Somebody on the map (short story)


Milky way . Solar system . The Earth. Here can be your address . If you are lucky it coincides  with the concept “Homeland” for you. If you are not, it will make your heart bleed every time you hear the words with the letter “h”; “home ”, “homeland”, “home-longing” and even “homie” or “home-made”.  Hardly could I ever imagine this before handing him a tissue during the interview.
When the Sun opened my window and greeted through the curtains I felt that the day was likely going to be a good one. And why wouldn’t I ? I had my dream job after years of struggle, I earned my living and was building the life I had always dreamed about: the life with colorful stones . That day it was up to me to choose an assistant for me . So the day went about the “assistant-choosing-interview” day.
Being a person who is not fond of office work, I preferred to take the interview at the nearby café . So I called the first applier and make the arrangement.
He entered . After politely smiling and hand-shaking I started to ask the questions that could reveal for me the person in order to understand: do I need him in my job or not . His answers were short ,  relevant,  creative and what was on the first place — confident.
Otherwise being uncertain and not quick in decision-making , I decided at once that he was the helper I was looking for. “You  are accepted” —  I said  clapping my hands ,  trying to be friendly from the very first day. “You are to just sign the five-year contract and you are  my assistant accordingly”.
“Let me go home” – he uttered with  broken voice.
Frankly speaking that wasn’t the answer I was expecting , at least “ thank you ” or “ I appreciate your trust ”.  I just some kind if regretted , maybe I was too quick hiring him . I said dispassionately that he was allowed to go and that I would wait for him tomorrow  at the office.
“Nope , you didn’t understand what I meant , I need to go home , my homeland , you know, I am not from America, this is not the land I belong to, this is not the job I dreamed, this is not the Sun I want to warm my skin. This is not the  soil I want to walk on.
From the very childhood I was taught that men never cry. They are strong , they just never let their eyes to be full of tears. I was shy. I saw teardrops in his eyes . I saw sorrow and anguish and a long history. A history that wasn’t written with his pen , he was forced to write it . Now he pinned his hopes on not getting the job and just stand  chance to leave America, seek for a new life in his homeland, work for it and build his colorful-stone life in the place where his soul belongs .
I handed him a tissue. His hand was shaking when he took it . I said with broken voice : “ You don’t correspond to this work “ . His lips smiled .
Thus,we have it easy to spell the word “ H “ , “ O “ , “ M” , “ E “ . Yet there are people who have cherished dream not only to spell that word but also to live in it.