"Sounds of Waiting" by Max Hedley
- Roi Fainéant
- 6 days ago
- 4 min read
The receptionist turns up just before I leave. Helpful. Calm. A little weary, like she’s just been woken by the air raid sirens too. She points me in the direction of the shelter, but lingers. Maybe thinking about the hotel dog. Maybe that I am overreacting. Maybe about the war. She notices my trembling hands, and her eyes soften with kindness. Or pity.
I wander down the street. Find a building — half-lit, eerie. A cross between a communist obelisk and a Lexus showroom. Neither of which is inviting. I hesitate. But air raid sirens change the calculation — and the fear of social ineptitude temporarily takes a back seat.
- - - - -
Slouched in the lobby, sitting. Could be asleep. Bearish, stocky, wrapped in a plasticky raincoat. I feel better seeing him, at first. But when I ask if this is the shelter, he barely looks at me. Shrugs. Grunts. Not exactly reassuring. Probably my fault for relying on an app instead of learning Ukrainian.
Second man turns up. Could be the villain in a '90s Bruce Willis movie. Thinner, but strong. Tough in a way that had nothing to do with size. Could be a bouncer, a taxi driver, a soldier, a gangster. But he was none of those. He was here. He speaks bluntly, even though I can’t understand him. There is, initially, no softness to him whatsoever.
A woman turns up. The bear wrapped in plastic laughs — dull, blunt. Almost, look at this idiot. No one else is amused. Not even him. She walks over briskly.
Yes?
I pause.
Am I at the shelter?
Yes.
She immediately walks away. After a beat, I follow. I hear them behind me. Both of them. The hairs on my neck stand up, and my attention shifts from potential bombs to a more immediate sense of danger.
- - - - -
We walk downstairs. Into dilapidation. Thick concrete walls, peeling paint, red and green in parts, raw elsewhere. Pockmarks throughout. Some larger cavities, where sections are missing. The aesthetics don’t extend to actual weakness. The building feels strong, solid.
The cold advances — floor, to wall, to air, to skin.
The woman opens a thick metal door and disappears. I go to follow, and the ursine man breaks through the sound of shuffling footsteps with a gruff NO — a verbal parallel to the walls.
He motions to a dark hallway. Between them and darkness, my mind scrambles for options, finds none. Moving into the dark, expecting to lose a passport, cash, more. Laminated signs appear, blu-tacked to the wall. Small words in Cyrillic, large words in English. NO PHOTOS.
We turn left, towards trickles of fluorescent light, and hallway gives way to hallway. One wall lined with heavy wooden benches, each draped with a blanket. Thick wool, mostly blue, red flecks, scratchy. The space is empty except for the seats, the signs, and us.
- - - - -
The ursine man walks away, and the air feels different. Softer. The Die Hard villain stays. He offers his hand. We trade charades. He mimes, he speaks, he pauses to check that I'm still nodding, understanding. Assumptions, fears give way to shame, curiosity.
It's hard. 300 languages here. Deutsch. American. Français. I speak Français. No English.Â
He draws 3 0 0 on the wall with his finger again and again for me.
He mimes writing in an invisible notepad, his hand as paper. I offer my phone, and he shakes his head, refusing it.
Americans, slightly derisively — his request misunderstood.
I'm Australian!, feeling braver, or safer — attempting a smile, expecting to be excused of my faux pas.
Americans, undaunted, unimpressed, uninterested. Not a misunderstanding, but a correction.
I accept my new, unwanted nationality, and we return to charades. He acts for me, silently. His knee is injured. His elbow is injured. His heart is injured. It's unclear if the pain is physical, or emotional, or both. He leans on a heater for a while, then slowly wanders off. I hear his voice in the distance, talking, out of sight.
- - - - -
The shelter slowly fills. First, a middle-aged woman with a cat in a carrier. Then, a man in his thirties, focused on his phone. Another woman, with a young girl. She plays games on an iPad and soft dings of success emanate from the speaker. The hotel receptionist is absent.
No one is talking anymore. Occasionally, the iPad sings. Sounds of waiting cover the silence. Shuffling feet. Readjusting coats. Breathing. Other than that, it’s quiet. Very cold, I think. Hard to tell whether the shaking is nervousness or temperature.
- - - - -
A man in a black coat arrives, walking fast. He approaches the woman and child, slows. Hands the woman a power bank. Crouches, touches the girl's leg. Speaks softly, gently. A quiet snort of laughter. Their voices mingle with echoing footsteps.
We go back to waiting.