Color Me Blue

by Ragnhild Yndestad

He does not answer.

  “Second, can you drive a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “An old car too?”

  “In theory, yes.”

  “Good. We need more drivers to take things up to The Camps when it’s necessary. I’ll get you a car afterward. I’ll also add you to our group chat. It is for emergencies only. That’s the second rule; always have your phone with you, and keep it on. OK?”

  “OK. What kind of emergencies are there?” I ask.

  “Hopefully, you’ll not see.”

  I follow him back to the others.

  We eat dinner together in the headquarters; Pasta with chili sauce, made by some of the workers who have a skill in the kitchen. This time we eat from our own plates. From the corner of my eye, I can see Hasin watching me, from time to time. It is strangely flattering, and I can feel myself blush whenever our eyes meet. I have so many questions I wish to ask him, questions that are almost forbidden in The West. What is it like in The East? Did he come here alone? How was the escape? Why did he come? Did he know about The Camps? How did he learn the Common Tongue?

  I do not say anything. I eat my dinner in silence. No ripples.

  It’s dark outside when we leave. I look up at the sky, gasping when I see all the stars, so many more than there are at home. I have to force myself to look away.

  Arien takes me to a friend of his who has a car I can borrow. It is small and blue, with only two seats and a big trunk. It reminds me of a bubble, in the bathtub when I was little. I would take them in my little hand, and I would blow air on it, and it would fly away, drift away, across the bathroom, and then it would burst.

  Inside it reeks of cigarettes, and it even has a manual gear. The radio is also ancient. Yet, I find myself liking it. It feels like a time machine in a kids show. And it is mine, at least while I am here. A safe place.

  I drive home in a nearly constant condition of death anxiety. People around me drive like maniacs. It gets better only when I pretend I am playing a video game. I follow Arien’s car through the dark and narrow streets, outside of town, back into the valley, where everything is so quiet, except for the birdsong that never ends. He turns around, and I continue, following the road until I reach the little farmhouse. It is already a welcome sight.

  I park outside the gate, walking quietly up to my room. I am too tired to wash myself, and put it off to the morning. Instead I strip out of my layers and layers of clothes, curl up underneath the blanket in my bed, and fall asleep before I have time to think.

  13

  I open my eyes. Gray light is coming in from the bedroom window. I can hear rain, and for a moment, I just lie there, listening to the rain. If I close my eyes, I could be home. It rains home too, sometimes. The sound of rain is the same all over the world, no matter how close you are to the border. I get up, pull on my woolen underwear, a pair of soft pants and a knitted sweater, and socks that go high up on my calves. I step into the small bathroom. It seems that I have it all to myself. I have noticed that the lights on this island are different than home. The bulbs provide a much colder light. It is white, piercing white, almost a little grey. The light home is much warmer, yellow, golden, more like the sun.

  I brush my teeth thoroughly, like I always do, counting each brush. I put my hair back in a ponytail, so it falls in a golden fall behind my back. Again, I wear no makeup. There is no one here to impress. And to be honest, I like how pale I am. Translucent. Like if I closed my eyes, nobody would see me, and I could just disappear from the world, for a few moments, like a pause.

  I drive to the storage on my own today. The town is small, but the streets are all the same, so I go early, prepared if I get lost. Luckily, Maps, on my phone, works here.

  I follow the main road, out of the valley, until it reaches the ocean and goes by it, into town. The water is a deep blue today. The beaches are stony, grey, but each stone seems to be shimmering a little, if you look closely, in the color of the rainbow.

  Across the sea, I can see the vague shadow of the mainland of The East, their mountains, only grey contours in the distance. I am sure the mountains on this side look the same to them. In the middle of the bay I can see the coast guard patrolling, like a big, grey shark, cutting its way forward.

  When I reach town, I get lost three times before I find the right way. If you look closely, the streets are a little, only a little, different from each other. Among some of the buildings, there are cozy houses. Other places, the houses are bigger, but shadier, more tired-looking. Along some of the streets there are shops, many shops, or just a few. I follow a road that goes by just a few stores, in what I assume is near the heart of town, staying on it for about ten minutes, until I spot the warehouse on my right side.

  I am early, it seems, because the door is closed, so I stay in the car for a few more minutes, wishing I had my Kindle here, with me. Instead I tell stories in my head, going through the events of yesterday, trying to make sense of the parts that felt confusing, wrong, absurd.

  Then the van pulls up, and Arien and the others jump out of the car. He must have picked them up on the way. I wonder where they are staying.

  “OK, today we’ll put blankets in the trunk of the van. I’ve talked with the military, and we have to wait until afternoon to deliver them, The Camps been closed up till then. So after we’ve put the blankets in, we can sort a few more things out, and then head down to the port for a coffee. All right with you?”

  Everyone mumbles a yes.

  We make a line with our bodies, from inside the storage room to the car, quickly moving the blankets down the line by giving it to the person next to us. It is effective; the trunk fills up within minutes, until the blankets, all of them grey, presses against the windows in the back. I touch the fabric when I pass them along, it is rough, hard, more like steel than wool.

  Then it is time for more folding. I’m getting better at it. Folding faster. Again, Arien puts on music, the same old rock songs from yesterday, and we sing along, clap our hands from time to time, and make pirouettes on our way to and from the different boxes. Even I join in, from time to time, but careful, shyly. I cannot get used to this, the easiness of being a body in a real place, not just a mind in an abstract space, without a shape.

  The coffee shop we go to later is down by the port, where all the ships cradle in the water, near the town square. The streets here are much more crowded, everywhere people walk straight into the road, so we have to drive at the speed of a turtle, so as not to hit someone. Finding parking is terrible. That could have been my entire sentence by itself. There are no parking houses, no underground cavern, nothing but busy, narrow streets, cars honking at each other. I am sure we spend more than 30 minutes going around in a circle until we find room for both of the cars.

  “That wasn’t easy,” I say afterward, while we sit down in a café that looks suspiciously like a bar, called Billy’s.

  Arien laughs.

  “Never is. It is even worse when there is a ferry coming.”

  I cannot picture it any worse.

  We sit down inside, since it’s raining, though most of the tables are out on the street. Smoking seems to be a custom here, because everyone I look at has a cigarette dangling between their fingers, and the interior of the bar reeks of smoke.

  “What kind of book was it that you read?”

  I look up. Mary is talking to me again. It seems she has decided to give me another chance. I smile at her, not wanting to spill it.

  “It was fiction. It was called To Kill a Mockingbird. It was just a mistake, really. I didn’t know it was flagged, I just picked it at random.”

  “Was it a big library? Did it have many books?”

  I think about it.

  “It had a lot of books yes, though it wasn’t very big.”

  She laughs.

  “That’s really crazy. You managed to pick the one book that was flagged. Sounds like fate,” she winks at me.

  I have never believed in fate. I think it is a
part of growing up in The West. Believing in fate is too close to superstition, to religion, and the traditional values. But I can understand that events like this can make some people wonder. Do I wonder? I do not think so. I try not to. No ripples.

  The barman comes over to take our orders. His nametag says ‘Billy’. I wonder if it’s a joke or not. Though, if I were a barman named Billy, I would have applied for a job here too.

  I order coffee, black. My hands are so cold. They have been since I came here. Like there is no blood in them anymore. I grasp the warm cup grateful when it arrives.

  The others start talking, chattering, but I tune out. Sometimes I do that. I lean back with my cup and try not to think about anything, making my mind go a white blank instead. I look out the window. In the harbor I notice a very pretty, little boat. It goes lazily up and down in the waves. Above it, a seagull is circling. Even from here I can see it open its yellow beak, but I cannot hear the scream. It is a peaceful view, and I suddenly want to take pictures of it, make a post. The motive is too idyllic to miss. And I have not posted anything since I came here, I am afraid my followers might think I have perished.

  “I’m just going outside to get some fresh air,” I say, getting up.

  Arien nods, hardly noticing, lost in conversation.

  It feels nice to go outside, alone, breathing, alone, the fresh air, sea air, smelling the salt, hearing the waves. Walking like this I can pretend I am here on purpose, by my own will, on a travel or a holiday.

  To reach the boat I have to pass a high metal fence, surrounding that particular part of the port. The area is empty, still. For a moment, I stop, close my eyes, taking a deep breath, just enjoying the simple pleasure of being here, alive. I cannot believe it has all worked out so well; even my fear is now receding.

  I crouch down a few meters from the boat, making sure I get the wide-open sea in the background, taking my phone out from my pocket, snapping the photos quickly, because of the rain.

  I am about to get up and go back inside the bar to look at them, when a man grabs me by the arm and yanks me to my feet, screaming.

  14

  “No photographs, no photographs, this is a military area.”

  He is screaming. His hands are very strong around my arm, his fingers, nails, drilling into my skin. My own hand feels numb.

  I stumble after him, like a doll, too shocked to do anything else. He drags me back pass the fence, into the street, before he loosens his grip, positioning himself in front of me, so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

  “It’s illegal to take photos here, didn’t you see the signs?” He points at a sign near the fence. A very small sign.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll delete them.”

  “So you took photos? Inside the fence?”

  What do I say? The whole man seems to be vibrating with aggression. He is dressed in a military uniform, dark gray. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, my fingers shake, a little.

  “Hey! What’s going on?”

  Both I and the military man jump.

  I turn my head and see Hasin approaching us.

  “She took photos inside the fence,” the man says, angrily, loud.

  “Did you? Did you really take photos in there?”

  I catch it, like an invisible ball.

  “No. I didn’t get to, before he came.”

  The man stares at me, his eyes are so cold, colorless.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see the sign.”

  I make my voice more like a girl, lighter, thinner. More innocent. I change my expression to, widening my eyes, flashing my lashes, just a little, standing somewhat more stupidly.

  “OK, don’t come back. If you do, I’ll take you both in for arrest.” He turns around and marches back, disappearing into a boat.

  My relief quickly vanishes, and I want to cry. Tears fill my eyes and my face burns red from humiliation.

  “Thank you,” I say, to Hasin.

  “It’s an honest mistake. You’re not the first, I promise.”

  I appreciate his comfort. It helps.

  We walk towards Billy’s.

  “Why is the sign so small?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I think they like to catch people. As I said, you are not the first. And you’re lucky. Many get arrested. And then you are in deep trouble. They don’t like workers, for some reason.”

  “I noticed.”

  I see him smiling at me. He has this special way of speaking to me. Like we have been friends for years. Like he knows me. I hardly notice, the way he does it is so natural, to him, at least. I like his voice too. It is a kind voice, a bit muted, warm, thin, but strong, too. The kind of voice you listen to, no matter how low, that catches everyone’s attention without having to raise itself.

  We step back into the safety of Billy’s and I drink the rest of my coffee, waiting for the warmth in my cheeks to fade. Now I feel angrier, and anger also makes my face flush red. That is the problem with being so pale. Your every emotion shows on your skin, like a traffic light.

  Hasin does not say anything about what happened, and neither do I.

  15

  Then we go to The Camps. I leave my car outside the headquarters and squeeze myself into the van with the others. The road to The Camps are dangerous, Arien explains. He doesn’t say why.

  It is a 40-minute drive from town. The afternoon light is fading quickly as we go; the shadows become more solid, darker, blacker. We have the radio turned on, like in the warehouse, but this time, no one is singing along. The mood is tense, the air electric. I can almost hear it, a sort of ringing in the back ground, a call for danger. My hands grasp each other in my lap.

  The houses we pass come further and further apart. The main road turns into a mountain road, made up of stones only, and we all bump up and down in our seats. Outside, I can see hills, trees, some small forests and farmhouses, like the one I am living in. A wonderful landscape if not for the circumstances.

  In the middle of the island, a mountain back is rising, each top sharp as a knife. Arien says The Camps are right by their foot.

  It is already getting dark when we reach The Camps. I can feel everyone in the car straighten up at some point, but first I do not understand why. Everything outside the window looks the same.

  And then I see it.

  On the top of a hill. Two big, grey buildings, surrounded by a tall metal fence, with wire on the top. Strong, white floodlights get turned on as we come closer, throwing an almost grotesque light over the tents. Because yes, there are tents. Hundreds. Thousands.

  They are spread out from a center, consisting of those two buildings, that seems to be the only real constructions in the area. Only a few of the tents get any light at all, the others are just mysterious contours, a pale shadow because of the white fabric they are made of.

  Everything is surrounded by high fences, all of them wired at the top. By these, the guards stand, in black or dark green uniforms, walking or standing still. In heavy belts around their hips are weapons, their deadliness glimmering in the white light. Some of the bigger guards have machine guns over their backs.

  We park just below the hill, at the side of the road. We do not speak to each other as we gravely departure the safety of the van. It is much colder outside now, and I bury my hands deep in my pockets, my body crumbling a little into my clothes, as if protecting itself against the cold, and the fear. Because there is fear here. In the air, a sharp, cutting sensation of fear. Of desperation. Like anxiety threw into the open.

  Walking up the hill, we keep close to each other. Halfway up, I notice the smell. It smells of dirt, and sweat, and urine. It smells of something I only can describe as sickness. Death. Festering flesh.

  I want to throw up. No. I want to turn around and run, hide in the van. What kind of animals live like this?

  We come to a stop at the top of the hill, where the tents start. I try not to look at the shadows moving between them, w
atching us curiously with glittering, black eyes. But even when I am not looking, I can feel their eyes.

  Arien clasps his hands together.

  “OK, so I’ll go back and drive the van up this hill, since it’s too heavy with all of us in it, and then we all grab as many blankets as we can, and give them out among the tents. OK?”

  No one speaks, but he must take our silence as a yes, because he leaves, and we all watch his back as he walks back down. We wait.

  I look up, I do not want to, but I do, automatically, as if someone called my name. A little shadow is staring at me, from the opening of a tent. I look, and meet a pair of dark eyes, surrounded by beautiful long lashes, a little girl.

  Now that I focus on her, I see that she is only wearing a dress, a tiny, pink dress, even though I am freezing behind my three layers of clothing.

  When she sees me watching her, she runs back into the tent, but I am sure I could see a small smile on her face.

  “Did you see that girl?” I ask Mary, who is standing next to me, in a whisper. I do not dare to talk out loud.

  She shakes her head.

  “Where?”

  “No, she left, but she was only wearing a summer dress.”

  “Many of them do,” Mary says.

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t have enough clothes for all of them.”

  Arien comes back then, with the van. He turns it around, so the trunk is towards us, and parks it. As soon as he opens the doors, I walk over and grab an armful of blankets. They all smell as if used. Then I walk directly over to the first tent, where I saw the little girl disappear into. My feet sink down in the mud.

  “Hello?” I say, uncertain, as I reach the small opening of the tent. It must once have been white, but now it’s more brown, grey, covered as it is in the dirt.

  I can feel the movement inside the tent freeze, for a moment, and I freeze too, automatically. A few seconds pass by in slow motion, before the little girl reappears in the folds.

  I give her a couple of blankets, and as I hand them over, she grabs my hand with her little hand. She looks at me.