14.5 Lockdown

And there was somebody on a bicycle stopping by my motorbike as I turned around.

“Kawla!” he negotiated, “Is it you?”

“Hi!” I returned blankly.

“It’s me,” he said, “Traves.”

“Traves!” I was surprised, “How do you do?”

He chuckled, “You don’t ask in Los Varados. I am doing alright. How about you?”

After a correction I could hardly recognise him. He grew up with me at Saint Mathews but I was a couple of batches behind. I could not remember his full name. He looked weird. He got long hair on the top of the crown and sides shaved to the temples and whiskers. Tattooed on both arms, shirtless with light brown skin and thick gold chains around his neck. “Mi falda!”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

And I was still in shock, “Where have you been all these days?” Out of context, I did not mention Sophie Nadz. He probably didn’t see her or recognise her.

“Abroad on a scholarship,” he said and I felt he was lying, “You have not changed. You look twenty years younger.”

“When did you come?”

“I actually came a year ago.”

“Actually? I haven’t seen you around.”

“I stay here in Mercado and Amir is with me.”

“Amir! Where is he?” I was interested.

“Over there!” he pointed to the boats and gave a shout, “Amir! Amir! It’s Kawla here!”

A guy popped his head into the orange rays of the sun from behind a rowing boat lying upside down on the shore. He did not try to step up or stand up. He waved at me.

I pulled to the shoulder, “Have you heard about the stranded ship, a nuclear stealth and this lockdown?”

“Hoax!” Traves responded, “It’s a superyacht.”

“Say what!”

“A superyacht. A modern type of a yacht with an evolutionary design. It ran aground with passengers.”

“Passengers! Where are the passengers?”

“On the ship. Hundreds of stranded refugees on it waiting for visas.”

“Visas? Who issues them?” I asked.

“Mayor Brando,” he replied.

“You are just starting another rumour!” I could not believe this, “What about you?”

“I came on MH370.”

“MH370!”

“By flight.”

“Don’t tell me! You are lying. I thought that flight vanished over South Indian Ocean.” Take note that when we talked about MH370, that shocking incident had not taken place.

“Hoax!” he cried, “That is just the cover-up story to conceal a bankruptcy.”

“You know they spent billions trying to find this aircraft and compensate the victims’ families.”

“So what? A broke company pays nothing.”

“I have read a dozen theories about how this aircraft disappeared, hijacked, bombed, lithium batteries in its hold, landed in a jungle, taken away by the terrorists, a suicide dive, took wrong turn, seen by some folks in an Indian Ocean archipelago, shot down by laser beam…”

“Shot down by laser beam!” he laughed, “Where did you hear that?”

“I thought I read it somewhere that the US Navy were testing a new weapon of a laser in Diego Garcia and took a chance on it.”

“Took a chance on it! Shit! Did the pilot practice it on his stimulator?”

“He did. Pentagon won’t reveal it.”

“That is how tricky it sounds. He practiced this route to Los Varados. Look for it, you do not find it. The truth is what has not been told and where you don’t look. Nobody talked about money. This airline went bankrupt.”

“Where is the aircraft now?” I asked still curious about it.

“In operation,” he frowned, “under a new license and a different name with new paint.”

“Mi falda!” I could hardly believe, “A Boeing 777 cannot cross this distance of 18000 kilometres.”

“We refuelled in Libya.”

“Huh! It cannot land here. There is no airstrip on this island.”

“We beached.”

“Where?”

“In Point South.”

“Stranded?”

“As you say in Los Varados.”

That moment I saw Amir walking up towards us. He was a tall guy with chocolate brown skin. Six feet two inches in height with a fake smile on his face. His beach shorts barely hanging around the hips, same old maroon colour. He reached us, “Hello Kawla!”

“Hello Amir! It’s a long time since I saw you.”

He dropped a hand on the handlebar, “I saw you with Nizu the other day, taking her home from Hilly High I bet. Is that the girl you’re dating?” I shrank humbly.

You know in a dream when you are name-called, you come to know all about it. All those theories that you never heard before are put forward but always remember that it is you who is dreaming. No one else can put them into your brains. Some of the things that you never heard or never read come in your way. When he mentioned this girl, Nizmina, my reaction was admittance because I liked the girl. “Well…well…she is just a friend.” Truth is, I knew not that she attended Hilly Side High, not then. When she crossed my gate in the past, Nizu walked to the opposite direction to Saint Bartholomew. I had not seen her for a year or two.

“Didn’t you guys do something!” teased Traves.

“No! No! She’s a virgin,” I mistakenly voiced.

They sniggered, “How can you be so sure?”

“What are you doing down there, Amir?” I asked to change the subject.

“Fixing my rowing boat,” Amir said, “Say, do you know a junk to buys some dope?”

“You don’t find that stuff around here.”

He sneered, “You’re full of it.”

“I get mine from Rainbow Road.”

“You are lying! Dopers always tell lies! You are a dope, Kawla!” Amir rumbled.

This confrontation with my old buddies was not going to go well. I kicked my cycle and turned to go. I got to get away so I gotten away. I took a U-turn and drove to Safa.