At her nearest branch of the Cyprus Post Office, Nefeli has two simple tasks: to mail a letter and receive a parcel.
There are five free tills. The three employees at the back, face masks below their noses, are discussing Maroulla’s nephew’s Christening. The fourth is on the phone. The fifth and nearest to Nefeli is typing with a frown, using only his index fingers. He does not look up or acknowledge her. A sixth employee appears from the back to confirm that no one wants sugar in their coffee.
After bothering the nearest clerk with her letter, Nefeli goes round to stand in the parking lot, joining a sweaty and patient group of masked citizens waiting for their parcels. It is just before noon. Every fifteen minutes, a clerk emerges from the storage room and calls out a name in seemingly random order. From the crack of the door Nefeli can see a whirlwind of scattered cardboard boxes and parcel bags. A fan whirs in the background, and the end of a yellow bag keeps fluttering.
There’s probably a whole crew in there, she thinks faithfully. Behind the door there’s five or six buff dudes struggling to help citizens.
Noon is approaching, and Nefeli’s gratitude for missing work starts to turn into impatience. The crowd grows bigger, and the desired boxes are still not in sight. Some are scowling at the door. Others scroll on their phones. It is hot, and the sun beats down on the backs of their necks.
Half an hour later, looking at everyone’s sandaled feet —some hairy, some with painted toenails, all looking fatigued and sticky— Nefeli recalls the morning news with dismay: yet again, Scandinavian countries top the lists for having the happiest citizens in Europe. “Results of the study attribute this satisfaction to advanced infrastructure, government planning and provisions, and a sense of social welfare and trust in these countries,” the presenter had read.
Time passes. Nefeli listens to the persistent cry of the cicadas and wonders why no one does or says anything. She is trapped within her own coffee breath in her face mask. Something begins to boil inside her.
She feels drops of sweat trickle down her sternum and into her bra.
“Excuse me,” she projects her voice when an employee shows his face, “there are many of us, will this take long?”
“Madam,” he says with an expression Nefeli reads as ironic, “I’m on my own, wait your turn.”
“On your own? There’s fifty people here.”
“Jesus Christ!” shouts a man with an oily ponytail.
At the sound of a second voice, a delicate balance breaks. Heads are raised, phones pushed into pockets.
“Be patient, like everyone else,” says the employee.
“In the front office are six of your colleagues,” Nefeli drops the polite plural, “chatting shit about Christenings and sipping their coffees.”
“Ugh!” — another voice from the crowd, this time from a woman in a cotton t-shirt drenched in sweat.
“Please calm down, or we won’t give anyone their parcel,” shrugs the employee.
In a moment of dazed rebellion, bright red, Nefeli feels something inside her build up, gathering a momentum that quickly grows out of control.
“How dare you,” she shouts, “and who are you? The saint of parcels? We’ve been standing here at forty three fucking degrees Celsius, waiting. Call your colleagues! Let them do something.”
“Well said!”
“Get the jerks inside to come help!”
The crowd begins to applaud.
The employee raises a teacherly eyebrow: “My dear,” he says to Nefeli, “please behave yourself.”
Someone boos.
Nefeli looks at him, then scoffs. Turning to the crowd around her, she screams “Charge!” then rushes into the warehouse.
With a clamor of battle cries, the mob follows her, knocking down the stacked boxes and laying them at their leader’s feet, reverent sacrifices at the altar of postal revolt.
They wait with baited breath to hear what Nefeli has to say.
“My brethren!” she cries out from atop a wooden desk, “We will no longer tolerate the oppression of post offices! Enough! Now control of this warehouse is in OUR HANDS! This country has no respect for its citizens, but we will not be subjugated! We will not be the fools they take us for!”
The crowd cheers. Nefeli’s perspiring face shines with wild ideals.
“With every parcel we locate,” she roars, “we change the world! In the name of postal freedom, join me!”
With a communal, bellicose energy, they go through all the parcels. As a united force, they search every corner of the warehouse.
In ten minutes, everyone has their parcel, a glass of water, and has become a tame animal again. On their way out, clutching their bags and boxes, they see the employee smoking in a corner.
“Have a good afternoon,” some of them say, but he doesn’t react.
*
Back in her air-conditioned office, a disheveled Nefeli sits down in front of the computer. In her chest adrenaline is still beating, the memory of the moment when she had believed in something, the thrill of rallying the troops.
A few minutes later, a customer enters the office. She doesn’t turn to look at him, typing gibberish in a blank document instead.
“Excuse me, I was wondering whether —”
“One moment please, I’m busy just now.” Forty five minutes left, she thinks, then the workday is over.
She finally turns to the customer with a look of contempt. “How can I help you?” she sighs.