My bracelet broke. Or rather, it just slipped off — it’s looser than my wrist. At forty, that’s a pretty cringe piece of news. (Hope I used that right.) For me, it’s only mildly so. My favourite dealer, my friend from my old life in New York, texted me: his daughter was born. I’m sorry I can’t write anything about her — I mean the girl, I mean the baby’s mother. She’s a wonderful person; I don’t know if she realizes it, but she saved my life more than once. And I’m sorry I can’t fly home — home? — over there.

Fi is waiting with dinner and a brutal scolding. Fair enough: I didn’t just forget our date night, I forgot her birthday too. And I drank the celebratory wine on the way home. Still, I’m not as bad as Rob in High Fidelity. Fuck, I almost spoiled it. But: I didn’t cheat, didn’t borrow money. I don’t know of any abortion. Or spoiler. The emphasis is on don’t know.

Doesn’t help that I asked: what are your five favourite songs about relationships? Five favourite breakup songs? No, I said relationships — but someone smarter than me would’ve already felt something’s wrong here. Well, I didn’t feel it. Instead, I made a list.

Café de Flor — Katatya

Not in Love — Crystal Castles ft. Robert Smith of The Cure

I’d Do Anything for Love (But I Won’t Do That) — Meat Loaf

Negative Man Singing — Doom Patrol

You Are My Sunshine

+1: The Foggy Dew — Sinéad O’Connor & The Chieftains (well, technically that's not a relationship song, but anyways.)

Boris, Hansie, Eddie, and Rieke – the deep-sea divers, and Rieke, the girl and the girl

I’ve got a few days until the next heavy interview. I’m taking advantage of it and getting drunk at Lehmanns Idee. Not here though—I first met Hansie at the harbor, then Boris, and finally Eddie. Insane bunch. And Rieke? She’s just the cherry on top.

The guys are deep-sea divers. They didn’t meet each other here, but this is where a bond formed that neither the Reef nor their contracts can break. Especially when you include Rieke. And of course Frauke, the little girl. I first ran into the crew along the Rotterdam–Amsterdam axis. By then, they were already touring with the little girl and the kid-girl. Correction: the little girl is Rieke, barely twenty, the kid is Frauke, barely six.

The boys are total maniacs, but absolute pros at what they do. Rieke… I don’t even know how to describe her. Small, blonde, and if you call her cute, she’d rip your balls off. Frauke, her little daughter, is the team’s badass. Unsere kleine Frauke, härter als wir all.

Fuck, the basic question: where did you guys come from?

Boris: Rostock. Where else?

Hansie: Chemnitz. laughs

Eddie: Somewhere in between, a nameless little town.

Boris: I just came along, really. Worked near Helsingborg, for the Swedes and the Danes. On platforms, and, well, under them.

Hansie: Yeah, we all worked there, except for the Russians. They screened us, as they called it—screening. That was sketchy, we were shitting ourselves over the joint. But they didn’t care, they weren’t looking for weed, just James Bond–type shit.

Boris: They were scared, yeah. Looking for super-secret gadgets. Don’t know, maybe a laser or something.

Eddie: The cow. I saw it, with my own eyes.

Hansie: Sure, at Toaré. Let’s make this clear, nobody else saw the cow.

Boris: Thoiry, if we’re being precise.

Hansie: Fine, fuck it. But let’s stop for a second: the cow, nobody saw it except Eddie. The cow wasn’t there. The music? That was there. But the cow wasn’t.

This is the point where I give up. These guys are either complete idiots, or I just don’t want to talk to them. The one I do want to talk to is Rieke. She’s been listening resignedly so far, maybe shaking her head now and then. I finish my beer and sit next to her. I wouldn’t say she’s happy to see me. I’m accepted… and my fucking life too. I swallow it, drunk.

Hi. Can I ask something?

Glad she didn’t spit. I ask: how did you meet the guys?

This is the moment I think she’s going to spit. I would spit if I were me. Instead, she answers. She makes me feel like a total nobody, but she answers. Or at least she addresses me.

Don’t listen to them. – She looks at me, winks, and man, this is a different kind of wink. Totally different from Fi’s wink. Here and now I’m supposed to listen to the guys. Or Evelyne Brochu. Or get the fuck back. Doesn’t matter, one line hits me: “Don’t listen to them.” Frauke, the real little girl, runs around our feet.

I don’t listen, I can’t listen to anything I ever learned—but I do listen to Rieke: I listen to what she says, what she throws at my head.

The guys dive every day, and from below they see the Depth. And the Surface too, from below. Every day they dive, and maybe they don’t come back. You might be loved, up here, but you don’t know what it means to be loved down there. Down there, every morning, the monster opens its mouth to us, and every afternoon, the relief. You might get it, but please, tell Frauke. Fuck it, be here when Boris doesn’t come up, tell him—pointing to Frauke—tell him his father didn’t come up.

She sobs hysterically. I want to comfort her, but I can’t, I have no right.

“Your fucking mother, you worthless bastard, you have no idea what’s happening here!” – she slams it into my head, and she’s right. And honestly, yeah… I have no fucking clue.

Sir Henry Manners, 17th Earl of Rutland – Minister of Transport of the Reef

Sir Henry was the first “big fish” Cliff lined up. To my surprise, we don’t meet in his office or in some posh rooftop bar, but on the balcony of a classic buttbox in the Bermuda Quarter. These tiny bars are also called eurotrays, a reference both to the fact that you can smoke inside and to the idea that this sort of vulgarity is a leftover from the old continent’s uncultured habits. The Minister is not hard to recognise—I’d looked him up, of course—but his attire makes him stand out even more. He arrives in a complete three-piece suit, at once approachable and yet radiating the elegance of old money. But not arrogance. He had reserved the table himself, clearly at home in this setting as much as in high politics or in the clubs of London’s upper classes. I loathe protocol, but still stand to greet him. He acknowledges my clumsy courtesy with a half-smile, sits down, and with a gesture orders a club soda. My jaw drops a little. I’m flustered, for fuck’s sake.

Excuse me, I’m not sure how to address your rank properly.

Forget it. Let’s keep it informal—call me Bucky. It’s easier for both of us, and anyway, these damn titles only matter in Ascot. And not much even there.

With your background, how did you become Minister of the Reef, and specifically of transport?

My background matters very little. Yes, we are an old family, but Rutland has always been England’s smallest county. My late great-grandfather almost squandered even that—not on cards or women, but on railways and canal development. I never knew him personally—men in our family die young—but my grandfather told me much and showed me even more of his legacy. He linked the coal mines to the ports, signed contracts with neighbouring lords that weren’t particularly advantageous to the family but benefited industry and workers overall. On his estate,s there were no workhouses or debt poverty. He built schools at his own expense, dug and restored canals. And then, of course, the railway—that completely bewitched him. They say talents and obsessions skip a generation: my father was a businessman, indifferent to anything he considered “lower-class” problems. But my grandfather, and especially my great-grandfather, would today be called communists—if there were such a thing as a capitalist communist. My grandfather preferred the label Christian Socialist. Even that was a risky stance during the Cold War.

Since 2016, the post-Troubles consolidation, you’ve held your post through successive governments. What path led you here, and how have you kept your place?

Let me start with a little detour. The Reef’s political system before the Troubles was like Doctor Frankenstein’s chimera. Now it’s a lab-bred hybrid—alive, but we don’t know for how long. My predecessor (XY – ed.) was swept away by the political—and let’s admit, military—role he took during the Troubles. I was invited by the new government, with consensus, into this post. Both the Depths and the Surface supported me, as part of a kind of political compromise. And I came, eagerly. The Reef is a unique ecosystem, with incredibly complex agreements and infrastructure. Technically and technologically, it’s a nightmare. Just my kind of thing. The gap—or call it antagonism—between the two systems is nearly unbridgeable. Take, for example, synchronising metros and trams. The sub-system (SubSys—that’s what they call the metro here on the Reef – ed.) will always operate according to the Depths’ needs. No matter how loudly a minority up here shouts for coordination with trams or saddle-rail, it’s pointless. Especially since the majority of Surface dwellers aren’t even entitled to use the metro.

Could you explain the historical background of why the Upperfolk can’t use the metro?

During the Troubles, the Surface abused the SubSys. I know this isn’t a popular view, but yes, they abused it. The system—still half-finished back then—its stations and tunnels were used to launch strikes against the forces of the Depths. In my view, that was terrorism, no matter what anyone says. I’d be curious how the Old Man would evaluate it. —For the first time, I see him angry, but he swallows it instantly. So, from that, and from the Sea-Level Agreement comes the rule that we don’t use the metro unless someone receives the appropriate C++ clearance. The Lowers get it. The Uppers request it and typically don’t get it. Perhaps that’s for the best.

As Minister of Transport, what areas outside transport fall under your responsibility?

Ah, you really did your homework. Energy and internal affairs. Technically, they don’t belong to me, but we work with both departments—most closely with these two. The Surface operates nine tram lines, three funiculars, and two saddle-rails. T1 through T9—you’ve surely come across them. We’re working with an ageing fleet, some of it ordered or delivered before the Troubles, some after. The funiculars are even older, delivered way back in the Patch era. The saddle-rails were a joint “gift” from the Japanese government and the Depths, in massive quotation marks. Billions in debt, and I don’t see them ever paying back their cost, even with the annual cap of three and a half million tourists. But the Senate and the Depths insist on keeping them. That’s their burden.

And all this is powered by ITWR energy production?

Yes. Not only this, but the SubSys too. In fact, the entire island. From pubs to apartments—everything. At least since the Troubles. But I’m not the best person to give you detailed answers on that. I recommend you talk to Albert A. Pitts. Dr. Pitts. If you don’t have a connection, I’ll give you his card, call him, and let you know when you can reach him.