A piercing wail cut through the air. I was standing in a small shop when, for a moment, my heart seemed to skip a beat. Fire alarm.
Instinctively, I looked around, yet no one reacted. People pushed their trolleys along, chatted, paid at the checkout. Everything carried on as if I were the only one who had heard it. After a few minutes, the sound faded. I breathed a sigh of relief – and at the same time, a memory came rushing back, vivid as if it had happened only yesterday.
Auckland, early 1990s.
I had stepped into an internet café to work on my travel diary in peace. In the afternoon I settled at one of the heavy computers, its bluish screen flickering faintly. Page after page I typed, lost in memories and thoughts, while outside the sun sank and night fell over the city. The air inside smelled of coffee, dust and cables, filled with the hum of machines and the steady clatter of keyboards.
It was midnight when suddenly a faint, rhythmic beeping spread through the room. The fire alarm. I lifted my head. But no one reacted. Next to me someone was playing a computer game, in the corner a student was chatting with friends, and the owner sat idly at the counter. No cry, no pause. The noise became part of the background – like the buzz of the fluorescent lights. And I, uneasy at first, kept typing.
Then a new sound broke in from outside: sirens. They grew louder, closer, until finally fire engines pulled up right in front of the building. Doors slammed, boots pounded, and in the next moment firefighters in full gear burst into the café. Their helmets gleamed, their torches flashed, and their voices echoed through the room:
“Everyone out, now! Move it!”
Startled, we looked up. Chairs scraped, keyboards fell silent. Some of the firefighters scolded us, furious at how recklessly we had ignored the alarm. With firm insistence, they drove us out into the night.
The cold wrapped around us. Blue lights threw restless shadows across the street, the rumble of engines mixing with the murmur of voices. A mixed bunch of night owls stood together uncertainly: travellers, students, gamers – all shivering, all silent. Behind us, the crew searched the building. Minutes stretched into an hour.
At last, the all-clear. No fire, just a false alarm. The firefighters packed up and disappeared back into the darkness.
And we? We simply returned to the café. As if a spell had been broken, we sat back at our places, switched on the monitors, and the keyboards rattled once more. I carried on writing, almost defiantly, until the first rays of dawn coloured the sky.
At six in the morning, exhausted and bleary-eyed, I finally left the café. Auckland’s streets lay quiet, the city asleep. I made my way back to my accommodation, knowing I would never forget this experience – that strange balance between indifference and danger, which I only truly grasped much later.