“From the distance Auldhabn resembles little more than fleeting light and sound, so many mirages that you half-perceive from the deck of a gently swaying boat. I had come to the city to seek that which I desired, of course, and would not leave until my desires were satisfied. So it transpired that at the dawn of the new millennium I was many, many kilometres from—”
A jolt from a stray wave rocks the small ferry, making me reel and accidentally slam the paperback shut. I’d bought a copy of “Seekers of the Golden Matrix” at the bookstore next to the ferry terminal at Esbjerg, since there’s no wifi on the ship and data reception once you leave the mainland is supposed to be horrible. Actually reading it now, the story doesn’t seem to exactly paint a rosy picture of the country I’m about to visit. Copenhagen, for the brief time I was there, seemed clean, orderly, and generally bright in complexion. Havland, on the other hand, had acquired from Google Images a distinctly greyish vibe, and the novel isn’t helping even as the cheap glue binding it together seems to crack as I read, the pages more fragile than the 2004 publication date would suggest. Will is nowhere to be seen on deck, and despite wearing decent gloves my hands are freezing in the November chill.
There’s someone else, shouting fruitlessly into a phone while dressed in what looks like a pretty expensive suit. After a few more minutes he gives up and walks over until there’s still a healthy distance between us, but I can at least make out what he’s saying over the sound of the ship and the waves. He props his hands on the railing such that he’s facing the sea while I’m facing in.
“Can you believe this place? This kind of shit data service in 2024. It’s like we’re going back to the Dark Ages.”
I don’t know any better about the state of data service islands off the coast of Denmark so I shrug.
“This is what I get for pissing off the boss, you know? Cleanup duty.”
“What kind of cleanup?”
He snorts, adjusts his thin steel glasses. “I’m a lawyer. We mop up the messes of the guys up stairs. And the place we’re going to is an absolute mess right now.” He speaks American but sounds German.
“Havland?”
He nods. “What do you know about EU law?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, put it this way. If there’s a big enough legal office in Europe, they have a guy whose job it is to figure out how anything works in Havland whenever it comes up. He does other stuff, mind, because Havland doesn’t come up very often and Apple outspends a good chunk of its GDP on most marketing campaigns, but he’s the Havland guy when push comes to shove. If he’s unlucky, he also handles the Vatican and maybe San Marino.”
“So I take it Havland isn’t in the EU.”
“No, it isn’t. Depending on who you ask, it’s either in the EEA but with a lot exceptions or off in its own weird corner with all the other edge cases. They’re very protective of their fishing industry, see. Also not in the Eurozone for some reason, just to make things even better for business visits.”
“Uh-huh.” Maybe Will will come on deck and distract the guy. But then his phone buzzes with some belated message that’s made it through the wind, and he rushes off to check. In a few minutes, though, he drifts back, a little closer. There’s no sign of Havland yet, and I think of a question.
“Hey, can you tell me why I needed two visas to visit this country?”
The lawyer looks up with a shudder as the ship groans. “Oh, yeah. One for Havland and one for Auldhabn, right? One takes longer to process than the other as well, which is real swell when you’re in a hurry.”
“Yeah, but why? Isn’t Auldhabn in the country?”
He sighs. “It’s… complicated. Auldhabn is part of why dealing with Havlandic law is such a mess. It was the old capital until the civil war in the 20s, then they moved the capital but a lot of the old legal exceptions were carried through to pacify the local elites. Like, to some extent, self-governance and control of its borders. Wait, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself.” He sticks his hand out, grabs the railing to steady himself, and takes another step closer. “Hans Weber, commercial lawyer.”
I shake it and say nothing. He gets the signal and steps back. I realise this close that he can’t be much older than 30, if he even is older than 30. “Alice,” I say, finally, to break the silence. He nods, thinks, then turns and goes back into the cabin, leaving me alone on the deck.