A camel is a horse designed by a committee

Physical manifestations of Heatwave Number 4’s records were smashed dramatically on cable news in Europe. Droughts were declared in Wales, Venice and parts of Utrecht. Leaders met in the air-conditioned Prime Tower in Zurich, and below them the conservative-sympathetic farmers had formed alliances with far-left communista blocs in black ski masks and wifebeaters and flung cow dung as the diplomats escaped into chauffeured Benzes. Stock market winners were ice cream, airlines and Coca Cola, they had invented a way to keep their drinks 70% cooler, almost guaranteeing an ice-cold Coke every time.

“A camel is a horse designed by a committee,”

The speaker barked. A drop of sweat splashed on the screen, and Felix put the phone down.
You don’t need to plan to visit a nude beach.

I, or Felix, marched for 30 minutes along Caparica Beach, after a 30-minute taxi, weaving through traffic and sand dunes, scantily clad cyclists, and then the Uber giving up and then walking the rest. Giving it 5 stars, even if it was a bad job.
An appeal to morality or class consciousness or something.

Four hours ago, he was on the Ryanair, and seven hours before that, he was bloodshot, comparing prices on Skyscanner but the cheque cleared when he landed. Rather cry above 30,000 feet than in a flat in Wood Green. Rather a caipirinha than a Guinness. Rather ignore the phone on a balcony with a cortado than the fluorescent office.

‘Dear Diary, it’s midnight somewhere.' he spoke into the Voice Memos. The waves brought coral and pebbles up the sand to be kicked by families, then by couples, and then, as he trudged on, the first man appeared. Hands on his hips. And behind him, dozens more, nude, pouring out from the horizon, pink salmon flesh and copper-stained frolickers holding large ice creams and smoking Marlboros under the fan umbrellas.

Walking until the gaps appeared between the bodies and Quechua tents, put his suitcase down, a sturdy little charity store number, finished the last bit of his cigarette, a Camel Ice, ran into the dark blue plain, shot back up and then returned to the shoreline, standing, running his right hand through his too-long hair. It’s good for water signs to be close to home.

Felix sent off back to his little patch. One 40cl of Super Bock, poked out of his Planet Organic tote bag, slowly being boiled in the charred sand. The phone was buried under a pile of unironed shirts. And he plugged his earphones in and hit shuffle.
A flurry of +3s exploded onscreen.
The world music festival in Sines.
The group chat for it was live.

A lot of movement on his left periphery.
With his right thumb, he slipped his left earphone out and listened, staring at the ocean.
“What the fuck do you mean you couldn’t do it?”
Her voice cut through the muffled air and the beach conversa. Then a low, slow voice, neither heavy nor light, answered her, and he couldn’t make a word of it.
“What did you fucking tell her?”
Another reply, quieter.
Felix laid back, popped his sunglasses on, and moved his eyeballs just enough, with his head still facing the water to watch them.

A vape cloud left a yellow umbrella. Beneath it was one girl, American; her name could have been Riley, so in his head, he named her Riley. Her tattooed arms were crossed and extremely pale. So powder pale like her boyfriend, who looked a bit like a James, so he named him James.
Riley grabbed the geek bar from James’ mouth and held it in a closed fist.
“How could she say that about me, you know?” She scratched her hair and shook her head. James’ mouth was still open, like an old dog.
“Are you going to say something? Are you gonna help me?”
James’ gaze was fixed on the sand below. He ran his fingers through the sand and placed his forearms on the sand like a sphinx. Riley was still staring at him.
Understanding this was his reply, she went back on her phone.

“What happened to your hand?”
He had fallen asleep somehow, dreaming of…what was he dreaming of?
He sat up and dusted the sand off his face, and the voice came again.
“What happened to your hand?”
Riley. Standing over by the water with a pile of shells against her chest. He got up slowly, careful not to look shy about it, because she was relatively attractive and he thought maybe he was too, and he was naked and so was she, and so was her boyfriend, curled up foetal under the yellow umbrella. Yeah, play it cool.

“Um, I had an accident.”
She didn’t reply, so he continued.
“I had a workplace accident”
Nothing still.
With the seconds-long pauses, he felt a bead of sweat roll.
“My company just went through layoffs. I thought I was gonna survive the fourth round, but then I got an invite for a chat with HR. There was this broken step in the stairs by the staff room, and so, I, uh, tripped and got this” He raised his bandaged left hand.
“Sounds like it was painful”
“Yeah, yeah, it was.”
The step had taken him crashing hard and sprawling out on the office carpet. His first reaction was a simple wow. Then the next moment, he was consumed by an overwhelming fiery pain. He had never broken a bone before and he knew without asking, this would be the first time. He wondered for a second whether to howl or look confident, but then that thought disappeared, and the first full sentence that came to him was a simple,
“How much will they pay me?”
“Well, nice to meet you”
And she smiled and walked away.

Whatever answer she was looking for, he clearly had not provided. He had done something worse than saying a dumb thing, he had bored her, and he could feel himself reeking of doe normaal, an average chud with nothing to say, no story worth sharing, and retreating to his patch. He returned his gaze to the yellow umbrella to meet the boyfriend, James, glaring at him sharply through his orange-tinted sunglasses.
The glare stayed for another ten minutes. Felix knew, because he played two very long songs through it. He had more things on his mind, and didn’t want to focus on an angry James.
‘I’m not that guy.'

Then the lawyer called. Yes all good things, a nice 5 figure arrangement to tidy up this little mess. It was beautifully efficient. Like he had never had the accident. In fact, as he signed from his iPhone, he wondered, could this have been on purpose? Had he seen the step and purposely dragged on it a half-second longer than he needed to? Had he put his hand right under his belly knowing it would be crushed and mangled just enough? The checkerboard step had been yellow-taped for more than a month. 33 days to be exact.

It was the result of an intern moving the 300kg printer from one side of the office to another, under the direction of a red-faced manager. The crack was short but had pulled everyone from meeting rooms to lean into the hallway from the glass doors. Felix had watched this all play out. Because this red-faced man was also his manager, Stuart, “the daft fellow”, he would sometimes say in his head or out loud depending on who was present. Stuart wanted to try different ways to arrange the faux-open-plan office, furiously ordering the intern and Felix to move things around the room, making comments about feng shui and Nordic guidebooks. Stuart, the daft fellow, also did not survive that round of layoffs.

“Yeah, yeah, I can see you” Lawyer’s on the phone. “It’s good to clear your head, yes. Yes, I feel it’s actually a really good idea. Sure, people can say why not stay and use the time to think. Maybe they can say that. Yes, but you know what you want and you deserve it. You can do what you want now. Yes, for a bit” Felix held the phone above his chest and the lawyer, in Maidstone, relaxed back in his office chair. A fan whirred in the background.
“Well Felix, good luck, man”
And that was it. Years of his life, concluded in one phone call.

He grabbed another Camel and flicked his eyes left. The yellow umbrella was gone. And so was James and Riley. He stuck around for a bit later, smoking cigarettes and sipping on the warm Super Bock, then he took the last bit of his battery, on airplane mode, to listen to his Liked songs, on shuffle and called a Bolt to the hostel.

The hostel was located on a quiet street tucked in Arroios. The car pulled up next to a Nepalese restaurant and he hopped out, waved goodbye and walked through the tall door

Lisbon had fared better in Heatwave 4, thanks to the Nortada. And buildings like this one, with the creaky elevator shaft, high ceilings and stone walls had become extremely sought after for their cooling in summer, leaving the new condos eerily abandoned, covered in graffiti and rotting inside and out. Felix knew the sister of someone who had stayed here, and thus, a spot had been reserved for him. It was a humble bedroom on the fifth floor at the top of the elevator, overlooking the city, faced square by a large orange crane.

The last Felix had visited Lisbon was during the pandemic. A strange time. With an ex. They were both young and naive and hopeless, wandering the streets, with cotton mouths, ice cream after nata and him desperately broke, almost to the point of destitution. It was supposed to be a fine holiday but half the city was under construction. Scaffolding spilled out onto the streets and builders in large heavy hats roamed the corners wielding large grey stones and beams. From the balcony, it had almost all cleared up, yet the beam remained. He wondered if it was the same one.

A knock interrupted him. And standing at the door was Sue, she was the Belgian friend of a friend who had told him to make the last minute journey.
“Have you got any cigarettes?”she pleaded.
And he fished in his bag and pulled out the menthols. She made a face but accepted it and they both sat on the balcony, discussing logistics. There was a festival later. In Sines. Two hours away. Her and all her friends were going. You should go. What’s been on your mind? Raising the arm again. But also some more things. A failed romance. Always a failed romance. Money? No, money was not the issue this time. Time? More than enough. So why not embrace it, she laughed. Have you ever heard of a yes bender? A yes bender is when for an allocated time period, you say yes to everything. Everything? Yes, everything. Come with me to Copeila. Yes.

The café was on a quiet corner where three lanes met. Agua, café gelado, and the waiter motioning at the almond pie until they said yes to that too. Fiats swerved lazily around the table. Sue had her sunglasses up in her hair and was on the phone in Flemish, had been since they sat down, saying the same word over and over in three different tones.
She hung up. She did not explain.
“So you’re driving with Artie,” she said. “I have the tents. You just show up.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you.” Not a question. She was already looking at the phone again.
He said, because it had been sitting in him since the balcony, that the yes bender thing had been the right thing to say to him. That it had genuinely, you know, unlocked something.
Sue looked up. “What?”
“The yes bender.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Yes. Okay.” And then she went back to whatever it was, and it was clear she had said it the way you say anything while smoking on a balcony, and that he had taken it home and built a house on it.
The bill came. He paid.
Then she was gone. Across the road a plaque said Pessoa lived here, and he went over and put a finger on it.

"Sharing is caring" Artie said and he pulled out a rolling tray, and with one hand on the steering, plucked the tobacco, crumbled the kif, rolled it up into an elegant Cruella slim number and lit it. We drove at the speed limit, cruising the Tagus in his converted VW Transporter. Under the dash, a JBL played Berlin house. Felix instinctively reached for one of the Marlboro Golds on the dash and Artie caught his eye. He apologised, and Artie laughed saying "Mi casa, su casa" And so was how the journey went, two guys in a van, slowly opening up to each other through shared interest in music from other places, smoking something and European sheepishness.

He’d left Belgium because of the weather and because of a girl, in that order, he said, and laughed at his own joke before Felix did. Before the vans he’d worked at KBC, six years, one of the big ones that make money out of money. He worked in sales and they had a script. He asked Felix if he could read it out, and so under the yes bender, obliged and after the music was promptly turned up. Felix hadn’t smoked in a while. This was good stuff. The Sun was setting over the sandy plains and terrain after terrain, the sky bled out until evening came.

Moon shining on the illegal campground, where all the friends had pitched up tents.

*

The mushrooms are kicking in. And he could tell. Because everything was a bit heavier.
Slipping through my fingers all the time, he said absentmindedly. Fingers running through the sand, just like that memory, it’s all gone. Artie has placed a T-shirt above his head and is squeezing his toes with his fingers. Benny has his arms crossed. And somehow Jean-Brie and Sue are in hysterics about gambas in French. It goes on a long time, this joke. Sue does something with her wrist and Jean-Brie folds in half. Benny, mute all night, says one syllable and both of them go again, harder.

Felix couldn’t understand a word, so he resigned himself to singing the chorus over and over.
Then Jean-Brie is sitting in front of him. Close. Knees touching.
“You are not laughing.”
“I don’t have French.”
“I thought you said you can understand”
“I’m not sure anymore”
“Ah.” He takes this seriously, finger on his temple. “Okay.”
There is a word tattooed round his left kneecap, done badly, by hand, so you have to turn your head to read it.
“DOGIZM”
“What’s that?”
“Ah.” he says again. “Okay. So I will tell you Dogism instead.”
Benny puts something over Felix’s shoulders.
“A dog is honest,” Jean-Brie says. “A dog does not have a, how you say, a five year.” He waits. Felix nods at the sand. “A dog wants, and you can see the want. On the face. Immediately. He is not doing the thing where he makes it smaller so you will not laugh.”
“Right.”
“I drove to Kyrgyzstan for a girl who did not know I was coming.”
“Did she”
“No.” He looks at the sand for a while. “The point is I did not say I was going for the mountains. I said it to her face. I said, I have come here for you.” His voice cracks. “I did not say the mountains.”
And then he is crying, quite freely, and before Felix can work out what the correct thing is Jean-Brie has both arms round him and his chin on his shoulder.
“It’s okay to cry, brother.” Wet, into the jumper. “I know you are hurt. It’s okay to cry.”
Felix does not cry. Though he tries to. His eyes water, but they don’t roll freely in the way Jean-Brie’s does, slowly flowing down his cheek and curling into his moustache.
Benny The German has not said anything for an hour. Then he says, in English, “It works better if you don’t explain it,” and lies back in the sand.
Jean-Brie laughs so hard he has to hold onto Felix’s arm.
And Felix swore, right there, at the campground, under the moon he keeps checking is still there, that he is going to be more Dogic about all of it.
The sound of the waves was overwhelming. The beach was littered with hundreds of people, presumably high or soon to be. Music blared from small speakers until the headliner took over, a Cuban band playing from the castle.
FMM, he was told, was a council festival. A town of twelve thousand putting on the biggest world music event in the country, every July, since 1999. The vans are parked in a long crooked line above the sand with their side doors open, and the smoke comes out of them in slow flat sheets. Everyone here has been here before.
Grey dreadlocks. A man in his sixties with a djembe between his knees. Families, with a cool box, the parents rolling something and passing it over the heads of the children. Babies with dirty faces being handed between people who may or may not be related to them. A toddler in one Croc.
And then the other half. Clean-shaven, Scandi haircuts, the tote bags, the little wire glasses. The whole post-Waking Life crowd. Some of them are half naked and some of them are entirely naked and none of it means anything. Bare chests, no underwear, a woman walking the shoreline with a shirt over her shoulder and nothing else, and nobody looks up. It is completely sexless, like a light in a room someone turned off.
Benny hands him a beer he did not ask for.
Then they make the trek up to the castle, weaving between the stumbling crowds. Outside the church on the hill there is a busker with six people watching him, playing to them like there are six hundred.
In the middle of all of it, Eden and Jay. From London. The second time in two weekends. They shout in unison. Hugs are exchanged.
Felix wonders what to say. Whether this means something. Whether the universe is trying to tell him something.
“I’m wondering what to say. Could this mean something? Is the universe trying to tell me something?”
“Mate,” Jay says. “You’re not answering anything.”
Then a hand has his sleeve.
Searched at the gate. Something with a segurança that he will not be able to describe tomorrow, a raised voice, an arm, the word tudo bem used by both of them at once. Then inside, somehow, in one piece. Sim.
Laughter’s loud everywhere. He gets handed a margarita. His breath is short. He makes a promise, standing there, to be healthy and wealthier and wiser, and it is a different promise from the one he made an hour ago, which he cannot at this moment recall.
And before the prayer is finished the music takes him and his new friends sweep him into the crowd, a large congregation of faces and flags. Palestine flags, Antifa flags, communist flags, and one lonely Portuguese flag hoisted on an extra long pole that winks at the one hung from the castle.

*

Felix woke up a few hours later by the Sun streaming into his tent. As cold as last night had been, it became how warm it was in the morning. And the sweat had permeated through his festival outfit, a sleeveless T-shirt with cargo shorts. He couldn’t find his shoes either.
He stumbled outside in search of water, and found himself walking past the food court, back into the belly of the beast. The festival was still going. Or the afterparty of the festival. And he had given up on his mission for water, and was now looking for a Sagres.
Above his head, tucked into the alcove on the way up to the church, a few partiers, Berlin exiles in all black, danced systematically to dark techno. He had left his phone in the tent but by the position of the Sun, he guessed it was around 9am. But it was also Sunday, so the narrow path that led to the church was blocked by partiers and the locals circled them. Families in all white, unsurprised at this group of morning ravers, smoking cigarettes and spreadeagle on benches.
The Sagres came off a supermarket shopping trolley, full of ice and water, pushed uphill by a dreadlocked man and his partner, who had a cigarette wedged in the gap in her teeth and did not take it out to speak. A square of cardboard was taped to the front. PAY WHAT YOU WANT.
Felix stood there with the cold can in his hand for longer than the situation required.
A euro was obviously insulting. Two was fine. Two was what a beer costs. But two was also what everybody else was putting in, and he was not everybody else, he was a man with a a something thousand pounds sitting in a Monzo account under a heading he had not yet renamed. What is this worth? What is it worth to me? What does paying more say about me and what does paying less say about me?
The woman was looking at him. Not impatiently. She had all morning.
He put in five and walked off nursing the can on his forehead.

He stood around, stole a cigarette from a kind hippie, then danced shallowly, until he counted down in his head and made his way back down. Over by a patch of grass, a few hippie vans circled around each other, playing guitars, all with wide alert smiles and closed eyes. And so Felix closed his, and lay down on the grass, at rest, finally.