Modest Christmas
The clammy December heat is ravaging the metropolis of Kennoba, the bulging capital of Wasteria. The suffocating exhaust fumes from thousands of cars, moped taxis and soot-belching city buses mix into a filthy, stinking cocktail. The clock is at ten, the thermometer at 32.
Inside the shopping mall, the illusion of another world prevails. One of pleasant coolness and exuberant Christmas decorations. In the background, Sinatra dreams of a white Christmas. Hardly anyone has ever seen snow, but the atmosphere is unmistakably Christmas. Kennoba's upper class is doing their Christmas shopping. Money is no object. Gucci and Versace score their end-of-year sales. The elite streams back outside, full to the brim, into the sweltering heat.
A skinny woman in rags is sitting in the car park, a baby at her breast. An apathetic look, her skin tanned by the sun, her right hand extended. She looks about 30, is probably ten years younger. Sometimes she gets a 100-carat coin, 10 euro-cents. Her main concern: how do I get through the day. The happy few have their own problems: Where is my car?
When Ellen arrives at her sturdy SUV with a fully loaded shopping cart and two teenagers, her back is soaking wet. She refused the driver, who was offered to her as an expat, much to the displeasure of her darlings. Bert doesn't lift a finger and crawls into the back. Sally is still standing by the trunk, probably looking for her Galaxy charging cable.
She pulls a 10,000 carat note out of her wallet. "Sally, can you drive the cart back? And you may give this to that woman with her baby over there."
"Jesus, through the bloody heat again." Sally, the darling, is not in the mood. "Just leave that cart here! Besides, I'm in a hurry!"
Ellen glances at Bert, who is sitting boredly staring into space with his oversized headset on, then at Sally, who is angrily getting in, and then at the woman and her child, who are sitting in the heat, 200 meters away. Then she makes a decision.
She unfolds a carrier bag. From the trunk she takes the luxury Christmas bread, the frozen turkey, Bert's favorite junk food, Sally's left-turning organic yogurt and some more food until the bag is full. In her wallet she still has 100,000 carat, 100 euros. She walks back with the bag and crouches down next to the woman.
"For you." Ellen doesn't even know if she understands her. She shows the bundle of money and puts it safely in the bag. "Merry Christmas."
Her jet-black eyes get wet. Then her weathered cheeks. “Thank you, madam,” she says five times, in a heavy Wasteria accent. Ellen strokes her hulking shoulder and walks back to her car, barely holding back her welling tears.
She starts the car, stubbornly ignores the two sour faces and squeezes into the chaotic traffic. Her secondment to Wasteria should have provided her children with some wise life lessons too. Vain hope, thanks to the Kennoba International School, where keeping up appearances is the major topic of its curriculum.
She hasn’t given up hope yet. It’s going to be a very modest Christmas.
Hopefully an educational one too.