They stand in the lobby for over an hour, the two officers arguing, leaving occasionally to find some paperwork or another officer who comes and joins in the heated discussion. At one very angry point of the discussion, one takes out a cigarette and is about to light it when he reaches for the packet again and offers one to the man with whom he is arguing. He accepts. They stop to light up using one lighter, the one accepting mutters something, and they both laugh before resuming their positions and continue shouting their differences.
Aaman shifts his weight, limbs responding as if in treacle. His eyes blink slowly. Even the barn’s wooden bunk feels attractive. There is a yank on his cuffed wrist as the line tension changes. The Albanians try to sit on the floor but the Russians shout at them as they pull on their handcuffed wrists, the metal digging into soft skin. One of the Indian men is crying silently, talking to himself. Aaman understands the dialect. His wife is in a village twenty miles from here, and he is expected back. He has been an illegal for twenty years, his children go to school here, his wife cleans floors in a government building, he was just staying overnight as it was too long a walk from his village to the town and back in one day.
Aaman turns away. He looks down a corridor with rooms off to the side. At the end of the corridor is a green wooden door. There is a moth at a window above the door. The window is dirty, streak marks from where a damp cloth has been wiped over it has created arches of sunlight. The moth starts at the bottom of the arch, banging itself against the glass, hoping for an exit, a passage to freedom, and each time it buffets against the window, it gains a little height. The dance takes it to the top of the arch and down the other side until it takes a rest, its little feet on the wooden frame. It crawls for a while and then begins the process again, sometimes at the other end of the arch, sometimes at the same end, seeking the elusive light, the freedom of unimpeded flight.
The officers have stopped shouting. A man in civilian clothing has entered the lobby holding high a copper ring hung from which, on a tripod of metal ropes, is a copper tray. On the tray are two small Greek coffee cups. The arguing policemen have stopped to order coffee from the delivery boy. The Russians sigh and pull the Albanians to the floor as they themselves now give up and sit, leaning against the wall. The whole line follows suit as each is pulled down by the last. Aaman is the little one on the end.
Once seated, Aaman sleeps, one eye open. Some part of him hears the police eventually make their peace and the one behind the desk makes a phone call. He is not surprised when the arresting officer pulls them to their feet and takes them back into the yard and into the truck. The Russians complain loudly, they mime the need to pee and Aaman’s mind takes in the Russian words. The Russians’ complaints are ignored as though they are whining dogs. The policeman leaves the door open and goes to drink his coffee, sitting in the sunshine with his new found friend, the reception officer.
More time passes. One of the Russians pulls the line about so he can pee off the edge of the truck. The sitting policemen jump up and hurry over, drawing their batons and calling him a dog. The Eurasian aims at the police so they cannot get near. He finishes, the police call him more names and then dismiss him as a concern as they return to their ashtray of smouldering cigarettes and steaming coffees.
The men sort out their line, settle down, and fall asleep. Aaman imagines that Juliet will now be awake and wondering where he is. This thought hurts him. She has been so kind, so caring, so generous, she will think he has not taken what she offered with any value. His solar plexus knots. She will think he took it for granted. She will think he has given up on his studies and does not value the work. She will think he was just using her for his evening meal. But the worst pain of all is that she might think he did not value her friendship. She will wonder where he is and then she will grow angry. She might even feel disappointed that she was so kind to someone who was not worth it. And it is absolutely a possibility, although not very likely, that she may feel a little bit alone by the end of the day.
His chest aches at his yearning to be at her cottage. His eyes fill at the pain of how she might see him. His lost opportunity to learn more on the computer and give himself such a good future makes him nauseous. Altogether, he feels dizzy and feels he may pass out. He opens his drooping eyelids and gasps for air. The doors bang shut.
Juliet has come to love waking in her cotton-sheeted bed, looking up at the roof beams with the sun peeking in stripes through the slats of the shutters. Now the sun is strong, the strips of sunlight make the dust dance, specks of fairy dust, now you see it, now you don’t. She eases herself to sitting. A cat paw claws under the gap at the bottom of the door.
It feels different somehow. The sun too strong. Too warm. The cat awake. No cockerels crowing.
“Oh my God, I’ve overslept.” Juliet pulls on her jeans and sweatshirt and wonders how long Aaman must have been waiting.
After a brief journey, Aaman is unloaded again. He watches the Albanians climb out and laugh when they realise where they are. One of the Russians, as he ducks his head to climb down, asks in very bad Greek why they laugh. They say this place is called Little Albania. The Russian groans. “You mean the detention centre?” No-one bothers to answer him.
Aaman is shackled to the Indian man who is still crying and talking about his wife and wondering who will take the children to school. Aaman does not respond. He sees Juliet on the porch drinking her coffee and stroking the cat. She will be scorning him, thinking him unworthy, that he has betrayed all her kindness. A new thought comes to him. What if this becomes to her another experience of someone letting her down, going away with no notice? He hopes he isn’t that important to her. Just a gardener, he tells himself. I am just a gardener.
The first in the line has his handcuff removed and is ushered through the wire mesh gates. Each in turn thereafter is yanked in after him, uncuffed and pushed forward. There is a window next to the main door, where they are each asked to turn out their pockets. Cigarettes and matches are allowed, lighters and money and everything else is confiscated. Two lighters, twenty-five cents, nine mobile phones, and a spoon is their total. They are then ushered into another room where they are told to strip, bundled through a cold shower and given back their clothes once the guards have felt through them. Tired and hungry, they are shown to a block with more men than beds that backs onto a yard full of men coming and going out of many other blocks. The dominant language is Albanian. He learns two words in the first few minutes he is there, the first being Hello and the second obviously a derogatory obscenity that can be used as a negative or for camaraderie. It makes Aaman smile, but he is not sure why.
As they are now unshackled, the Albanian men soon disappear into the sea of their brethren. The Russians look around for other Russians and soon find their corner. The Romanians and Croatians don’t seem interested in finding their own kind, but after an hour or two, their own find them. The atmosphere has something of the holiday camp about it, but with a grim undertone.
The Indians sit on the floor, not knowing which are their bunks. They hail Aaman over, but he is not there for his own comfort or to be social.