Up until then, all the pink faces and blond heads had been difficult to differentiate for Joseph, and as the week went on, they had transformed into one indistinguishable, nameless mass of people. That is, until he stood face to face with her. Maybe 14 or 15, she was all skinny legs and bony knees and elbows. Strangely familiar, she reminded him of his sister; Miriam so dark and this girl so pale, but the same girl somehow, at least at this very moment for Joseph. They smiled a familiar and intimate smile, the way you do sometimes with strangers who inexplicably seem like long-lost friends. The girl was trying to open a plastic bottle of coke, just as Miriam might. On the side of the bottle, it said, “Share a Coke with Fatma.” Joseph doubted that she knew anyone named Fatma. He reached to help her.
The blow to the back of his head was unexpected and painful.
“You don’t help them. You don’t talk to them. You don’t even see them,” Uncle said. “You’re here to work.”
His neck stung, and he heard people sniggering behind him.
After a week in this country and four days here at the festival, Joseph was no longer shocked by anything he saw. He’d seen a young woman squatting by the side of a fence emptying herself, a stream of piss on the grass beneath her. All the while, she was smiling and waving at her friend who was filming her on her phone. He’d seen a man dressed in pink tights with a horse-head mask covering his own head skipping along in imitation of a proud stallion (where were the eye-holes, Joseph wondered). He’d seen a teenager lying near a ditch covered in his own vomit. He’d seen a young woman stumbling in a stupor late at night, clearly she didn’t know where her tent was, or even perhaps where she was at all. She fell on her butt on the side of the road, right where men had been urinating a moment before.
Joseph, in the meantime, continued what he’d been sent here to do: collect trash. Empty beer cups, paper, anything that was recyclable. From morning before the recycling stations opened to late at night after the last concerts ended. Uncle had assigned him to the area of the tattered grass on the West side of the largest stage – the one with the giant screen that showed images of the performers and intermittently flashed the message: “Do you have that orange feeling yet?” What was that orange feeling, Joseph wondered.
At first, he’d tried to listen to the music. Even though much of it was strange, horrible noises of anguish, and he could only discern some of the beats and melodies in between. But soon he fell into his own rhythm. Like his uncle and the other adults he’d come with, he became invisible to the strange people around him and oblivious to their music, drinking and games. In turn, the festival-goers simply became part of the landscape to Joseph, and when fireworks shot out from behind the giant orange stage at the end of one concert, he barely noticed.
He was totally focused on collecting the trash on the faded grass and dirt in and around the people’s legs and foldable chairs. And he had become adept at quickly zoning in on the paper marked with C, which was worth three krone, and the shiny beer cans worth five krone each.
Standing in line to cash in at the recycling station, Joseph thought about how excited he had been before he had left home, having had no idea what to expect. But now he just wanted to finish so they could go back to the city, which he'd barely had a chance to take in. Momma and Miriam would be joining him soon. After he delivered these trash bags, he was done for the night and could find some comfort in sleep. Two more days, he told himself. Then he turned around in line and saw the girl.
Yes it was her, but her eyes were no longer clear and wide. They tried to focus, gave up and rolled into the top of her head. Her legs wobbled. People moved in and around about her, but no one noticed her.
Then she fell straight forward. Like a bag of bricks headed straight down. She was moving fast, and yet Joseph saw her travelling in slow motion. He ran, slid, arrived just in time to stop her head from hitting the hard ground.
He turned her on her side. He put his fingers to her throat and felt a pulsing sign of life.
Now people were shouting. A group of bodies - some festival-goers, some workers like Joseph and his people - formed a protective circle around her. Call for help, someone yelled. They’re on their way, someone said, touching Joseph’s shoulder. But Joseph could already feel her breathing. Her eyes slowly opened. Someone handed Joseph a cup of water and he put it to her mouth. She drank.
Their eyes met. Hers were now wide open and clear again staring at him.
"Joseph," he introduced himself.
“Miriam,” she answered.
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