‘Does that mean I can leave the camp?’
‘Actually it will mean the reverse. You can stay on.’
‘But that’s what would happen anyway.’
‘Don’t be too sure. You could be deported to your homeland. Wherever that really is.’
‘I don’t have a homeland.’
‘You will be deported to the country of last domicile.’
‘They won’t accept me.’
‘Of course not. You will be sent back whereupon we deport you again. You will find yourself in what we call the circular route.’
‘And what is that?’
‘A route in which you circulate.’
‘Around what?’
‘Around yourself.’
Tea-Bag shook her head. She didn’t understand. There was nothing that could make her as frustrated as when she didn’t understand.
‘I’ve heard of a man who claimed to be from a central African republic,’ Fernando continued. ‘He has now lived in an Italian airport for twelve years. No one wants him. Since no one will pay his airfare it has turned out to be cheapest simply to let him remain at the airport.’
Tea-Bag pointed to the note Fernando held in his hand.
‘That’s what you want me to say?’
‘Just this. Nothing else.’
Fernando gave her the note.
‘He’s waiting in my office. He also has a photographer with him.’
‘Why?’
Fernando sighed.
‘They always do.’
Two men were waiting outside Fernando’s office. One was short with red hair and a raincoat that flapped in the wind. He was carrying a camera. Next to him was a tall and thin man. Tea-Bag thought he looked like a palm tree. His back was slightly bent and he had bushy hair that stood out like palm fronds. Fernando pointed to Tea-Bag then left them alone. Tea-Bag smiled and the man who looked like a palm tree smiled back at her. He had bad teeth. The other man picked up his camera. His raincoat rustled.
‘My name is Per,’ said the palm-tree man. ‘We’re doing a series on refugees. We’re calling it “People without a face”. We want to tell your story.’
Something about the way he spoke rubbed her up the wrong way. She sent him a blinding smile. She was furious.
‘But I have a face.’
Per looked puzzled.
‘We mean it in a symbolic way. “People without a face”. People like you who are trying to come to Europe without being welcome.’
For the first time since she had been here, Tea-Bag suddenly felt an urge to defend the camp, the red-eyed guards, their dogs, the fat women who doled out the meals, the men who emptied the latrines. All this she wanted to defend, just as she wanted to defend the other refugees in the camp and those who never made it that far, who drowned or committed suicide in their despair.
‘I won’t speak to you,’ she said, ‘until you have apologised for saying that I have no face.’
Then she turned to the man in the raincoat who was constantly moving about and snapping pictures of her.
‘I don’t want you to take any more pictures of me.’
The photographer flinched as if she had slapped him and put his camera down. Tea-Bag wondered if she had made a mistake. Both of the men in front of her seemed friendly and their eyes were not red from exhaustion. Tea-Bag quickly decided to retreat.
‘You may speak to me,’ she said. ‘And you may take your pictures.’
The photographer immediately started working again. Some children who were drifting around the camp stopped and looked at them. I’m speaking for them, Tea-Bag thought. Not only for me but for them.
‘So how are things here?’ the reporter asked.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What it sounds like. Life here in the camp.’
‘I am treated with compassion and humanity, I am happy to say.’
‘It must be terrible to be in the camp. How long have you been here?’
‘A few months. A thousand years.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Tea-Bag.’
The man asking the questions had still not said anything that could provide a door for her, a door through which she could escape.
‘Excuse me?’
‘My name is Tea-Bag. Just as yours is Paul.’
‘Per. Where do you come from?’
Careful now, she thought. I don’t know what he wants from me. He may have a door somewhere but he could also be someone who wants to send me back, someone who wants to reveal my secrets.
‘I almost drowned. Something hit me in the head. I have lost my memory.’
‘Have you been examined by a doctor?’
Tea-Bag shook her head. Why was he asking all these questions? What did he want? She became suspicious again and tried to retreat.
‘I am treated with compassion and humanity by the Spanish authorities.’
‘How can you say that? You’re a prisoner here!’
He has a door, Tea-Bag decided. He is simply trying to determine if I am worthy of it. She had to restrain herself so she would not throw herself into his arms and embrace him.
‘Where do you come from?’ Now she was the one asking the questions.
‘Sweden,’ he said.
What kind of place was that? A town, a country, the sign on a door? She didn’t know. The names of so many cities and countries were constantly circulating around the camp like swarms of bees. But had she heard the name ‘Sweden’ before? Maybe, she couldn’t be sure.
‘Sweden?’
