Collision

by Merle Kröger

  Portmàn.

  The great thing is that Georges got his revenge in the end. The village suffocated in its own poisonous sludge, which gradually blocked up the harbor and filled the whole bay. And now they can’t get rid of it. EU project status aborted. Private investors aborted.

  Eternally contaminated.

  Uh-oh, the captain’s temper is really turning foul now. Léon smiles.

  Mehta’s done for, suffocating in his own poisonous brew as well.

  “Change of guard!”

  Instinctively, he snaps to attention.

  Here we go.

  One more time.

  Luke Skywalker is back on watch.

  CARTAGENA HARBOR | SPAIN

  Diego Martínez

  Asclepius, the Greek god of death and healing. His temple once stood up there on the highest of the five hills. He was adopted by the Romans and brought to Carthago Nova, the capital of their Iberian empire. Nobody knows why they built a temple to him here of all places. Perhaps it had been a stormy crossing, or there had been illness on board.

  Asclepius is a bearded fellow with a stick, around which an Aesculapian snake twines. This is not the only reason Diego feels close to the god. The logo for the Spanish sea rescue service features a crown hovering over an anchor and a twisted rope, which reminds him of Asclepius. Also in Diego’s life, death and rescue are only millimeters apart from each other. Today, death wins.

  Diego hoses down the Salvamar Rosa as she floats in the full shine of her powerful spotlights in the basin of the Cartagena Port Authority. The Guardia Civil speedboats are hiding in the darkness. Rosa’s orange paint gleams as he caresses her with the stream of water. Section by section, he makes her sparkle. She is demanding, his Rosa. She makes her temperament felt whenever the patrón pushes both turbines to full throttle. She doesn’t have a propeller like the other ships, for safety reasons. She has rocket engines instead.

  Patiently, he pivots the stream back to the left; only a small strip still needs to be done. He is not obsessed with his boat—his last girlfriend had been wrong about that. She was from the city, and there was no way that could have ended well.

  Only the wife of a fisherman could understand what binds the men of Escombreras to their boats. Whenever his father cleans the Florentina or his uncle the Maria, that is the time when a man comes to terms with himself and leaves his fears with his boat. She is his confidante and knows everything about him.

  Diego drops the hose and picks up a rag to rub out any remaining oil spots. Cartagena Bay lies silently underneath the almost full moon. Where are the men they spent the day looking for? Where are the other people he has searched for in vain? There have to be hundreds of them by this point.

  The travelers on the pateras pass along to each other the number for the sea rescue service in Cartagena. “If you’re in trouble, call them.” Floating in the middle of the sea, they stumble across some cell network or another and then call up to the switchboard.

  Do you understand? They can call, but they might still be lost if we can’t find them fast enough. They could still die of dehydration. They could still drown. They could still be plowed down by a freighter. They have to cross two shipping channels between Algeria and the Spanish coast, at night, without lights. Invisible to every radar.

  He angrily rubs at the last stubborn spot. All of these lost people are silhouettes, like the graffiti on the harbor wall, like the ones in their overalls who are bussed to Murcia.

  They have to stay here.

  I can’t take you with me.

  Diego straightens up. He hangs the rag over the shiny metal railing to dry and goes inside to switch off the lamps.

  The Rosa will take care of them. She is a kindhearted soul, and her diva attitude is just for show. She had gathered Zohra in and offered her comfort and sleep.

  Zohra. A face like a Madonna. A Madonna of pain and sadness, with eyes older than the rest of her body. She climbed down from the deck as if in slow motion, as if she had to force every movement.

  The patron had taken care of all the paperwork with her. She looked around and raised her hand, before slowly working her way down the pier and vanishing.

  And he? He had stood there like an idiot, holding the hose. He stares into the darkness for a moment, wishing he could rewind the film and she would suddenly reappear.

  Diego steps back on land.

  The patron yawns as he sits at the computer in the workshop. “Algeria,” he comments as Diego enters. He looks meaningfully over the rim of his reading glasses, which he has been wearing on a chain around his neck for the past few months.

  “Sure, where else would they come from?” Diego is weary and in no mood to chat. The patron likes to talk shit—that’s his way.

  He jerks his head toward the door. “No. Her.”

  Diego coils the hose neatly and hangs it on its hook. The helmet goes on top of the shelf, the gloves right next to it.

  Her.

  The information fights its way to the surface of his consciousness.

  Her. Zohra.

  He turns around. The patron is grinning smugly, leaning back and patting his stomach, across which the buttons of his so-called captain’s uniform are straining.

  “I gave her twenty euros out of the coffee till so she can reach the consulate general in Alicante. Papers, money—everything’s gone.”

  Out of the coffee till. He would never give her his own money. Diego nods and is seized by a sense of unease. Zohra. All alone out there. He sees her again in his mind, how she disappeared into the darkness.

  He is already half out of his overalls. The locker. Pants, T-shirt, hooded jacket. Quick, stuff it all in. Grab car keys.

  “Why the hurry?” The patron flourishes a bottle of good brandy, Carlos I. It has become something of a ritual after a job well done.

  “My father,” Diego murmurs. “Soccer game on TV. Promised.”

  He strides around the corner, breaking into a run as soon as he is out of sight. Down the pier—it strikes him as endlessly long today. His car is parked under the tin roof next to the unloading area for the rafts they haul in. Door opens. Key goes in the ignition.

  I have to find her.

  He reverses and tears off in a squeal of tires.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” blares one of the loudspeakers close to the gate. “Gotta go or something?” The laughter of the man on shift up at the switchboard mixes with the rattling of the gate as it slowly opens.

  Much too slowly.

  He drives through, brakes.

  She could be anywhere.

  Long gone.

  Walked into the city.

  Think, Diego. What would you do?

  Away from here. Too dark.

  Somewhere where there is light. Among people.

  He drives slowly past the empty parking lots along the fishing harbor. Up ahead, the end of the promenade. That is where the people and restaurants are. A summer evening. Yacht owners drinking wine and eating paella.

  Wait a sec, what’s that?

  An Espace that had not been here before. There, just a shadow, fumbling with the driver’s door.

  Diego reverses until his headlights illuminate the scene. The figure turns around, blinded. Framed by her headscarf, she has the eyes of the Madonna.

  His heart pounds faster.

  He steps out.

  She glares at him furiously. He doesn’t understand a word.

  Walks toward her.

  Grasps her shoulders. Very cautiously. “Come home.” His voice sounds husky.

  She is now perfectly still.

  His parents will be shocked by this late guest.

  She takes a step toward him.

  Suddenly, Diego has to laugh. “The Spanish Republicans—” he begins, but is unsure how to continue. Whatever. His hand reaches for hers.

  The Republican fleet escaped twice to Algeria.

  It is now time to return the favor.

  CASTELLÓN DE LA PLANA H
ARBOR | SPAIN

  Oleksij Lewtschenko

  He’s standing on the pier.

  Olek feels like a midget, like a newly hatched chick. It is the first time in weeks he has felt solid ground under his feet. The ground sways. Sailors know this phenomenon—the ship won’t let them go.

  The word SIOBHAN stands in white letters across the ship’s black stern. He is standing right in front of her, at her ass, so to speak. The tailwind blows directly across the containers; Dmitri had landed the Siobhan at the pier with remarkable flair. A German freighter bobs in front of her, and right behind her, the sea jetty ends.

  The cranes are running up and down above the German vessel. A Jeep from the Guardia Civil blasts past Olek’s nose and comes to a screeching stop at the end of the pier.

  Olek is familiar with this nocturnal drama among men. First the truck with the workers who will moor the boat pulls up, then lots of yelling. Throw me the rope now. Pull, you jackasses. What kind of assholes are you, haven’t you ever berthed a boat before? Then the pilot disembarks, as the Guardia Civil arrives and checks the papers on everyone who leaves the ship and enters European soil.

  One guy steps down and covers the distance between them with wide strides. They know each other. A short flip through his naval passport. That was it. “Enjoy your vacation, buddy.”

  Olek growls his thanks.

  Vacation.

  Dmitri. You can’t do this. After so many years.

  There is a lot to take care of on the bridge after the docking, long after the engines have been cut off. His engines. He has repaired each of the nine blocks more than once, with his flashlight between his teeth and his wrench in hand. His Siobhan runs smoothly, and the engine room gleams in pale silver.

  Come on, Dmitri, old friend. We’ve been through so much together. It can’t end this way. A couple of words in farewell. A hug between men.

  No politics on board this ship. That was your motto. Let that still hold true for tonight, too.

  The last six months, day after day, the silence in the officers’ mess. Three Russians and two Ukrainians. News, day after day. Good for you, bad for us. I sometimes came close to losing it with you.

  But we got through it. Remember when that storm blew up in the Gulf of Marseille? I thought our trusty Siobhan was going to crack down the middle as our entire load of containers crashed down in the wave trough. It was ten, twelve meters, no shit.

  Remember when the stabilizers failed, and we were suddenly listing at 9 percent toward starboard and had to balance the tanks by hand? Remember when we found the Algerians in the container last winter? And how the Spaniards didn’t want to let them on land, but sent over two cops instead to accompany them back to where they’d come from? That is why we celebrated Christmas with two Spanish policemen in Oran. Our legendary suckling pig à la Manila? Remember that? It was a great party.

  Dmitri, you can’t do this. Not this way.

  Olek looks up to the illuminated bridge. A tiny island of light. How many hours had they spent up there together, staring out?

  At the sea.

  At the containers.

  No politics on this ship.

  And he, Olek, was the one who broke that law, when he returned to the bridge.

  The storm had fit the mood.

  Thunder.

  “Hi, Chief. There you are.” Dmitri with his binoculars in hand. “It’s quite the weather we’ve got out there.”

  Dmitri read the letter out loud. Lightning.

  “You aren’t seriously going to do that.”

  But I am, Dmitri.

  I want to, I have to.

  Are you already on the radio with the crewing agency in Cyprus to tell them you need a new chief engineer by tomorrow? And no Ukrainians, please. It won’t be easy for poor Sergei. But since he lives in Ireland and knows our Odessa only from his parents’ stories, it’s not hard for him to shut out the politics.

  We, however… Don’t you understand, Dmitri? Your Putin turned us into nationalists. Until a year ago, my son had the Russian flag hanging up in his room. He liked everything that came from Russia. Europe could go hang itself, as far as we were concerned.

  When I was home the last time, in late May, the flag was gone. I found a few charred bits of it in the garden. My son and I, we didn’t need to talk about it. Instead, we went to the place where Odessa died, on May 2, 2014.

  The union building went up in flames, and everyone told a different story. What happened there, Dmitri? You don’t know? But your Putin does. He’s a control freak who leaves nothing to chance. You think it could have been our people? Why not the American intelligence guys? The two of us, we’ll never know. We weren’t there. We’re never there. We ride around on the sea, while everything goes to hell at home.

  You want to know why so much went wrong over the past few weeks, Dmitri? The container that crashed through the opening. The empty tank right before we reached Barcelona. I can tell you. It doesn’t matter anymore.

  Earlier we’d raise a glass together, Dmitri, in the evenings on the bridge or after our meal in the officers’ mess. I drink alone these days, secretly, between the containers. I’m drinking it up, Dmitri. The news from home, the Facebook videos that Irina sends me. Yesterday they unrolled a yellow-and-blue flag on the steps of Odessa, the Potemkin Steps.

  I have to know where my place is, Dmitri. Then, perhaps, someday I can return. I’m going to war so my son and the other boys don’t have to.

  Here comes the taxi that the charter company sent. Take care, my friend. It’s a shame your motto didn’t apply this time: No politics on this ship.

  One of the Filipinos raises the gangway with the crane. Olek now knows that Dmitri will not come. Who is the man in the overalls, wearing a helmet? He can’t recognize him, and that irritates him. He needs to know the identity of the last person he will ever see on his ship, the one lifting his hand in farewell.

  Olek raises his in return.

  The taxi is waiting, motor running. He steps in. They drive beneath the cranes, the freighters to their left, the containers towering high, one on top of the other, to their right. Hanjin. Maersk. Hamburg-Süd. CMA CGM. Container dominoes. They played it often, at night on the bridge.

  They’ve passed them and are driving along the narrow street between the terminal buildings and the house-high sheet piling.

  I’m on the road to nowhere.

  Is he imagining things, or is the street growing narrower? He tugs on his jacket collar. It’s stuffy in here.

  He opens the window.

  Stop, turn around. Something is pulling him inexorably back to his ship.

  I don’t want to die.

  The taxi races through the night.

  Pause at the customs barrier. Papers again. Then the hand waving the taxi through.

  Olek exhales.

  We’re out.

  A traffic circle. Deserted.

  “Want to go straight to your hotel?”

  He puts it off. “No. Keep driving a little. Is there a good bar around here?”

  The driver laughs. “Down that way, toward the beach.” They drive along the harbor promenade and encounter a few late-night tourists.

  “Please, stop here!”

  The taxi brakes, and Olek gets out. “I’ll take the suitcase myself, no worries.” The car takes off with a rev of its engine.

  Olek walks slowly toward the open door. Just as he is about to enter, two old women come out, one pushing a walker. No smiles are offered.

  He steps into the church, suitcase in hand.

  A painting above the altar of a boat bobbing under stormy clouds, helpless in the sea. The boat is carrying sailors in long white robes, just like the Arabs wear. Two of the sailors are clinging up high on the mast, and one of them is trying to reef the sail. Five others are pressed into the narrow hull, where one of them is waving for help. Next to the boat, a sailor is floating in the sea. Standing on the water, Jesus is holding his hand.

  Rescue.


  Olek sits down in the first pew.

  He studies the picture.

  Black Rasta braids floating in the water.

  He is seized by homesickness, like a sharp pain. Homesickness for the Virgin of Odessa, protectress of all sailors.

  I’m coming to fight at your side, my love.

  Protect me, too.

  And forgive me my trespasses.

  Amen.

  PORTMĀN | SPAIN

  Marwan Fakhouri

  Sand.

  Salty water.

  His head aches unbearably, while a storm rages in his head.

  He wants to lie down.

  To sink into the sand.

  He doesn’t sink.

  Strong arms grab him left and right and carry him.

  His legs are like jelly.

  Dry sand.

  Beneath him, black sand.

  Above him, black sky.

  The sun, the colors—both have abandoned Marwan.

  I couldn’t decide. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think of anything else anymore: Should I go or should I stay?

  It was only later, in Cairo, that I realized: if you’re in a war, you cannot give up. That is the end. I gave up, but it was my decision.

  One more chance, please.

  Back.

  Back to last night again. Can you hear me, friends? I would like to say one more thing to you:

  Don’t make the same mistake I did. Even if you’re tired, even if everything you do seems pointless, you have to carry on.

  You are better people than me.

  Maybe there is no hope anymore.

  But I tell you: our life abroad has no purpose whatsoever.

  The fear remains with us forever. I promise you, it stays.

  We have no future.

  Hello?

  Is anyone there?

  I can’t see anything.

  It is dark.

  I am cold.

  I want to get up.

  He feels around with his hands.

  I want to go home.

  To Tartus.

  Suddenly, something explodes in his head.

  Everything becomes really bright.

  Unbearably bright.

  A white surface. An image.

  Not a photograph.

  A computer simulation.