Noise, jostle, confusion. Bright lights glaring. Tannoy announcements in a language he didn't understand. Confusing symbols on signs. People pushing, shoving, all in a hurry. Too much sensory input. Caramarin followed the crowd to the carousel and waited for his rucksack to trundle round. And waited. At five in the morning, no one feels at their best. After a back achingly long flight from Kiev with several changes of plane en-route, Caramarin wasn't at his best.
The suitcases and bags came out of their hole, through the rubber strips like long term prisoners wearily released. No sign of his rucksack even though he was sure that the yellow case after the push chair had been round twice. Eventually, there it was. The scruffiest old bag of the lot. Like it was a lifer shocked to be given parole.
He swung the khaki rucksack onto his shoulder, and then followed the stragglers through passport control and the deserted customs. Caramarin thought he might have some trouble with passport control but the bored woman just scanned his passport and then waved him through to the other side. She gave him a tired smile and he returned it.
Then he was through and into Britain itself. He stepped through the terminal's glass entrance and breathed in the air of the west. It smelled of damp and petrol and tobacco. Pretty much the same as Ukrainian air. Caramarin didn't know what he was expecting really. From those he knew who had already gone to the west, maybe something better perhaps?
He was standing in a grey concrete tunnel with a road running through it. No wonder it smelled so strongly of gasoline and diesel. To the left, under the glare of the roof lamps, he saw a line of taxis. Caramarin walked past a tired mini bus driver loading bags for a noisy hen party, all the girls in white t-shirts and pink cowboy hats. They shrieked and giggled as he walked past and one tried to pinch his bum. Even if he was in the mood for it, Caramarin wouldn't have been interested, but he smiled anyway. Overweight, blotchy, drunk women were never his thing.
Caramarin stood in the taxi queue, until his turn came. He glanced at a slip of paper.
"Manchester City Centre," he said in his best English. He repeated it. The driver, a man probably from some desert oasis in North Africa nodded and pulled away. A disc with Arabic writing and beads dangled from the mirror. Discordant middle eastern music wailed from the CD player.
Caramarin had no idea Manchester Airport was so far from the city centre. However, he remembered that Timur Ozgan had told him it was one of the biggest cities in Britain so maybe the distance wasn't unusual. From what he could see from road signs as they flashed by in the orange sodium street lights, the cab went through pleasant leafy suburbs of Altrincham, Cheadle and Stockport in a long, long loop before the buildings closed in and the city became more built up.
Tired now, Caramarin paid off the cabbie at a place called Piccadilly Gardens. If this man was like the Odessa drivers then he suspected he'd been ripped off, so he left no tip. But if the airport was really as far as he'd been driven, then the man had already made some good money today. At this rate, his wedge of British twenties wouldn't last long. The man swore but Caramarin didn't care as he couldn't understand a word.
He glanced around then shouldered his rucksack. First things first. Somewhere to crash and then start looking for Engin Hasanov. A rumble from his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since a small mid-air snack shortly after leaving Kiev. This time of the morning, the Gardens were quiet. Some early morning business commuters swerving past the very last of the late night revellers looking the worse for wear. A barefoot girl in a short dress walked on the damp pavements, carrying her heels and leaning on her friend. The barefoot girl was crying.
In the moist, still air he followed his nose to a twenty-four hour burger joint. A young African lad was mopping the floor around a yellow sign. Or, more accurately, leaning on his mop and idly swirling the water over the tiled floor. Caramarin smiled politely, stepped around the water then approached the counter and pointed to the pictures above the counter.
The young African woman had an impressive collection of tribal scars on her face. She shrugged and passed him a rubbery burger in a plastic bun and thin, bitter coffee. He took his food to an empty table and wolfed it down. Hunger satisfied for now, but he couldn't say it tasted good.
Back out on Piccadilly Gardens, the night sky was just starting to lighten. Black turning to a sooty dark grey. He turned up his collar against the damp chill and wrapped his keffiyeh around his neck. At a newsagents, Caramarin bought a bottle of milk and a street map of Manchester. Flicking through the index, he looked up the address of the Kugulu Parki coffee shop and walked. The damp turned into a fine drizzle, misting over his clothes and he swept the wetness out of his hair.
He walked north out of the city centre, losing his way only the once. Office blocks and businesses shrunk in size and became more run down and scruffy. The coffee house was not the sort of place he expected a nephew of Timur Ozgan would be seen dead in. A man who had a hundred thousand euros and a Picasso oil that must be worth many times that.
It was just an ordinary cafe, mostly serving its community. This time of the morning, the neon sign was unlit. Glancing in through the steamed up window, he saw a few men sitting having tea or coffee or breakfast. The plastic topped tables and plain chairs were purely functional, as was the linoleum floor.
Behind the counter, were some pictures of Turkish buildings. He recognised the Blue Mosque and Topkapi Palace but had no idea what the others were. None of the men were Engin Hasanov. They were all far too old.
Figuring it was far too early for a man with a hundred large burning a hole in his pocket to be up and about, Caramarin carried on. There were more people on the sidewalks now, queuing at bus stops or hurrying along. They all looked totally miserable. Heads bowed down against the drizzle with scowling, unhappy, screwed up faces. They looked like a tribe of beaten refugees. Many had earphones glued in and were locked into their own individual worlds. None took any notice of each other or Caramarin. It seemed so different from the sunny streets and boulevards of Odessa.
He passed a large row-house with 'VACANCIES' in red in the front window above several other signs. Even with his lack of English, that was similar enough to the Romanian word 'vacante' for him to work with. He knocked on the door, waiting an age for it to open. A well rounded, middle aged woman dressed entirely in grey opened.
"Vacante – err vacancies?" he stumbled over the English word. The woman nodded and stepped back. Caramarin stepped into an overheated hall. Like the airport there was too much input all at once. Busy floral wallpaper, deep red patterned carpet, a vase of flowers just on the turn. Prints and photos on the walls. More framed signs and warning notices on the walls. A rack of tourist leaflets on a small table.
To the side, he saw a dining room. A number of tables were laid out and he saw a heavy, dark carved sideboard with boxes of unfamiliar cereals on it. A strong smell of floral air freshener overlay the smell of fried food. A radio played in the background. He set down his rucksack.
The woman said something. Caramarin shrugged. "No English," he smiled apologetically. She passed him a leaflet written in several languages. He pointed to the right language and then read the rules in misspelt Russian. The woman produced a calculator from the small table, and then typed in some numbers. He mentally calculated the conversion to Ukrainian hryvnia and nodded. Cheaper than he thought.
He handed the woman enough money for a few nights stay. Filled in a form. Taking his time, Caramarin realised there were enough similarities between written English and Romanian that he could complete most of it. And with the rest he could use his own common sense. He showed the landlady his passport and that was that. He was in.
The woman gave him a room key on a plastic fob and led him upstairs. She talked all the way up. The only thing he caught was 'no prostitutes'. She said that phrase a few times. Didn't know why but he grinned to himself. What did she take him for?
The room itself was small but clean with a narrow bed, a flat pack wardrobe with a crooked door and an easy chair. Dim light from a small window crept into the room. The woman closed the door behind her as he dropped his rucksack and stretched out on the lumpy bed. Now all he had to do was find Engin Hasanov.
Easy.
* * *
Later that morning Caramarin found himself sitting at a table at the Kugulu Parki and watching the door. He nursed his coffee as long as possible, and then ordered another. And another. Then he had a quick piss, worried that the man he wanted would come and go while he stood at the porcelain. Then another coffee. There was no sign of Engin Hasanov, or anyone remotely looking like him. He was aware the man behind the counter was watching him but didn't care. As long as he was buying drinks reasonably frequently, the server wasn't too bothered. Not like he needed the table.
The café filled up with the lunchtime crowd. Some women in long coats and head-scarves walked in carrying lots of shopping bags. They were chatting noisily in their own language. At least he thought so, as it didn't sound like English. They sat at the table between him and the door blocking his view.
Caramarin realised he was hungry again. He pushed away from his table and made his way over to the counter. His lack of English was more of a problem than he thought it would be. When the server brought out a tray of food, Caramarin pointed to an omelette then himself and made it clear he wanted one. The man nodded warily and Caramarin sat down again.
The lunch crowd thinned again. Only a few old men remained, huddled around one table. The men watched two of their number play backgammon and chatted. Probably talking about the good old days. Or football. Caramarin envied them their companionship. He'd never felt so isolated and alone in his life. Every time the door opened, he looked up. No sign of Hasanov.
The server's shift ended and another man came on duty. Couldn't mistake the first man quietly pointing him out to the second as a stranger. As with lunch, Caramarin pointed to something he fancied. The food was all right. Not great, not gourmet nor Michelin star but far better than that horrible fast food burger.
Caramarin stood up. He couldn't take any more today. Couldn't stomach any more coffee or being watched himself in turn. He nodded to the man behind the counter and let himself out. Despite the early hour, it was dark again and the drizzle made orange sodium halos around the street lights. Wrapping his keffiyeh scarf around his neck against the damp, Caramarin felt so tired and bored. He couldn't face doing anything else so made his way back to his guest house. Lay on the lumpy bed and watched incomprehensible TV until he could take no more.
Then he did the five knuckle shuffle before falling asleep.