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.