“Yes, we really do. We all miss it, since we don’t have music ourselves. You have no idea how lucky you are, who can just put on any music you want on your phone.”
That is a picture. It is obvious, now, that they do not have music here. From where would it come? Still it is a shock to me. What can a world without music be like? Or, without the pleasure of books? I don’t think I would have survived if it was me.
“No music?” I say.
“No. Or, well. A little. We have our own music. We sing. Nothing big, just among ourselves, or hum, so low that the guards don’t hear us. Here it is all about the simple pleasure, like playing a melody in your head.”
We stand in silence, watching the others for a while. Even the children are dancing. They jump around, trying to copy what the grown-ups do.
“You don’t dance?” he asks me.
“No, we don’t dance a lot where I’m from.”
“Well then, let me show you.”
Suddenly he stands in front of me, offering me a hand, gallantly. For a moment, I am completely taken aback by how beautiful his eyes are, in the light coming from the fires. The orange makes them stand out more vividly, the green seems to be shining, set ablaze, by themselves.
“I’m really not good at dancing,” I say, blushing.
“You don’t know that,” he says.
“I do, I have danced before.”
“Not with me.”
I take his hand.
And then we were dancing. Workers and Easterners blended together. All of us, swinging our bodies around, moving our flesh, as if one. Hasin is holding my hand, making me take pirouettes, turning me around and around, and it’s not me there, anymore, this is someone else, I am laughing, smiling from ear to ear, as we swirl, around and around. I feel like we are dancing forever, like these moments, minutes, hours, have been taken away from the timeline, existing independently, in its own place, a small eternity, only for us. At some point, everyone takes each other’s hands, and we dance around in a big circle, our fingers braided together.
We were just people, dancing, and that was enough.
We drive back late, as the wind is getting stronger. I wish we could stay longer, understanding now why Arien made me promise not to go to The Camps alone. It was because I might want to. I want to now. But Arien says we will need sleep, and I know he’s right, so we leave, the children running behind our cars as we go. Alone in my car, I suddenly feel how tired I am, and by the time I reach the little farmhouse, just keeping my eyes open has become an impossible battle.
I don’t even bother to get undressed, I simply curl up beneath the blankets wearing outdoor clothing, barely bothering to take off my shoes, leaving my boots in the middle of the floor, falling asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow.
I don’t know how long I have slept when my alarm goes off, way too early, buzzing me awake. Except that it’s not my alarm. It is the group chat. Used only for emergencies.
19
It is a Landing. I sit up in the bed, staring at the little screen in my hand. The light feels too strong for my eyes, which are still lost in sleep. My heart reacts quicker than my head, bursting into a gallop as I read the tiny letters. A Landing.
I jump out of my bed, grateful that I am still wearing the clothes from yesterday, dragging on my boots and run into the bathroom to do what has to be done before I can start a new day.
Outside it is dawn, everything is the color of dark blue and grey, the color of the sky before the sun is up, but after the moon has left, colors of in between. I run down the stairs and out the gate, into my car, starting the engine with a startling roar, which is too loud for so early in the morning. There is frost on the windows of the car, and the wind is still blowing strongly, angrily.
Arien sends the position to the group, and I quickly add it to Maps. It’s not far from here, I just have to follow the main road along the ocean.
The streets are silent, everyone else is still sleeping, there are no other cars on the road, the landscape is still and frozen, the only thing moving is the waves, so dark blue they look almost black, or maybe purple. In the rearview mirror, my face is white, eyes wide. I clench the steering wheel.
It might have taken five minutes or it might have taken two hours, I cannot tell, when I reach the scene. The first thing I see is the van, parked by the side of the road. The second thing is the boat, at the bottom of a cliff, grey rubber in the rolling waves.
I park behind the grey van, wanting to take a deep breath, but where is the air? There is none. I run outside, to a side of the cliff where it is not very steep and halfway run, halfway fall, down the slope, to the water. There is no path here, only dry bushes catching my clothes, as if trying to trip me, and the stones are very loose, sailing down with me.
At the bottom of the cliff, big stones raise up in the air, like gravestones, and the wind is biting, cutting my skin. Arien is there, and I think I see Mary’s hair, the glimmer of red, but I do not look, my eyes are fixed on the boat approaching us, pushed uncontrollably by the waves. I can hear screaming, and the wailing of kids, the sounds jumping along the surface.
“I don’t think the engine is working, they can’t steer away,” Arien is saying. “They will hit the stones here.”
I can see that he is right. The boat is lying low in the water, almost invisible, pressed down by the weight of the people in it, maybe thirty, no, maybe fifty, people, huddled together against the wind and water, in a boat that looks more like a play boat, to have in pools, not the ocean, not in currents like this.
The waves have a hold of it, the boat, pushing it around and around in a sickening circle, like a grotesque mockery of a carousel in an amusement park. As I watch, it looks as if a wave will turn the whole boat around, and I can hear a woman scream in death fright.
“Form a line, everybody, a line!” Arien screams. The boat is just a few lengths from the shore. He maneuvers across the slippery sides of the stones that are towering around him, until he stands in the water, the waves licking his hips.
“Come on!”
We follow him, and I fall down on the slippery surfaces and hit my knee, but I am up again, fighting my way forward, hearing the others panting around me, but I do not look, keeping my eyes on my feet, until the ice cold water whirls around me. I position myself next to Arien, with someone on my other side, and we all raise our arms and form a cross in front of us, making a damper with our bodies.
I close my eyes seconds before the boat hit us, my back being thrown against the hard surface behind me. Everywhere, people are screaming, screaming, screaming. I am too shocked to feel pain; the adrenaline only makes me feel sick.
“The kids, carry the kids!” Arien is yelling, his voice soaring above the chaos.
We form a line again, like we did that day in the warehouse when we put blankets in the trunk, except now it is not blankets, it is children that we transport. I stand closest to the boat, only Arien between us, and the rest of the workers behind us. Arien gives me a child, either crying or too frightened to cry, and I give him to the girl with the long hair behind me, who sends him to Mary, and so on, until he is safely put down on the shore.
There is a woman in the boat, dressed in black, who is screaming higher than the others. She clings to a baby in her arms, and refuses to give it to Arien, refusing to give it to anybody, clinging the tiny body to her chest. The other people in the boat seem to be trying to talk to her, but she only shakes her head, crying hysterically. Eventually two men force away her arms, while a third man takes the baby from her and gives it to Arien.
I wait for him to give it to me, to send it down the line, but he does not. He holds it, staring at it, his face a mask of dread. The woman screams and screams, I am surprised her whole body does not explode; it looks like she is about to rupture, burst.
Eventually, Arien takes off his jacket, wrapping it around the baby, covering the face. He gives it to me with a small shake of his head. I take the little bod
y, and it is hard as stone.
20
I stand at the top of the cliff, looking down at the boat, empty now, weightless as air. It goes up and down in the water, bumping lightly against the stones. Or, I don’t look at it. I stare at it, as if hypnotized.
Around me, people are sitting down on the dusty road. The sun is coming up, rising above mountains in the distance, drying our wet clothes. The sunlight is very warm, forcing its way through the clouds, as if the sunbeams wish to comfort us, like the sun may pity us. I try to believe it, and for a moment, I close my eyes and feel the warmth on my face, in contrast to the cold wind, that is still here, blowing at us from the sea, as if warning us from it, the sea, keeping us on land.
Hasin comes over to where I stand and takes my hand. For a moment, we stand like that, holding hands. There is nothing weird about it; it feels more natural than not holding hands.
“You did great,” he says. “Most people go into shock or something on their first Landing. But you made it.” I can feel his thumb stroke my wrist, making small circles.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice low. I do not care if I did great. It does not change anything. I can still see the little bump, wrapped in Arien’s jacket, in my peripheral vision. Around us there is a strange mixture of emotions, hanging in the air. Some sit in groups, talking in low and excited voices, relief in their eyes, happy to have survived. Others sit or stand alone, their faces motionless with shock. And then it is those who cry. But no matter if they are crying or talking, everyone does it in a hush, muted, as if not to wake the baby.
I wish to cry, but I cannot find any tears, I have to wait until I am alone again, so that I can feel my emotions in peace.
“Come here.” Hasin seems to be sensing my desperation, and takes me by the hand away from the others, to a peaceful spot with grass along the road with a view to the ocean. He sits down, taking me with him, still holding my hand. For a moment, we both watch a seagull, drifting high up in the sky, oblivious to us looking up at him.
“The boat was taking in water. It was about to overturn. And then everybody could have died.”
I nod. He is right, I know that, but it does not take the edge off that powerful feeling in my chest, so powerful and complex I cannot distinguish the feelings from each other, I can only guess what they are.
We sit in silence for a while. Everything is so peaceful around us, the grass rustling in the air; it’s hard to believe what has just happened. Inside my head there is this song playing, from when I was little. It was called ‘We are perfect, but the world is not’. The melody was sad, I remember. I think about this song now, on the shore of a foreign island, many years later, looking over at The East. I look around, at Hasin, and Arien, and Mary, and think that this world is sometimes just too ugly for the people living in it.
“There is so much suffering here,” I say, maybe a bit bitter.
“Color me blue,” Hasin says.
I look at him, surprised.
“What?”
“Color me blue. It is a saying where I’m from.”
“What does it mean?”
“I think it is meant for lovers. Blue is a sad color, the color of tears. It refers to how when you love someone, you give them the opportunity to hurt you. So if you say ‘color me blue’, you say that you love them so much it is worth having your heart broken by them. But I think that it doesn’t have to be only for lovers. I think you can use it anywhere where people are passionate about something, and that something is lost, but still they fight for it. Like here, like Arien, who could have moved away and had an education, but he chooses to be here and see this kind of suffering every day, helping out even though it hurts him too. If you love someone or something strong enough to stay even when it is painful, then you know you really care. Color me blue.”
I look at him.
“I wish I could write about this someday,” I say.
“Do it. And write about me too.”
I smile.
“Will you? Will you write about me?”
“Yes.”
So I write about him. He had black, curly hair and green eyes. He smiled easily, and his voice was soft. He was a good person. Can you see him? Later he moved into a small stone house by the beach, with a really nice girl he loved. Every day he would wake up to the gentle sound of waves, and right outside the door, it grew beautiful flowers in the summer. He would go into town every weekend and dance, and every night he and that girl sat arm in arm and listened to music, as much as they liked.
No. It’s not true. I lied. To be honest, I don’t know what happened to Hasin after I left. I just wanted to give him a happy ending, even if only for a few sentences.
21
We sat waiting by the road until the bus came, a special military bus made to transport people from the boats to The Camps. It was big and painted black, grids in front of the windows. A few guards yelled at everyone to stand in line, and then almost literally pushed them in through the doors. It looked more like a jail on wheels than a bus, and then they were gone.
I got into my car and we all drove to the headquarters to have some tea. We sat in silence around the big, round table, sipping the warm beverage, everyone just staring down into their cups, as if it might hold some kind of answer. An answer to what? I don’t know.
My cup is empty now, and I stare down at the bottom, where some leftover leaves lie in a dark, mushy mass.
“You were all great today,” Arien says, in a low voice.
Nobody answers, but some of us look up at him and smile weakly.
“We were lucky the boat didn’t turn over,” he continues.
There is a little nodding. It’s still too early to be grateful.
We sit in silence as time passes, like time always does, waiting for something, like people always do, but nobody knows what.
At some point Arien stands up and walks over to the kitchen.
“Anybody want to help make some late breakfast?”
No answer.
“You have to eat.”
I get up slowly, following him. Mary does too. We gather in the small kitchen, toasting white bread, placing butter, cheese, and big jars of Nutella and jam on the table. When I ask if we should eat something healthier, Arien says that we need the sugar.
As we sit down eating, people start talking again, a little, careful, as if speaking too much or too loud can break something, break us. I eat a whole piece of bread before I realize how desperately hungry I am, and eat four more slices before I’m full.
“I have received reports that many of the tents in The Camps has blown over. Some have been destroyed. The wind was pretty strong tonight. We have some extra emergency tents in the storage, that we can bring to them and help them put up. But I think we’ll wait until tomorrow morning with that. For now I suggest we all go back home and get some sleep, then we’ll meet at the warehouse tomorrow at eight. How about that?”
Everyone gives a nod. I feel relieved. I need to be alone, just sit alone and not think for a while. Driving home, I try to do just that, keep my mind a blank. Sometimes, pictures of the Landing glimpse by, like the flash of a photograph, and then it is gone again. Walking through the gate, I try to be as silent as possible, not wanting to meet anybody, not wanting to have to put up a conversation, I do not think my voice is working anymore. And I am rewarded, reaching my bedroom without meeting a soul, lying down in my bed, numb. I close my eyes, the last thing I think about before sleep takes me away, are those words Hasin spoke, color me blue. Back home we are colorless.
22
I wake up in the afternoon. I didn’t dream about anything, which I am grateful for. There is sunshine outside, still, and the wind is blowing, still, and I wonder if it will ever end, that wind. The storm, those strong casts, should have been over hours ago, but it only continues, without mercy. But it’s sunshine, at least. That is something.
I walk across the hall, into the small bathroom, taking off my clothes, realizing that I hav
e not showered since I came here. My hair is so greasy, and I reek of sweat, I have even forgotten to put on deodorant the past few days. Or have I? I cannot remember.
My teeth shake as I huddle beneath the little crane in the corner, ice-cold salt water embracing me. Goosebumps rise up my arms and legs, covering me, yanking at my skin. What would I not have given to have a real shower. Warm water. I would have stayed there forever, under the beams, until this whole experienced has been washed of off me. No. I don’t want that, I do not want to forget. It wouldn’t have been fair. Still, I close my eyes and dream of a shower.
I walk downstairs, feeling a little better, more alert, now that I am clean. My hair is pulled back in a towel to dry.
“Hello my dear, how are you?” Madani says. She looks at me a little worried.
“I’m OK,” I say, because it is true, after all, I am OK. Not good or bad, just something, someone, in between.
“That’s good. Do you want some dinner? I’ve made chicken.”
I smile at her.
“Yes, I’m starving.”
She leads me into the house, to the small kitchen table. It looks like the others have already eaten; there are still plates on the table with leftovers on them.
“I heard it was a Landing in the morning,” Madani says, placing a clean plate in front of me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She sits in front of me, over the table. I place chicken and rice on my plate, pouring over some brown sauce.
“No,” I say.
She nods.
“Any casualties?” she asks. Her eyes are burning into mine, this is important for her to know, somehow.
“Yes. A baby.”
Her eyes tear up and she leaves the room, apologizing, and I eat my meal in silence.
Afterward, I sit in the chair in my room. That one chair, that looks so out of place, in here, with no table to accompany it. I place it in front of the window, so I can look out while sitting there. White curtains hang at the sides. There is a small brown stain on one of them, almost invisible, you have to look for it to see it. I sit like this, looking at the curtains, examining them, and then looking out the window, there is a citrus tree right outside my window, it has tiny lemons on them, green ones, not yet yellow. Eventually I take up my phone, going over the news feed, over the notifications. Some celebrity has put out a photo of herself without Photoshop. I look at the photo, and she looks exactly the same, yet it is the only thing the people back home talk about. I put my phone away again, afraid I might break it.
Color Me Blue Page 7