Epilogue – New Year’s resolution

The end of the year was approaching, and Valur finally received a response:

Your application for emotional reunification has been denied. Although you successfully passed the tapping language test, your dental test did not prove your unconditional love to the local culture and your deep emotional attachment. You may leave of your own accord, or be escorted by the Ankútl and be turned into a puffin after 30 days.

While the locals were preparing for the end-of-the-year celebrations, Valur was preparing for his deportation. Even though he didn’t really believe it, he had read and reread all the manuals at his disposal, trying his best to change his perspective on his own situation. “This is an opportunity to reinvent yourself.” “Have the strength to change what you can change, and the wisdom to accept what you cannot change.” “To cooperate is to evolve.” He repeated the phrases from the My Deportation Guide like daily mantras. Or rather a countdown. He was tempted many times to kneel in prayer with the other applicants. 

The 30 days had flown by. Valur was on alert. He was used to running away with the other applicants now at the slightest sound of the van approaching. The old man no longer had any encouraging words for his situation. He let him work at least, even though in the end Valur has never been officially employed. There was a certain irony and defiance in working under the nose of the very institute executing his deportation. 

The fireworks started early on the 31st and crackled like machine guns around the shop. There were many more applicants than usual in the lobby, anxiously praying to be chosen by the Ankúli in these last hours of the year. The chaos of noise and light seemed to amplify their devotion. 

Valur was focusing on his shop routine when a sudden movement in the crowd caught his attention. Looking at the hall, he saw the frail figure of the Ankú making his way towards the shop. The incessant fireworks had covered the sound of the van, and no one had heard him coming. His coat was so soaked that it was reflecting the explosive colours of each firework. Everyone bowed before him, some begging, but the Ankúli continued forward at his usual slow pace. Valur quickly realised that he was the target of his march. 

As the Ankúli drew dangerously closer, Morrig’s distant voice shook Valur’s thoughts: “I’m not going to play their game. I’m not going to wait to be turned into a puffin or chosen by the Ankútl. It’s not a choice. I’m not going to play their game.” One more time, Valur clutched feverishly at the broken puffin figurine in his pocket, the one that had been with him from the beginning. He had never tried to repair its broken wing. “I’m not going to play their game.” Morrig’s voice filled up his skull. 

Suddenly, Valur grabbed his left arm, and with a force unknown to himself, dislocated his own shoulder. The crowd let out a stunned cry and froze. The Ankúli paused for a moment. Still shocked by his own decision, Valur tried to rationalise it. The pain hadn’t yet made its way to his nervous system. A puffin with a broken wing couldn’t fly, so they would not be able to deport him. 

The Ankúli reached Valur. He removed the soaked coat, as he had done when they first met, and handed it over. Valur quickly realised that his deed was pointless. He was not going to be turned into a puffin, nor deported. The Ankúli also removed his hat and handed over his catching net. He carefully placed the key to the van on top of the pile. He looked like a completely different person without his gear, although the emotionless expression on his face remained the same. 

The former Ankúli began to walk towards the exit at a faster pace. The crowd no longer moved out of his way. 

“What are they going to do with you now? What’s going to happen to me in a year?” shouted Valur. A sharp pain began to spread through his body. 

“They will tolerate me,” replied the former Ankú, before disappearing into the crowd. 

The applicants realised that the new Ankútl had been selected, and panic ensued. The hall quickly emptied, leaving Valur alone, his left shoulder dislocated, and the Ankúli’s equipment in his right arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the old man, half-hiding behind the shop counter, giving a thumb-up timidly, but energetically, in Valur’s direction. 

Under the relentless fireworks, Valur made his way to the parking lot. He struggled to open the van and stuffed his new uniform inside. He got behind the wheel and saw a pile of files on the passenger seat filled with photos and addresses. Underneath the files, Valur found an old, yellowed list that looked like a set of instructions. Various handwritten comments filled the margins of the document. Valur read one of them: “I don’t even know why I’m driving anymore, I don’t know anything anymore, I don’t even judge myself, I don’t even reason with myself. I’m just driving to drive, to stay with you a little longer.” These notes seemed to belong to the various Ankúlis who had come and gone over the years.

A more recent Post-it note was stuck to the back of the last page.

If they repair the engine, break it again. Break it EVERY TIME.

Valur finally understood why the van made that recognisable clatter. One of the Ankúlis was sabotaging it. The rattling was a warning to applicants, a shred of courtesy in an unyielding procedure. The only power the Ankútl had that didn’t come with the job. 

Valur struggled to put on the soaking coat. He carefully placed his broken puffin on the dashboard, just above the Post-it note.

He then made the mobile border van roar with its familiar clatter, as the silence signalled that a new year had already started.