Color Me Blue

by Ragnhild Yndestad

  “Hello, how are you?” Arien asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I think so.”

  He is silent for a second.

  “OK. So, the plan for today is that we meet in the warehouse and check to see if there is anything to do, and then we can go for a coffee, or maybe go for a drive and see the island. Have a day off, almost. There isn’t much to do until tomorrow.”

  “Do I have to?” I ask.

  “Have to what?”

  “Go with you?”

  “Well, no, not today. Do you not want to?”

  I shake my head, even though he cannot see it.

  “No. I want to stay here at Madani’s, in my room.”

  “OK, I understand that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have a nice day, then,” he says.

  “You too.”

  But I lied. I am not staying at Madani’s.

  Instead, I put on my boots and jacket, pulling my hair back in a ponytail, and go outside. I do not use the car today, I only want to use something that is a hundred percent mine, or me, a hundred percent me, my legs. I go for a walk around in the valley. The sun is shining, distant, not very warm, but it’s there and it feels nice. First I just wander off purposeless, letting my legs take me wherever they want to. Then I see this tiny path that disappears into a wood at one of the sides of the valley, and I want to see where it ends, so I walk there. It goes up, the hill is steeper than I expected, but I enjoy the workout, sweating a little, concentrating on my steps, the only sound except for my own panting is the birdsong. The path ends by an old ruin, burned out stones of what must have once been a house, the windows stare at me, bare and black, and everywhere weed is growing through the cracks of the stones. It looks strangely out of place, this black, scary building, surrounded by birdsong, sunshine and a beautiful forest, like a dimension to another, darker world. If I walk along one of the walls, I can climb up to a small terrace, and there I sit, looking over the valley, and it’s very beautiful, the sky is this wide, washed-out blue. If I look to my right, I can see the ocean, shimmering like an unpolished coin. I want to go there next.

  So I climb down again, suddenly a bit afraid, thinking that if I fall here and break my leg, nobody will know, they will not find me. How thrilling. Following the path back again, I notice some doves sitting on an electrical wire, above my head, and that one of them is white. A white dove; looking at me with black eyes. I have never seen a white dove before, they do not exist further west.

  Inside my head I hum that song, from when I was little, with the sad melody, we are perfect but the world is not.

  The world is not good enough, we are perfect. The world cannot catch us, we are perfect, perfect, perfect.

  I follow the path back to the main road, and then I keep following the main road to the ocean. There are no sidewalks here, so I have to be careful when walking, hopping into the ditch whenever a big car or truck approaches me. Finally, I reach the beach, the sand covered in little, smooth rocks and green seagrass. The wind is blowing more strongly here, almost pushing me over. I have to tighten my muscles to stand against it, to stand upright. It tastes like salt, the wind, the air here, and everything I can hear is the waves, rhythmical, but faster than usual, as if the ocean is scared, or sad, or shocked.

  I walk by the beach, trying to stay clear of the waves, as some of them go further than others, and at some point I reach the cliffs, the same cliffs where the Landing was.

  The boat is still there, in the rolling water, punctured now, floating only barely right beneath the surface. Along the beach, and in the bushes up the slope to the road, items are scattered, lost items, their owners gone. Most of them seem to have been washed ashore by the waves. Tugged in between some stones in the water, I find a black plastic bag with clothes in it, all of them wet. A broken shoe in the bushes. A little sock, blue, with red hearts on it, for babies, on the beach. A small, brown teddy bear, floating in the waterfront. I even find a diary, wrapped tightly in a transparent plastic bag. The water has found its way in, though, like it always does eventually, so the ink is unreadable, running down the crumbling pages like tears. At least I think it is a diary. It must have belonged to a girl, because it’s pink. I open it, I know I shouldn’t, this is someone else’s private property, would I like it if some random girl picked up my diary at a beach and read it? But I cannot read it, as I said, the ink has turned into a black mess, the pages go into pieces between my fingers. But tucked inside it, I find this photo, laminated, so it has not yet been destroyed by the water. It shows a very beautiful eastern girl, wearing a summer dress. She has long, black hair, and a kind smile. Next to her sits a young man, very handsome, brown hair and big, brown eyes. They are holding hands. At the back, someone, the girl perhaps, has drawn a heart.

  What should I do with it? I cannot take it with me. But throwing it away again feels disrespectful, somehow. Whoever this girl is, that picture must have meant a lot to her, for her to bring it with her. Finally, I place it inside a bush with tiny, white flowers, placing a couple of stones at the sides to spare it from the wind.

  While writing this, I wonder if it’s still there.

  28

  The next day, Arien calls again in the morning. He asks us to meet him at the headquarters, and then to come with him to the port, where he has to talk with one of the coast guards about some issue.

  “Today is your last day. Are you excited to go home?” he says.

  Am I?

  “Not really. It feels so unreal to go home.”

  Whenever I try to picture home, my apartment, I can see it, but it looks fake, somehow, more like a scene in a theater or studio, looking real, but if you touched the walls they would fall down, the room would go to pieces.

  “I understand. If it helps, most people feel like that, after being here.”

  I do not answer. It doesn’t help, not really.

  “It gets better,” he says.

  “Yes.” Maybe.

  “I’ll see you in half an hour then.”

  We hang up.

  I force myself to eat, knowing that I have to, but my appetite is lost. I mostly sit just listening to silence, even the birds are silent today, the sky covered in thick, grey clouds, absorbing every sound, the air is much more chill than the days before, and I shiver as I eat.

  I slowly put on boots, jacket, gloves. I even make up my bed, something I rarely do. It takes a lot of energy to try so hard not to think.

  Driving to the headquarters, I pass the ocean, and it seems to be roaring today, more powerful, trembling, than before, the shade a dark blue. Back home, the ocean is usually grey, especially on overcast days like this, but here, it is always blue, light, dark blue.

  I know the way to the headquarters now, without getting lost. Outside the house, the other workers are standing, gathered in a small circle. Everyone looks very excited. I wonder what has happened.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  “Good morning.”

  Mary gives me a hug, smiling broadly.

  “I hear today is your last day?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you’ve had a nice stay here, you know, despite it all.”

  “Thank you. How much time do you have left?”

  “Five more days. They don’t let you stay for too long, then you will have gotten so used to it all by the time you get home. I think I’ll actually miss this, some of it, you know what I mean?”

  “I do.” I really do. It’s something very absorbing by living like this.

  “It’s so different from the rest of The West.”

  “It really is.”

  “But in a good way too.”

  “Yes, in a good way too.”

  “But, why is everyone so excited? Is it just because I’m leaving tomorrow?” I ask. She laughs.

  “No, there came a transport boat this morning, with a lot of clothes that we can hand out.”

&n
bsp; “Really? That’s amazing.”

  “Yes! But there’s been some problems with the toll, so we’ll have to go down to the port with Arien and fix it.”

  “OK.” I feel suddenly tired again. Things are never easy here, they never work out as you would have thought.

  We drive to the port, me in my little blue bubble, the others in the van in front of me. Not that it is hard to find the port; it’s in the heart of town, where all the main roads gather, like the middle of a spider web. It is shaped like a square, missing one side that is open towards the ocean. Along two of the three sides, normal fishing boats are docked, boats made of tree, looking more like ships than modern boats, and then along the third side the military boats are dipping in the water, all of them metal, grey, like sharks. I see now how that part of the port is surrounded by a fence with wire on the top, remembering too clearly my almost failed mission to go there and take a photo. I wonder what would have happened if it were not for Hasin.

  We park in the roadside by the fence. Arien leads us in through an opening, and I notice that he walks a little tenser here, like he feels unsafe, like he does not want to be here. And that tension is infectious, it spreads among us, I can see the worry in the other’s eyes too. We walk over a big parking lot, without any cars, following him across the lot and to the edge of the port, near the water, where a big container stands, big as a house. It has been opened, and inside we can see plastic bags, hundreds of them, all of them filled with clothes, clothes, clothes.

  We cheer, we cannot help it, all of us can picture ourselves going to The Camps with all of these clothes, handing them out, we can picture the spark of happiness in the eyes of the people there, when they finally take off their dirty sandals and put on some real shoes. I almost wish I could stay longer, just for that, to give this out. That is the strangest of everything, wanting to leave this place and all its terrors, and at the same time not wanting to go home, like I have nowhere to go anymore.

  “This is really, really great!” says Arien. “I will go inside and talk to them about it, so hopefully we can take some of it to the warehouse today already. You guys just wait here.”

  He walks over to a big, black stone house in the middle of the lot. I assume it’s the headquarters for the coast guards. From high poles the flag of The West is swaying in the wind, white, blue and grey.

  While we wait a bunch of soldiers come out of the building, their laughter booming over at us. Everyone is wearing dark grey uniforms and tiny hats, berets I think they are called, on their heads. Even from this distance I can see the excitement on their faces, like it’s someone’s birthday. They jump inside one of the Rescue boats, a grey boat like the others, except for the red medical cross on its sides, docked at the edge of the port, not far from where we are standing. Right then, one of them looks up and meets my gaze, and I recognize his face, it is the same guy who took me by the arm the last time I was here, when I took that photograph, I am sure of it.

  He stops when he sees me, slowly, stopping, and then he actually smiles at me, meeting my eyes, and it is a wicked smile. He holds my stare, as if trying to come to a decision, make up his mind, and then he starts walking again, towards me. What does he want? I want to turn around again and run, go backwards, back away from him, but I do not. He comes to a stop a few feet away from me, pointing, at me, curling his finger towards himself, telling me to come over. If there is a choice here, I cannot figure out any other options, so I do it, I walk over, my heart thumping, fluttering, caged inside my ribs.

  “Photograph girl. Do you want to join us for a Rescue?” he says.

  I look at him, surprised.

  “A Rescue?”

  “Yes. There is a boat about to cross that seems to have some motor troubles. We will head out there now and Rescue it. Join us. It is always so fun to bring a newcomer.”

  His voice is kind, and he still smiles, but that smile, that wicked smile, is still there, on his face, and I cannot shake away how cold his eyes are, a dark grey color, matching his uniform.

  I can feel the other workers staring at my back, curious, probably wondering what we are talking about.

  “I think I’ll have to stay here and help with the container,” I say.

  “The other workers will do that,” he says, nodding towards them. “I am sure we can use an extra hand today, and you are here to help, to work for us, aren’t you? You will be more useful in the Rescue.”

  I shake my head hesitantly, in vain.

  “I’ll have to ask Arien, he’s my supervisor.”

  “He has no power here. You come with us.”

  Then he turns around and walk back to the Rescue boat, where the other guards are waiting, inpatient. I stand still, for a few seconds, my mind whirling, trying to find out what to do, but what he said was no question, it was an order, a command, so what choice do I have? I follow him. After all, it is a Rescue. Maybe it will be nice, a good way to spend my last day here, helping someone.

  One of the guards help me on board, halfway lifting me, like a doll, and I can smell him, he smells sour, of sweat. I position myself by the railing, holding it, not sure what to do, or where to stand, or if I should say something. The other guards are looking at me, smiling, chuckling among themselves, like there is some internal joke that I am not part of.

  I stand like that, the cold metal against my curled fingers, and the boat begins to move, a buzz beneath my feet, and there is no way back now. I look at the port, at the others, and I see Arien coming out from the house. He walks back to the container, stops, probably talking with the other workers, and I watch him, anxiously, like a child who has broken some rule and is just waiting for their parents to find out.

  The boat is moving fast now, gliding forwards, and I can hardly see his features anymore when he turns around and looks at the boat. Still, I think I see him shaking his head at me, frantically.

  Then he’s gone, and we head for the wide-open sea.

  29

  The wind is blowing yet more strongly out on the sea. I clench the railing, debating whether or not to walk into the little house where the captain is sitting, but I do not dare to move. I feel so unwelcome, out of place. If I fall over the railing, I don’t even think they would bother to pull me back up, I don’t even think they would move, not an inch. That is how I feel, on this boat. The atmosphere feels sharper and chiller than the wind.

  We move fast, or not we, I am not a part of this, they, with me, move fast through the water, cutting the waves, cut, cut, cut the water. I am frozen cold, the wind is everywhere, inside my clothes, inside me, in my head and chest, legs and arms, whirling, cold.

  It doesn’t take that long, about twenty minutes, maybe thirty, until we reach our destination. We are in the middle of the bay when we see the boat, a little boat in the water, impossible to notice if you do not know it is there from before, if you do not look for it specifically. The coast guards see it first, an electric stirring goes through them, men after men, someone is shouting something, but I cannot hear what in the wind. Curious, I cross the deck to the other side to get a better view, but careful, as if not to fall, not wanting to make much notice of myself, hoping that if I am still enough they will forget that I am here.

  My eyes scan the rolling waves that go up and down, up and down, it’s hard to tell what is what in the rolling water. Minutes pass, I become frustrated, and then, I see it, the boat, similar to the one from the Landing. Grey rubber, laying low in the water, drifting around and around by the waves, clearly they have no control, the engine is not working, they cannot go anywhere. We, they, with me, steer towards them. I have to keep my eyes fixed on the boat. If I blink, it becomes hard to find it again, as if it is about to cease to exist. I try to hold it still with my eyes.

  As we come closer, I can hear children wailing, and adults, crying too. The sounds are bouncing over the water, finding its way to my ears, like when you throw flat stones on the surface of a pond, and it jumps over it.

  Closer,
closer, I can see their faces now, all of them are looking at the Rescue boat, some of them with smiles, relief in their faces; others with dread. We are next to it now, the little rubber boat, and the buzzing of the engine beneath my feet comes to a stop, and we are still except for the waves.

  “Start the Rescue!” Someone shouts.

  A few of the people in the boat stands up, awkwardly, because it is so full, reaching out their hands, waiting for something to grasp, a rope being lowered down, perhaps. I wait too. We wait together, time is standing still, and at the same time it is moving, and as the minutes tick by, the people in the little boat become more and more uneasy, I can feel it, everything is so silent here, at sea.

  I wait for them to lower the rope, or something, a tiny boat, anything to transport these people on to the Rescue boat. Instead I hear this loud shrieking noise, metal against metal, it hurts my ears, cutting me up. It stops abruptly, as it had started, and now the silence is booming, pressing down on us like a bomb. Seconds pass. One, I count, two, I count, three.

  Something in my peripheral vision catches my eye, and I look down at the side of the boat. Now I can see what that sound was. Along the sides of the rescue boat, small holes have appeared, openings, and out of them I can see canons, they are aiming at the little boat, lying so low in the water already.

  If I expected anything at all when I saw this, it must have been fire, like in the movies, but instead, water starts pouring out of them, into the little boat, the power of the beams so strong it pushes some of the people overboard, into the water, and they disappear in all the blue.

  The silence breaks again, with screams, humans screaming in death fright, crying children. I have frozen again, my eyes stiff and wide, fixed on that little boat, now filling up with water, water, water.

  Then I run again, over the deck, running in through the door to the captain.