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.”