The Replicant, the Mole & the Impostor, Part 28
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.
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Katja and Esteban sit in the back of an old coffeehouse in the Greek village. By now, they have a silent understanding with the owner to be out of sight from the tourists—and some of the more intrusive locals—as they’re seated in the furthest niche inside. After they extinguish the candle on the table, it’s quite dark, too, so that the drones—as they hover just below the low ceiling—have trouble depicting their full expressions. A few coins in the jukebox—the place is really old school—and their conversation is more difficult to discern as well.
The atmosphere is far from lovely. Normally, they would snug together, trying to have some quality time together, but today Katja is aloof and keeps her distance. Esteban senses this, and—however much he hates it—also keeps his distance. Katja has her usual pot of green tea, Esteban his usual Greek coffee—allowing the grounds to settle—as they remain unusually silent.
“What’s going on, Katja?” Esteban—the one to break the silence—says. “You’re not quite your normal exhilarating and effervescent self.”
“I’m worried,” Katja says after brooding for a moment, “about Riham Saad.”
“But she’s left the camp after her asylum request was approved,” Esteban says. “She’s probably already in Germany, by now.”
“That’s what everybody keeps saying,” Katja says, “but she hasn’t contacted me, all this time.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Esteban says, “maybe her smartphone broke down? Or she needs a new SIM card?”
“It’s been too long,” Katja says. “She should be with her new family now, supposedly in Germany, and if she has a German SIM card, she should have been able to contact me with ease. Something’s wrong.”
“She’s strong, she should be alright,” Esteban says, “and you can’t worry about her forever.”
“We had a great rapport,” Katja says. “We exchanged messages almost daily, if we didn’t meet in person. To hear nothing for a week is very distressing.”
“What is this?” Esteban says, exasperated. “You seem to care more for her than for me.”
“I care for everybody equally,” Katja says, loud enough for everyone in the small coffeehouse to hear, “and if you don’t understand that, I don’t want to put up with you any longer.”
Katja is fuming. She gets up, forgets about her remaining tea, gives Esteban the angriest look she can muster, and storms out of the small coffeehouse.
“Wait,” Esteban says, overwhelmed and much too late. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He gets up to go after her, but she’s already out of sight. He sits back down and finishes his coffee as a splitting headache rears its ugly head. He pays the bill as little star fields gradually fill his vision, then walks out in search for a dark, lonely spot to sit out his upcoming migraine.
And that’s only the start of his troubles.
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Author’s note: this section is short but not so sweet. The previous one was longer than normal. I did this because this kept the sections intact (and no, I don’t plan how long a section will be when I’m writing. Just as long—or short—as it needs to be).
Also, shit happens, inside and outside of fiction. No matter how bad or unexpected it is, we have to keep fighting the good fight. I wish everybody strength, welcome to the new subscribers, and many thanks for reading!