Morgan Nyberg - Since Tomorrow

The halls are empty. The young man goes into his classroom. There is one student, Oleg.

He sits down at his desk and stares at Oleg for a minute. Oleg says “You are late, sir.”

“Do you have your mobile phone?” asks the young man.

“We are not supposed to have our mobiles at school, sir.”

“Do you have it?”

Oleg nodded.

“Can I borrow it?

“It does not work. No service.”

“Where are the other students?”

Oleg shrugs.

“I guess you’d better go.”

“I am waiting for my driver. I called when there was still service.”

“Where do you live?”

“Not too far.”

“Does the metro go there?”

“The metro is not working.”

The young man waits, then says “I don’t think your driver will be coming. You can walk home or you can stay here. The advantage of staying here is that there is air conditioning. But it may not be working for long. The advantage of walking home is that your family might still be there.” The young man rises from his desk and goes to the door of the classroom and turns and nods to Oleg and goes out.

Madame Bourguiba, the French teacher, is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the lockers. She is pale and shaking. The young man tries to help her up but she jerks her arm away. He walks toward the staff room. He opens the door to each classroom he passes and looks in. Most are empty. Two of them have a few students. In another, Janet McPherson, the drama teacher, is comforting a single female student. He can still hear Tony Walsh shrieking, and he can hear the car horns.

He goes into the staff room. It is empty except for Mohammed Al Massoud. There is coffee in the urn. He takes a mug and sits down at a coffee table, across from Mohammed, who says “Good morning, Frost.”

For some reason this is funny. They both laugh for a minute.

Mohammed wears a white Arab robe and sandals but no head covering. He is clean shaven. A substantial belly bulges under the loose robe. He is well jowled and has hooded eyes and massive grey eyebrows. A circle of amber worry beads crawls sedately over the fingers of his right hand.

The young man says “Fatima Bourguiba is sitting on the floor.”

Mohammad only nods.

The young man says “The classrooms are empty. No students, no teachers.”

Mohammed says “You came to Dubai too late, young Frost. Bad timing. You should have seen.”

“I know.” There is a minute of silence. “And what about you, Mohammed? Shouldn’t you have seen?”

“Oh well, what could I do? God’s will.”

“Such a useful excuse.”

“Tremendously useful.”

“As always.”

They smile.

“I don’t suppose there’s a newspaper.”

“Frost, really.”

“Radio? News?”

“Try the internet.”

Frost half rises, but just then the lights in the staff room go out, and the air conditioning stops. Subdued light enters through a tinted window.

“Damn” says Frost and sits again. “Is it really that serious?”

“Young Frost, it is as serious as it can possibly get. Well, no — it’s the beginning of things being as serious as they can possibly get. Things will, I think, continue to deteriorate for some time to come. But anyway, here we are at work. What used to be work. I am surprised that you came. Very surprised.”

“Why? You came.”

“Actually, you have an excuse, being an English teacher. Head in the clouds and so forth. Me, I’m an economist. Hard-headed sort, supposedly. Whatever happens, serves me right.”

Frost sits for a while, frowning at his mug of coffee the way he frowned at the tall building. Without looking up he sighs and says “Yes, I knew it was coming. Of course I did. It didn’t take a genius. What have we been talking about here in the staff room for the last year? Even before that, long before I came to Dubai, I knew. Natural resources were used up. People were already starving because the world couldn’t produce enough food. Too many people, too much prosperity for a few including us, starvation for the rest. I read about the wars, the riots. I knew one day soon it would probably just all collapse.”

“We were all gambling, weren’t we, Frost — gambling on getting out before it fell apart.” Mohammad slides the beads steadily, nodding. He says “I guess you’re a bigger gambler than most. Most teachers knew better than you or I and hightailed it — is that the word? — …”

“Yes.”

“…hightailed it while the hightailing was good.”

“The pay was ridiculous, Mohammed. The worse things got, the better the pay.”

“The sheikhs were desperate to hold it together.” Mohammad gives a low, bitter chuckle.

“I just wanted enough to go home and build my boat and sail around for a while.” Frost sighs again.

“Ah, Frost, still full of naive dreams.” With difficulty on account of his paunch he reaches across the table. He takes Frost’s hand, pats it. He releases the hand and sits back again. “Let me tell you about boats. Do you know the army is deployed along the beach to drive back the thousands of Iranians and Pakistanis in boats who are trying to get away from starvation and epidemics in their own countries? Soon the soldiers will get fed up with not being paid, and they will walk away. Then the hordes will descend on the city, and the looting will start. The chaos. Of course the foreign labourers will want their share too, and who can blame them? They built this city — why shouldn’t they have a piece of it?” He takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces, sets the mug down. “Blame me for the coffee. There was no one else to make it. Anyway, Frost, things aren’t actually very bad yet. Not for us. But perhaps we shouldn’t linger too long over this disgusting coffee.”

“What about you, Mohammad? What will you do?”

“Me? Oh, I will go home to Al Ain. Somehow. My family has a big farm there. It’s a good place to survive. Lots of water. I’m looking forward to it, actually.” But he sounds resigned, worried. He says with quiet amusement “The joy has gone out of living in Dubai.”

“No kidding.”

“Gone forever now. This magnificent and hideous shrine to money. I suppose the desert will take it all back. Our farm will have to be protected, of course. That is the part I am not crazy about. Like a generation ago, before law and order. If the world economy hasn’t collapsed completely, maybe I can locate a few light machine guns, inshallah. Ammunition — that will be the problem.”

Frost stares again at his mug of coffee, untouched on the table. “Well, it appears the time has come at last to go home and build my boat. I hope.” He manages a sardonic grin. He stands up.

Mohammed looks up at Frost. There is no amusement now in his face. The amber beads freeze in his hand.” He says “If the planes are still flying. If there is fuel. If there is wood for your boat. If there is steel for the nails. If there are factories to make the nails, and power for the factories. If there is food for you to eat while you are building it. If money still has meaning.” He stands up slowly, with a grunt. “Never mind. Goodbye, young Frost. Please remember me and remember that I liked you very much. Go home now and get your wife and go to the airport.”

“Will we get out, do you think? Everybody must be trying to leave.”

“This is a country of foreigners, and of course lots of people suddenly think things will be better at home. Wherever that may be.” Mohammed shrugs. “Well, maybe they’re right. Don’t worry, my brother is well placed at the airport.” He takes his mobile phone from a pocket of his robe.

“There’s no service” says Frost.

Mohammed puts the phone away. “I will write you a note.”