction, so I guess it is, and follow them. There is no officer waiting for me here.
Inside the airport, there is only one room. Our baggage is being carried in manually by some workers. Around me, people are talking in low voices, their dialects so heavy it is almost impossible for me to understand them. It sounds almost a bit eastern, to me, which is probably true, considering they are closer to The East than the mainland of The West.
I have just taken a firm grip on the handle of my suitcase when I meet the eyes of a man, standing in the crowd of people filling up the little room. There is recognition in his face when he looks at me. His skin is wrinkled and tan from the sun, the black hair on his head has grey, almost metallic stripes in them. He has kind eyes. A deep blue, like the ocean.
He walks toward me, and I let my eyes brush over his clothing. He is dressed normally. Jeans, a brown leather jacket. No uniform, he must be local.
“Are you Lios?” he asks, his voice husky from smoke, his dialect evident.
“Louise,” I correct, and smile carefully. He returns my smile instantly.
“Welcome to the island.”
8
He takes my suitcase from me and carries it out, into a parking lot. I look around at the cars. All of them are of the old kind, like the plane, the kind of cars you do not see anymore in The West. Or so I thought.
He fastens my suitcase by rope on top of an old, dusty, gray van. The air here is warmer than home, but it is still cold. After all, it is winter. I walk over to the back door, but he shakes his head at me, and gallantly opens the passenger door for me, like men used to do, in the old times. Why is he so nice?
I get in, smiling at him, shyly. The situation is so absurd, so unreal, I am not scared anymore. I feel translucent, I feel like a ghost. Everything I lay my eyes on, as we start driving, is old. The road is dusty, filled with cracks and holes, so we have to drive very slow. The houses we pass are all old stone houses, the painting falling off in flakes, leaving angry, darker spots on the walls. The streets are dirty, filled with litter, the cars we pass have engines roaring like monsters, and I feel like covering my ears with my hands. High noises have always made me feel uneasy.
“So, what did you do? Ey, let me guess. You stole your friend’s super expensive makeup. Or, you took a selfie somewhere illegal.”
He smirks at me, like it is funny.
“I read a book,” I say, defensively.
He looks at me, surprised.
“A book? What kind of book?”
“It was flagged. I didn’t know. I stole it from a museum.”
He watches me speculatively.
“What was it called?”
“To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
I stare at him. Is he joking? I do not answer. Maybe this is some kind of test. Maybe he is a policeman undercover, trying to figure out if I deserve more days here, to find out if it really were an accident. But he continues.
“Did you?”
I look at him. There is honesty in his eyes. I choose to believe it.
“Yes,” I say. “I liked it very much, in fact.”
He smiles.
“Me too.”
My mouth hangs open.
“Have you read it?” I ask, shocked.
He nods.
“Aye, I have it home, on my bookshelf. It is one of my favorites, in fact.”
“But… But it’s flagged. It’s a flagged item. You could be caught, and punished, and—”
“And sent here? Where I already live?” he grins.
I am out of words. We drive in silence.
“A bookshelf?” I ask after a while. “Like in the museums?”
He snorts.
“Like in the homes of people, not museums. But yes.”
“Why do you have one?” I ask, curious. “Why don’t you just get a Kindle? It’s easier.”
“Easy doesn’t necessarily mean better. And books are worth more effort than a simple download. And besides, the best books aren’t on that thing. To Kill a Mockingbird, for instance.”
In my mind, I guess I agree. A book like To Kill a Mockingbird is worth the effort of turning real pages, carrying an extra load in your purse, or backpack. Maybe not this much struggle, but still.
“Will I be living in The Camps?” I ask. After all, this is the important question, that I have been dreading to ask ever since I walked into that small airport.
To my surprise, the man beside me actually and literally laughs.
“Of course not. What would be the point? They are already crowded with people. You will be living with Madani.”
“Madani?”
“Yes, a dear friend of mine. She has a farmhouse in a valley on the other side of The Camps, and she will be glad to give you a room.”
Once again, I am wordless.
“And who are you?” I ask. “What is your name? Are you an officer of some sorts?”
“No. My name is Arien. I coordinate the workers coming in.”
“But what is your work? What is your profession?”
“This,” he says, simply. “Though, it’s not my profession. I don’t have any education. My father did it before me, and I was happy to follow in his shoes.”
This must be the strangest man I have ever met. And I have a feeling he will become even more strange as the days pass.
We follow a tiny, swinging road through the darkness. There are not even street lights here, no sidewalk. Some of the corners are in a 90-degree angle, and I am clinging to the side of my seat.
“What is up with these roads?” I mutter, mostly to myself. It is like being in that small plane all over again.
“We don’t have any money to fix them, or make them better. The Government cut us out once we got The Camps.”
I didn’t know this.
“Really?”
He nods.
“The locals here must really resent them, those people, or animals,” I say, thinking out loud.
In the corner of my eyes I see the smile on his face disappear, and his expression becomes serious.
“First of all, I don’t want to hear you call anyone animals while you are here, except if it’s a cat, or a dog. And second of all, we do. But it is not who you think.”
Suddenly I feel ashamed of myself, guilty, but I do not know what for.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
We stop outside a small, green gate, in a low, white stone wall. Behind it, I can see a cozy farmhouse, with green shutters, like in an old painting. Vines cover one of the walls, and the roof is made of flat, red stones.
“I will be living here?” I ask. I was picturing a freezing, dirty tent.
“Yes.”
“But, why? I’m a criminal. I’m here to be punished.”
He snorts.
“You are not a criminal. Not for reading a book, and a great book of that.”
I hesitate for a moment, and then I tell him about the young woman I saw at the airport, on her way back home again. I describe her eyes, dead, her face, so white, frozen in a horrified expression.
“What made her that way?” I ask.
His eyes show an infinite sadness now, that makes him look many years older.
“The truth,” he says.
“The truth?” I ask, perplexed.
“Yes. To know the truth is your punishment.”
“Knowing a truth doesn’t sound so bad.”
My voice dies as he looks at me.
“No,” he says. “It is much worse. Now, let’s get you inside.”
9
The woman, Madani, is very nice. One of the motherly figures, the kind of woman you look at and immediately she reminds you of your own mother. She is a short, plump woman, with big, dark hair, and chocolate eyes. She comes rushing out the door the second I walk in the gate, hugging me, looking genuinely pleased to see me, smiling broadly. I notice she is wearing earrings, gold ones, that twinkle in the sparse light.
“You look so young!” she says, repeatedly, as she takes me by the hand and leads me into the house. I can not remember the last time I have been touched. We do not touch back home, except on screens.
My room is on the second floor, up a small staircase at the outside of the house. In that way, she explains, I can come and go as I please, without waking up the whole house. I ask her who else lives here, and she says her two daughters and her husband.
“How old are your daughters?” I ask, picturing them in my mind as children, since The Law demands that you move out at age 16.
“They are 22 and 24,” she says, like this is the most natural thing in the world. I do my best to hide my surprise, so as not to come off rude.
I get a small bedroom, with an even smaller bathroom right across the hall.
“Where is the shower?” I ask, when she shows me the tiny bathroom.
“Shower? There is no shower here. You can wash there,” she points at a small crane in the corner. This house must be older than I thought.
The bedroom looks like a room in an old monastery. Simple, white stone walls and floors, one small bed, made up with a thin, red woolen blanket, and a small chair in the corner. No decorations. It is a room made for sleeping and waiting.
“I know it’s simple,” Madani says. “But you will have so much to do in The
Camps. There won’t be much time here anyway.”
“Do you know what kind of work I’ll be doing?” I ask, curious.
“Not specific, but it’s winter, so you’ll probably be helping giving out warm clothes and blankets and soups, and maybe help them secure their tents against the northern winds. There is a storm coming soon.”
That does not sound very hard, or difficult, I think to myself.
“Is it dangerous? Working there?” I ask.
She nods, her expression suddenly gravely. We are standing in the middle of my bedroom, Arien waiting downstairs.
“It can be dangerous, yes. Things happen. With so many people in one place, things are bound to get out of control sometimes. So please be careful.” She looks into my eyes. “If it gets out of hand in there, you hide.”
I nod.
10
I agree with Arien to meet him outside the gate in the morning, at eight o’clock. Then I go back to my bedroom, sitting down on the hard, little bed, and enjoy being alone. There are so many questions in my head, so many impressions in my mind, that it feels like it might take years to process it all. I slowly start to unpack my few belongings, spending time folding each clothing neatly, and placing them on the one chair in the room. To do this feels normal.
I take my toiletries into the bathroom and brush my teeth, my hair, splashing water in my face. I quickly discover that there is no hot water here. The water coming out from the sink is cold, and tastes like salt and chlorine. It tastes like tears.
I put on a big t-shirt to sleep in, but decide it’s too cold to sleep in only that, adding a pair of woolen pants and eventually a sweater as well. There is no oven in the room, so it’s almost as cold as outside. I lay down in my bed, already longing for home, for that little apartment I took for granted, with hot water, fresh water, where you can drink straight from the tap, and warmth in the floors, and a shower, even a bathtub.
Color Me Blue Page 3