The Replicant, the Mole & the Impostor, Part 32
Part 2—the conclusion—of a duology where a reality event held in a refugee camp on a Greek island unfolds in an utterly unexpected manner. There will be 50 parts. Chapter 9: April.
—In the Ghost Town—
Inside a carefully sound-proofed and bug-free room somewhere in Chorió—a Faraday cage embedded in the metamaterial walls, floor and ceiling provides an extra layer of shielding—Idrissa and Nyandeng (holding her son Magdi) are having a meeting with Jean-Pierre from Congo and Yannick. Magdi’s cat Nzinga’s white belly is invisible as it lays, splayed out, on top of Yannick’s dog Amavaraka, the cat’s pitch-black fur standing out against the dog’s mottled brown skin. Both are sleeping peacefully.
“Another one?” Jean-Pierre says to Idrissa and Nyandeng. “I’ll put him up, somewhere. But at this rate, we’ll be running out of hiding places soon.”
“Please, do your best,” Nyandeng says, as she gently cradles her son Magdi. “This is another one who successfully passed the ENE test.”
“To prevent overcrowding in this village,” Jean-Pierre says, “maybe we should limit the amount of applications?”
“And risk them being sent back to Turkey, or beyond?” Idrissa says. “How would you feel about that?”
“Ow!” Jean-Pierre says. “I take it back. I’ll do my damnedest. What the hell is happening? Are they speeding up their bureaucracy?”
“Possibly, as they’re in the eyes of the world, so to say,” Idrissa says. “I suspect it’s more because now the people have a choice; that is, become an ENE citizen instead of accepting whatever the EU decides on your asylum request.”
“Don’t tell me that some of those holed up here have had their asylum requests approved?” Jean-Pierre says. “So they can go to the promised land?”
“Yes,” Idrissa says as he checks the anonymized list of new ENE citizens with granted asylum requests with a flick of the wrist, manipulating the interface in his AR-gear. “People who are willing to risk the uncertain future we have to offer here over a—supposedly—more secure life in an EU country. These are the true trailblazers, the people who will make ENE a success; in short, the people we should be fighting for.”
“I don’t disagree,” Jean-Pierre says, “but there are more every day. Nice for ENE in the future, but at some point we’re going to run out of hiding places.”
“Helping our people is imperative,” Nyandeng says. “Otherwise ENE is unworthy of its citizens.”
“On top of that,” Jean-Pierre says, “reports of refugees ‘mysteriously disappearing’ after their asylum requests are approved will become impossible to ignore. Sooner or later, someone is going to put two and two together and will either come looking here, or will instigate a search party.”
“Events are forcing our hands, unfortunately,” Idrissa says, “but we’re onto this. Can you hold on until next month?”
“I’ll try,” Jean-Pierre says. “I’m already getting food from two different caterers, who each think they’re our only suppliers. If they find out, I’ll pretend we’re big eaters because we work so hard and feel ashamed to be taking so much food, blah blah blah.”
“Or say that Yannick’s dog ate all of it,” Nyandeng says. “He’s so big.”
“No way,” Yannick says. “Amavaraka only gets the best dog food. And the odd stew leftovers.”
“Joke all you want,” Jean-Pierre from Congo says, “but I can only bluff and bullshit so much. Just a few minutes ago—with pain in my heart—I had to turn down the good services from our friend Omar because his drone might zoom in on one of the people we’re hiding. At some point, the truth will come out.”
“Hold on for one more month,” Idrissa says. “Then we’ll make our move and we can reveal the truth on our terms.”
“Can’t wait,” Jean-Pierre says, “for us to finally live the dream.”
“Which means even more hard labor,” Idrissa says. “We’ll have our work cut out for many years to come.”
“More work is the last thing I’m afraid of,” Jean-Pierre says. “Bring it on.”
“Pardon the pun,” Nyandeng says, “but we’re working on it.”
🌝🌚🌞
“Well, that was quick,” Omar says. “Just our luck that Jean-Pierre and the rest had an important meeting planned.”
“Do you feel turned down, important celebrity?” Kristel says with a sardonic smile.
“I’m not a celebrity to them,” Omar says, stung. “They’re my friends. If it wasn’t for this crazy reality event, I’d probably join them.”
“If it wasn’t for this crazy reality event, you’d never have met them,” Kristel points out.
“That’s true,” Omar says. “If it wasn’t for this reality event madness, I’d never have met you. Care to check out the grotto?”
“No,” Kristel says. “I don’t think so.”
“No?” Omar can’t believe his ears. “We don’t get many opportunities like this.”
“Maybe I don’t want the opportunity anymore,” Kristel says.
“What?” Omar says. “You prefer a palace?”
“No, I think we should call it a day.”
“We can,” Omar says, “after some quality time in the grotto.”
“No, I mean we should break up,” Kristel says. “I’m not really interested anymore.”
“Really,” Omar says, pretending to be hurt. “I am not your knight in shining armor?”
“Nothing wrong with your armor,” Kristel says. “It was just a fling. It wasn’t meant to last.”
“You’re going to settle on a local guy?” Omar says. “Belgium’s not that far from Paris, you know.”
“I quite like you, Omar, but I’m not in love,” Kristel says. “You’re not the one. I’ll have to try the next one. And so do you.”
“Meaning I must try my luck on the Parisienne walkways?” Omar says. “With the femmes fatales de Paris?”
“You’ll manage. On top of that, we’d be a celebrity couple the moment we returned,” Kristel says. “Chased incessantly by the paparazzi, just after we ditched the bloody drones. I long for my previous life.”
“True dat,” Omar says. “But I think this celebrity wants to monetize his status before—if—he retreats to anonymity. I don’t long for the poverty of my previous life.”
“A memoir, even if partly ghostwritten, works for me,” Kristel says. “Didn’t you paint?”
“I did,” Omar says, “but to truly sell, an artist needs notoriety, so I’ll keep playing the celebrity game until my bank account reaches seven figures.” Omar points to a certain direction while employing his most lovely, begging eyes. “One last goodbye at the grotto?”
“One last kiss at the door of the residence, Omar,” Kristel says. “Otherwise you’ll be saying goodbye for the rest of the month.”
“And next month, if we get it,” Omar says, smiling his signature broad, warm smile. “You know me too well.”
“I do,” Kristel says, “but we can still be friends, right?”
“Of course we can,” Omar says. “As long as you don’t become jealous when you see my next conquest.”
“Omar, you’re hopeless,” Kristel says. “And I love you for it.” Omar eyes her semi-hopefully, then she adds, “Purely platonically.”
—At the Playground—
“Hello,” Dewi says to all the young children that have arrived, late in the afternoon, proudly carrying their homemade volcanoes. Last week, she handed each of them a tray, a big plastic bowl, a small, tall glass, and a small bag of flour. On subsequent evenings—when the children were available from their online schools or came back from the playground—she instructed them, online, how to mix and knead play dough, as their parents or caretakers got the extra ingredients (salt, water, and oil).
Once the dough was properly mixed and kneaded—some kids needed several tries, which is why Dewi stretched the project over a week—the children put the ball of play dough on the tray and inserted the tall glass in the middle. Some needed help to push it through the dough. Thankfully everybody got it done.
Then they shaped the dough around the tall glass so it looked like a mini volcano, making sure the top stayed open (otherwise, the volcano can’t erupt). Once finished, the dough needed to dry for at least eight hours, so the mini volcanoes were left to dry up overnight.
The next day, the children could paint the volcano in their desired color. Most painted it red, but some made it black with a white top—like a mountain—while others picked yellow, blue, or green just because they liked it. Then they had to let the paint dry overnight, while keeping their volcano out of reach of their pets (Kristel made sure they got one if they wanted), as these might try to eat the dough, or accidentally bump them from the table.
Throughout the week, she kept in contact with the children’s parents and caregivers, to make sure that each child succeeded in making their own volcano. Nothing as bad for a kid as to be the one left out. Then today came—the day when they would make their volcanoes erupt.
Dewi has brought the ‘secret ingredients’: baking soda, dish soap, several types of food coloring—to give the eruption different colors—and vinegar. Now Dewi hands out table- and tea-measuring spoons. First, the kids add two tablespoons of baking soda into their mini volcanoes. Then she tells them to add one teaspoon of dish soap, which will make the eruption extra foamy. Then she lets them choose from any of the natural food dyes she has brought or made: annatto (reddish orange); caramel (light brown); carmine (red); elderberry juice (blue purple); natural blue from the water of boiled red cabbage mixed with baking soda; turmeric (yellow orange); or homemade green, made by putting kale and baby spinach through a juicer.
She lets them add a few drops of any of them. Then, as the moment suprême arrives, there’s the inescapable consequence of the ubiquity of social media.
“Miss,” a young girl says, out of the blue, “did you kiss with the wild lady?”
“Well,” Dewi says as her olive cheeks turn a brighter shade of crimson, “she’s not just wild, but also very smart.”
“Like a superheroine,” another girl says, “the way she flies through AR-space.”
“Do you love her?” another girl asks.
“Can girls love each other?” yet another girl asks. “And boys?”
“Yes, sometimes girls love each other,” Dewi says as she decides to circumvent this possible time bomb with a mix of truth and evasion. “And sometimes boys love each other. Sometimes—” She thought she couldn’t blush any harder, but finds herself mistaken. “Girls can love both a boy and a girl. But that is something we will talk about when all of you are a little bit older.”
“Now, let’s get on with our volcanoes,” Dewi says, trying to ignore the emotional one that just erupted. “Here are some small cups. Take one each and fill it with the vinegar from the bottles over here.”
The kid so and move to their mini volcanoes in breathless anticipation.
“Now, all together,” Dewi says, “pour the vinegar into the volcano.”
As the vinegar is poured into the multi-colored volcanoes, they erupt with different colors. Earthen-red volcanoes spew yellow lava, yellow overflows with purple, bright green overruns with blood red, too many combinations to describe.
The squeals of delight can be heard for miles around, kids jumping for joy, crying for more. And more they get.
“Shall we do it again?” Dewi says to a tsunami of approval. “Fill your volcanoes again with baking soda, dish soap, and any coloring you like.” The kids can’t get these in quick enough.
“Then, go get some vinegar again. And please wait on each other.” It’s hard, but the kids manage—just about—to wait until each and everyone is ready, again.
“Go,” Dewi says as she launches the second double salvo of eruptions—a multihued overflowing extravaganza followed by a communal howl.
“Tonight is a special night, because of the nice weather and because you have all been very good children, and to show respect to our Muslim children, we have let you arrive late enough for it to get dark. So, we will have a campfire and a barbecue with halal food,” Dewi says as dusk sets in. Loud and enthusiastic cheers come from all the kids.
“As we set up the campfire and prepare the barbecue,” Dewi says, “you can make more volcano eruptions. Or do you want me to drag all that baking soda and vinegar back?”
She doesn’t need to say it twice, as the kids produce more colorful eruptions. It’s good that Dewi didn’t bring too much baking soda and vinegar, otherwise some of them might have skipped the barbecue altogether. But eat they must, and the halal barbecue has something for everyone: chicken satay sticks, ginger-marinated lamb chops, little ostrich burgers, lamb and rosemary koftas.
There are also plenty of vegetarian alternatives, such as eggplant parcels with melt-in-the-middle goat cheese, grilled portobello pita bread sandwiches, skewers with marinated vegetables such as cucumber, onion, carrot, paprika, mushrooms, and mini-tomatoes, and slightly seared broccoli and asparagus with feta cheese dressing. And, of course, there are several healthy salads, pita bread, and an array of sauces and soups.
After the barbecue, Dewi has one extra thing. “Please stay back from the campfire,” she says as she puts on safety glasses, heat resistant gloves, and a lab coat. “I will change the color of the flames.”
She’s prepared six batches of chemicals for the evening campfire pyrotechnics. First, she grabs a handful of table salt and throws it into the fire, whose flames now turn pale yellow.
“Cool,” the kids scream. “More.” Next, she throws in a handful of calcium chloride and the fire burns bright orange as the kids clap an appreciative applause. A batch of boric acid bursts into a green aurora, a double shot of almost pure ethanol lights up a blue sky, a shake of strontium nitrate foreshadows a crimson dawn, and a violent push of potassium chloride precedes a violet pandemonium.
And the kids? The kids love it so much their parents and caretakers wonder if they will ever get them in bed, let alone to sleep.
“Now you see why Dewi’s my favorite.” Dewi accidentally overhears a group of girls discussing their favorites. “She knows everything, and how to use everything.”
“But Agnetha is still the queen of AR-space,” another says. “She rules.”
“Olga is smart,” another says. “She never loses her cool.”
“Kristel got me my kitten,” another says. “She’s my pet godmother.”
“Katja can be fierce, too,” another says, “but she should forgive Esteban.”
“Yeah, they should get back together,” the previous girl insists. “They belong.”
The last thing Dewi sees of the group of girls as their caretakers take them home is a general, emphatic nod.
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Author’s note: this piece is part of a series of planned posts that will appear while I am at work at sea. This one is planned for Wednesday November 27. I am planned to return home on Wednesday December 4, after which the rest of December is pretty much my oyster. Until then!