As long as those billions kept a proper distance and lived quietly in their own countries, everything was fine. You could watch impassively on television as the people in faraway lands cut each other into pieces or otherwise died. That was the moment when you went to grab a beer. But now they were there. Here. Across the street. On location. They came with buses and boats and airplanes, on their feet or swimming, and many people had the impression that millions of dark-skinned people were holding on to the edge of the island all at once, trying to hoist their bodies onto land. It was the time when lots of old men started to warn about Islam and refugees, about foreign infiltration. They wrote books which sold spectacularly, and articles, and founded movements, and the people—people who had never before thought about why it always rained—found an explanation and began to regard Pakis and others, that is, simply put, Muslims, with mild reservations. Which

Didn’t surprise

KAREN.

Humans were not capable of developing compassion for large groups of strangers. Sympathy that extended beyond those you were related to or friends with was best limited to individuals who were attractive or who looked sadly into cameras.

“Hey, wait a second,” said the Pakistani. He grabbed Karen’s arm. Her arm melted. The young man stood close to her, he was tall and slim, with broad shoulders, a white shirt, beneath which a smooth chest was discernible; his hair was medium length and almost blue-black, and he wore very tight black jeans. Karen didn’t say anything. What would she say? Mania flooded her speech center when she noticed the young man’s elegant hands. The young man whose name Karen had already forgotten the moment he said it, said something, but only a few odd words managed to reach Karen’s brain. Often seen you, never dared to approach you, where did she live, oh right, he had to go that way as well, we can walk together, and then they walked together, and as they arrived at Karen’s after far too short a walk—the stupid short distances in this absurdly small city—the young man, whose name Karen still didn’t know, reached for her hand and pulled her to his warm chest. Did I just think warm chest, thought Karen, and did I just think that somebody might jump out of the high-rise at exactly this moment and land on us? And then wrench him away in their death throes. Thought Karen and said not a word, because words were made of letters and she had just forgotten them all.