Coastline E-Book

Yannic Aimé Harsdorf

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 167

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Climate change has mankind firmly in its grip. The earth is suffering from droughts and floods, the permafrost is thawing and new deserts are emerging. Savio Brückenstein, in his late 30s and a family man, has seen a lot of the world as a former diplomat and wants to use his experience to help preserve the planet. With his organization "Germany and Europe against Greenwashing" (GAEAG), he is trying to get to the bottom of an unprecedented greenwashing scandal. What he doesn't suspect is that an even bigger crime is being prepared in the background, the masterminds of which are networked at all levels - and which also retells Savio's own life story.

Leseprobe

The musical work of the author

you can find among others on

following platforms:

1

Sometimes, when I do my evening rounds on the disused train tracks, I think back to how I arrived at this place around two years ago. I can still see it in front of me, the old station concourse surrounded by ruined tower blocks, a glass building that only half exists and whose façade was already almost completely overgrown with juniper bushes. I remember reaching for my yellowed, formerly white suitcase, pressing the stop button and leaving the overcrowded train I had been sitting in for almost an hour. A quick glance to the left and right, then I walked towards the entrance to the station concourse and disappeared inside the building.

The picture that presented itself to me there matched what I had already seen of this country at the airport and on the train: it was a sight I was familiar with from other crisis-stricken countries. The walls seemed close to collapsing, the floor was torn up and there was garbage everywhere. The crowds of people squeezed between beggars sitting on the ground, jostling and shouting at each other. Traders mingled between them and tried to drown out the general commotion with their loud shouts, while armed police stood at the sides and kept a watchful eye on the scene before them. I hurried to leave the hall as quickly as possible through the rear exit, stepped outside and stopped the first bus that passed by. The bus driver let me on, even though his vehicle was already bursting at the seams. In comparison, the train had been pleasantly empty. I glanced at the passengers standing close together in the aisle, staring into space with slumped shoulders, while the bus driver pressed the gas pedal and continued the journey towards the city center.

The neighborhoods we passed on the way there didn't change my impression of the state of the city at all. Wherever I looked, I saw dilapidated buildings, torn-up streets and homeless people. The old town, which we finally reached, was also part of this picture, and I had to swallow as I remembered the splendor that this area had once radiated. Anyone driving along here for the first time could only get a glimpse of it, as the old town was now just as run-down as most of the other districts in the city.

Eventually we reached the stop that I had circled in red on my map - time to get off. I squeezed past the passengers and stumbled outside. Directly in front of the bus stop, I could see the PlusEnergy house that had been described to me and which could hardly have looked more out of place in this area: modern, wine-red walls, bright glass windows with tinted panes, brand new solar panels on the roof and walls. I quickly passed through the revolving door in the entrance area and entered a huge interior whose design was dominated by the black and white tiles on the ceiling, walls and floor. The room itself seemed large and empty, which seemed almost cynical to me in contrast to the narrow and crowded streets and transportation everywhere in the city. At the back of the wall of the room, which otherwise only contained a few glass display cases with prototypes of various renewable energy sources, was a white lacquered reception desk, with a glass door to the right leading out of the room.

I walked up to the counter, behind which a slim woman in her thirties was sitting in front of a large screen. She had short, dyed white-blond hair and wore large, rounded, fine gold glasses. Dangling from her black necklace was a small wooden carving that probably depicted a map of the world. When she saw me approach the reception desk, she flashed a smile:

"Mr. Brückenstein, good to see you safe and sound in this place."

I cleared my throat to say something back, but she gestured for me to refrain from any lengthy greetings and instead turn directly to the glass door next to the reception desk.

"You can go straight on, your office is at the end of the corridor, which you will reach after passing through this door, on the left-hand side. Please go straight in and get in touch with the boss. I have emailed you his contact details. I'll see you later at the conference."

With these words, she turned back to her screen, while I followed her instructions and headed for the glass door, which opened with a whirring sound, revealing the corridor described by the woman. I walked through and found myself in a long, white corridor. Progressive trance music played softly from the ceiling speakers and LED lights on the walls illuminated the windowless corridor. The narrow glass doors arranged at regular intervals on either side were closed, except for one, the last one on the left. I finally stopped in front of it to take a first look at my new office.

"Hey, you there, up ahead."

The voice that snaps me out of my memories and brings me back to the present is high-pitched and shrill. I spin around and see a figure emerging from the evening darkness and coming towards me. It is still about 50 meters behind me and is gesticulating wildly with its arms. I walk towards the figure and recognize a medium-sized, lean man in his 60s with short mottled grey hair and a full beard. He is wrapped in a long black cloak and has a red scarf draped elegantly around his neck.

"Mr. Brückenstein," the man calls out when he recognizes me. "What brings you to this godforsaken place so late?"

In the meantime, I'm standing directly opposite my boss.

"Don't worry, Mr. Brava," I reply, trying to make a composed impression. "I just wanted to get some air, and since I didn't have a specific destination, I just walked along the tracks for a bit and thought back to the day I arrived here."

"But I don't need to explain to you that the public is no longer allowed to enter the old station district, do I?" replies Mr. Brava sharply.

"I'm sure you don't need that," I reply, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. "I stayed on the tracks the whole time. I'll probably be making my way back soon."

"You'd best do that right away," comes the humorless reply. "And as I said before: be careful not to leave the tracks."

That is an unmistakable statement. I turn around and make my way back without further discussion with Mr. Brava. I take another look at the station district, which lies deserted to my left and shimmers reddish in the light of the setting sun. There are no people to be seen. Only the green excavators, which tear up the concrete here from morning to night during the week but are out of action today, are scattered unevenly between mountains of rubble and the remains of former buildings. In the distance, the towers of the city center can be seen, testifying to the fact that the area is not yet extinct. In contrast to this is the view to the right of the tracks. Here, a desert landscape stretches for miles, illuminated by the setting sun in a cynical romanticism. The shrubs that have already been planted there as part of the desertification prevention measures have still not grown properly and look rather ridiculous amidst the masses of sand.

When I'm out of sight and earshot of my boss, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my cell phone. "Absent call," I read on the display and immediately press the callback button.

"Savio!" Laelia's voice reaches my ear and I turn up the volume. "Good of you to call back. How are you? Do you have any good news?"

"Have a nice evening, too," I reply, trying to come across as relaxed as possible, but as usual I don't succeed.

"If you start off like that, it can't bode well," comes back from the other end of the line. "My friend, how much longer do you want to stay in this country? Do you really still believe that you will achieve anything there?"

"It looks really good now," is the best I can come up with in a flash. "I'm convinced that we'll have hunted down Mr. Igre and Mr. Brava in two months at the latest. So, please, just a little more patience."

I can literally see Laelia making a dismissive gesture with her hand.

"I honestly don't know how much longer I can do all this on my own. As happy as I was about the promotion, the job is really taking everything out of me now. And Numana isn't exactly easy at the moment either."

"I know that," I say guiltily. "How's she doing, how's school?"

"It's fine," Laelia replies. "She'll call you tomorrow evening at 8 pm your time, and I want you to talk to your daughter on the phone for at least an hour. Is that understood?"

I swallow. "It is," I stammer out.

"Good," comes the reply. "Good."

"Laelia, I ..."

"You don't have to justify yourself, you really don't. I stand, we both really stand behind you. I know what this project means to you, and I also know what it would mean to the public if you and your people were actually successful. But I no longer need to remind you that you actually wanted to complete this mission in twelve months and then leave the place again. Now you've been there for two years on this secret mission and, to be honest, I no longer really believe that you will achieve anything in this country. What I do know, however, is that you are putting your life in danger every day. For nothing, as it now seems. And what I also know, of course, is how much you are needed here at home."

I want to say something back, but I can't get a sound out. So we remain in silence for a moment before Laelia speaks again:

"I'm going to bed now, I have to be at the clinic a little earlier tomorrow. So, I'll be in touch. Take care of yourself, please."

"You take care of yourself too. And take care of Numana. Tell her I'm here for her."

Depressed, I hang up. I look at my watch: it's already just after nine. I should pick up my pace and head straight home. I also have a long and exhausting day ahead of me tomorrow.

2

The next day starts for me in much the same way as the last one ended: with a feeling of inner turmoil, restlessness and helplessness. I stayed up late last night thinking about the phone call with Laelia.

"To be honest, I no longer really believe that you will achieve anything in this country."

That's what she said. Did she really mean it like that? Of course, she hasn't been very good about my commitment for some time now. Her patience and understanding for my absence from home are diminishing from week to week, which is of course more than understandable given the enormous double burden she is exposed to with a management position at work and raising a pubescent child on her own. But this time there was something else in her voice that I hadn't noticed before: Pity. Pity for me, my lack of success and the apparent hopelessness of my actions. Do I really have to admit to myself that I have failed here? Should I get on the next plane and leave the project and the country behind me? What will Numana say on our next phone call, will she even want to talk to me? Does it still matter to her to let her father be part of her life?

Overwhelmed by these questions, I didn't get to rest until late last night, only to wake up hours later with the same thoughts. Even now, on the way to work, I still can't really shake off the feelings. Halfway there, I realize that I've left the key to our van in my apartment. Cursing under my breath, I turn around and jog back to the apartment, where I grab the key and take a quick look at my watch to see that I have to be at the meeting point in 15 minutes. I have no choice but to sprint back to work. Covered in sweat, I finally arrive at the meeting point, the parking lot behind our company headquarters in the largest and most modern PlusEnergy building in the city center, at 6:59 a.m., one minute before the agreed time. Everyone else is already there, of course, and Frederik, head of our task force and also my best friend, can't suppress a mischievous grin as he greets me.

"Sorry, it's been a bit stressful again this morning," I say hurriedly as I unlock the van and take a seat in the driver's seat. Frederik gets in next to me, the other six make themselves comfortable on the back seats. I start the engine, press the accelerator and Frederik immediately engages me in the first long conversation of the new week. As usual, I take on the role of listener as he begins to go through one topic after another with me. First it's about the soccer match he watched on TV the previous evening, then about the current rent prices and the economic situation in South East Asia. At some point, we finally arrive at his great passion: hydrogen cars. Not for the first time, he points out the advantages of our employer's new hydrogen transporter, the purchase of which was "long overdue".

"The old electric box that we used to drive around here until the week before last really couldn't be expected of anyone anymore," is his firm opinion.

I mumble something in agreement as I steer the object he praises through the morning city traffic while observing what's happening on the streets. The cars coming towards us look as if they will collapse at any moment, which is exactly the impression their occupants give. They sit hunched over the wheel, emotionless, or stare blankly out of the window at broken roads, poorly renovated brick buildings and homeless, loitering people.

In contrast to Frederik, the project group members who have joined us in the seats at the back are still pretty taciturn early on a Monday morning. They listen to our conversation without comment, use their smartphones or close their eyes once again.

After about half an hour's drive, we finally reach our destination, the white parking garage at the beginning of the station district. Thirteen stories high and with a floor area of around one hectare, it stands out like a colossus from the district, half of which has already been razed to the ground. As usual, the inside of the parking garage is not very busy, as apart from our people and the employees of the demolition company, no one else has permission to be in the station district. I park the van on the second floor of the parking garage and then aim for the southern exit, which leads to a narrow bridge that allows us to cross the tracks to get to the desert opposite. The temperature has already exceeded 30 degrees Celsius and I can hear some of my companions groaning as they realize that today is going to be a nearly windless day.

"Let's go then," says Frederik as we pass the bridge and reach our work area.

Once again, we are active for hours in the blazing sun, working hard and taking very few breaks. Hardly a word is spoken, after all we need the energy elsewhere. I look down at the fine sand that melts between my fingers as I work and think back to my time in Egypt. Mrs. Osman, the housekeeper, comes to mind, a small, slightly stocky woman in her 60s with olive-coloured skin and long, strong hair that is now a little grey. On the day I left almost ten years ago, she was wearing her long, white apron as usual, with a large map of the world on it. When I shook her hand to say goodbye, she gave me a friendly wink.

"It was always a pleasure to discuss the big issues of world affairs with you, Mr. Brückenstein. I will miss that."

"I can only return that compliment, Mrs. Osman," I replied. "I will always remember you and your advice."

"You know, Mr. Brückenstein, you remind me of someone," she replied, "you remind me of my daughter. Your worldviews, the way you argue, the way your voice rumbles and rolls over once you've struck a nerve. My daughter talked, argued and gesticulated in exactly the same way when she was asked about the right topic."

"You never told me you had a daughter," I said in surprise.

When I noticed how Mrs. Osman's pupils widened at these words, I realized that she must have had her reasons. Now she seemed even more horrified that she had revealed something about her private life towards the end. Mrs. Osman had been our housekeeper for the entire four years that I had lived with my family in Egypt, four years in which I had talked to her often and at length. She had an amazing general knowledge and was able to make well-founded statements on almost any subject. Every now and then she would ask me personal questions, nothing embarrassing or top secret, she just wanted to know how I and my family were doing in her country, how we were getting on, what our plans were. I told her how we were doing and at the beginning I always asked about her life outside working hours. However, I soon realized that I could save myself the latter part. As soon as the conversation turned to her person, her family circumstances and background, she quickly changed the subject or ended the conversation as quickly as possible, usually using an obvious excuse such as the call of work. On this day, too, nothing more could be got out of Mrs. Osman than what had already been said, and I left it at that. The statements she had made seemed to have weighed heavily on her mind anyway, because when Laelia came down the stairs with Numana in her arms and bid her a fond farewell, the housekeeper remained emotionless and silent, only raising her hand briefly in farewell.

After this incident, I have never met her again, but in moments like now, when I can let my thoughts run free and feel reminded of my life in Egypt by something, in this case the fine desert sand, I sometimes think of her. Of her and her daughter, who she never wanted to tell me about.

I feel a constant ache in my back, which brings my thoughts back to the current activity in an unpleasant way. I look around and notice that the others also look exhausted and can barely stand on their feet. I glance at my wrist and notice that I've left my watch in the van. I walk over to Frederik, who is working about 30 meters away from me, and ask him how much longer it will be before the lunch break.

"16 minutes and 34 seconds," Frederik returns with a grin after looking at his wristwatch. It's always amazing how the guy manages to keep his good mood, no matter how hard the work.

"Thank you, Frederik," I say and want to get back to my work when my friend holds me back.

"Wait, Savio. I'd like to talk to you again, in a minute, during the lunch break. Can you be on the balconies at one o'clock?"

3