paper shots 9

Up high on the semi-circular terrace of the old Casino overlooking the Mediterranean, she’s come out for some fresh air, in the summer night late July, the glazed doors sifting the sound of soft music and light chatter, the compliments, glasses clinking after the show, a good show, and now people are dancing. A few outside with her, they are all lit and then thrown back into the moonlit darkness by the lighthouse further up on the coast.

All of a sudden the fitful white beam flashes a bundle down below in the sea, close to the beach. “It can’t be!” She runs down lifting her evening dress so as not to stumble on the triple winding staircase, then onto the pier, on the sand, and finally her feet are in the pitch-dark water. She lets the dress fall and the sequin red flaps create bloody waves.

The bundle is nothing! Gone playing tricks on someone else… The Mediterranean is a closed sea – how happily she bathed in the crystal clear waters only that afternoon! – then the Algerian rapper’s song about migrants at sea that has the audience in tears when performed live; their friends and brothers are in the lyrics. Dead, missing, or dying.

People are watching now, but on which coast, or from above or below, her eyes cannot tell.


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