Ambre Khandjar Une Nuit Nomade 2019

He strolled. Very slowly. Leisurely. Not "through the Omani market" (MCPS), but through a small town, his town. And to the limits of his being. It was shortly after midnight, and from the last shop, the shisha café, which had just closed, he was kindly escorted out the door. He frowned. People seemed a bit afraid of him. Or was it disgust? He wasn't sure as he discreetly let his nose wander towards his armpit. Did he smell? The last time he had the chance to shower was the day before yesterday. Smelling would be hell on earth for him. (He didn't believe in a hell in heaven anyway.) Otherwise, he didn't care about much. As he continued on, lost in thought, heading towards the city forest and looking for a warm place, a familiar face came closer. Karl, on his way to his park bench, had apparently once again procured some supplies. Karl was an alcoholic, but one of the sweetest and kindest people he encountered at this hour, when he really shouldn't be seen outside. Who knows where they would send him. (He knew, and he absolutely did not want to go there. One day, he was firmly convinced, everything would get better, and he would definitely not end up like Karl.) He paused for a moment, lifted his head, and waved to Karl. "Hey little one! I didn't recognize you, it's so dark out here!" he apologized. (Little one. Just hearing that. Hopefully, no one else heard it.) "I brought you something," he pulled a can and a bottle from his backpack. Karl's eyes sparkled, and a third person couldn't have looked as quickly as he had taken a sip and emptied it. "You don't even know what you're missing. Boy oh boy, it's freezing out here." He knew that. In his jacket, which he never took inside to anyone's place because he feared it would betray where and with whom he spent his nights, he was incredibly cold. He would have liked to be that one guy who doesn't freeze in shorts during winter. But he wasn't. Karl gave him a hint about where he should go now. "And you?" - "I'm not welcome there. But you can say I sent you. They know what's up." Poor Karl. One more time, he rubbed his hands over Karl's little campfire, which he had made in a public metal trash can. Then he strolled on. The snow hadn't settled yet. But it was still freezing cold. The smoke rising from the chimneys spoke for itself - and against a mild winter. It would be his last out here. First and last. Arriving at the address Karl had given him, he took his hands out of his pockets for the first time. No frostbite. It wasn't that bad yet. He knocked the prescribed rhythm, and an older gentleman opened the door suspiciously. "What do you want here? Are you looking for someone?" - "Karl sent me. He said I could stay here."
He was scrutinized from head to toe.
"Little one, how long have you been out there? And why?"
He wanted to leave again. Who knows if he could trust these people and if he could close his eyes tonight. Better not. Karl had forgotten whom he was sending where. He looked around and was surrounded by hulking figures. And he couldn't give them anything. He wished he hadn't given all his provisions to Karl.
"Now leave the poor child alone. Come in. Here, we still have soup. Eat, child, eat."
He didn't need to be told twice. He got something to eat and a blanket. A soft blanket. That he was still scared was probably noticeable. When he was done, suddenly heavy hands rested on his shoulders. Hopefully, he wouldn't just collapse. He didn't collapse. He lay down to sleep, using his backpack as a pillow. This way, no one could take anything from him. He thought. The next morning he woke up. His head hurt a bit, his back too, and suddenly he was way too warm in his jacket. One of the gentlemen was sitting by the fireplace, grinning at him while throwing the contents of his backpack into the fire.
"I don't know what you're carrying these things around for, but without the plastic covers, the booklets make good firewood." How could they have taken his backpack from under his head during the night? "Those are my school books! Please give them back, I have to go now."
He snatched his belongings before the older gentleman could say, "School? How old are you anyway?!"
He was seventeen. It was December 23rd. Christmas was just around the corner. It was winter. Perhaps the most modest winter of his life. He set off towards school, where the janitor had washed his things with the cleaning rags the day before yesterday. They should be dry by now. Then he would change, and no one would think to notice where he came from.
Arriving at school, as agreed, the janitor opened the door to the large auditorium for him. He still had some pastries left from yesterday. "Don't you want to know what it is first?" Sir Hausi laughed a bit awkwardly.
No, he didn't care. Everything was indifferent to him. Tomorrow was Christmas, and the school would be closed. A solution had to be found.
Because real life was not a fairy tale. In his case, it told the story of a young person who was a bit too old for his age.
And yet he continued to believe that everything would turn out well.
One day.