C18 15. No-thing or how paper airplanes will save the world from boredom

“So what now? What do we do next?”

I froze in the middle of the library, gazing with interest at the ancient tomes of world history that I personally would have loved to spoil, as they were obviously of great value to the president.

“Welcome to exile. There is no internet here, although it does exist, albeit intermittently, nor any entertainment electronics.”

“What?” I turned to Grant. “No phones, no infovisors, no robots, not even a shabby old computer?”

“No-thing,” said Cirkul, gloating at me, but then he frowned, as if he wasn't happy about this turn of events himself.

The guy crunched his fingers, craned his neck from side to side, and chose a book with an ornate title. He sat down in a chair, opened the first page and lost himself in the reading. I looked out the window, glanced at the clock, pushed a compendium off the shelf and onto my lap, trying to escape reality as well.

‘Techniques for the treatment of psychogenic seizures’ was the first paragraph. I immediately closed the medical anthology. No way, I was too young for that kind of information.

I stretched out on the couch, looked at Grant, at the clock again, at the weather outside, which was getting worse by the minute, and sighed. Sat up straight again and went back to ‘Seizures’. The paper was rough and worn, yellowish, as if it had been read many times. My palms itched with anticipation and I ran my fingertips along the sharp corner of the page, tensing and pulling it towards me.

A ripping sound shattered the dull silence of the library. I looked round startled, checking for Circul's reaction, but he met me with a reproachful look. He didn't say anything. The second page, number seven, was easier to tear off.

The first paper planes came out crooked, but by the thirteenth I was better, smoothed out the creases, straightened up and chose a target – a fountain pen sticking out of a desk organizer, orphaned on the table among documents and letters.

Only my eighth plane was able to fly close to the pen, touching it with its wing instead of zigzagging out of the open window.

“Well... almost,” I exhaled disappointedly.

“You are just like a little child.”

I turned to see Cirkul Jr. looking at me contemptuously. Wow, someone had stopped ignoring me.

“You're such a nerd. It's such a nice day and we're sitting at home. Won't you show me the garden?”

He raised an eyebrow and grinned at my indignation. Thunder rumbled behind me.

I looked down, and to escape the laughing gaze of the black eyes, I went to collect the planes. Threw them all beside the couch, sat down on the carpet, rested my head on the warm upholstery of the sofa and stared at the elaborately carved wooden globe that stood in the niche between the cases.

The sleepless night and meeting the dawn on the windowsill had an immediate effect, my eyelids closed and I didn't even have time to yawn before I fell asleep.

But no sooner had I wiped my eyes after a sweet dream than I bumped my nose against his knee. Grant, it turned out, had managed to change his seat and the book in the meantime and was now squinting down at me.

My heart sank into my heels; I didn't like his scratchy gaze.

“Stop staring. Are you admiring me?” I stood up to avoid the haughty look of my enemy.

“I'm not admiring you, I'm wondering what nature has done to you. Are you so poor or so stupid? Why haven't you had plastic surgery?”

He tried to provoke me, but I just grinned, shrugged and pushed the library door – it opened with a creak.

“Maybe you could show me around?”

The chain tightened and then loosened, Circul moved closer, bringing the smell of peppermint back to me.

“I will,” he said over my ear. “It's boring anyway.”

And I was dragged deep into the president's residence, where probably no mere mortal had ever set foot.