He also told them that there was another writer who was probably going to have a similar effect on them if they hadn’t read him yet . . . they hadn’t, so they wrote down that writer’s name: Honoré de Balzac. Then he said he had to get back to work. Harriet tried to stall him; he hadn’t drunk that much tea and had declined dinner, and she wanted to spend a lot of money on him. But they were the last customers left in the café, and all the chairs had been put up on the tables around them—a man with a mop was waiting to tackle the floor beneath their own table as soon as they got up.
I’m buying, Harriet said.
The professor demurred, but Gretel told him: We did say it was our treat . . .
Harriet went to the till, pulled a fistful of notes out of her pocket, and put them in the cashier’s hand. The cashier was nonplussed; it was either much too much or . . . she added more notes to the pile, just to be on the safe side.
The cashier handed the notes back to her with exaggerated politeness. That was . . . entertaining, miss, but I’d appreciate it if you paid with actual money now.
This isn’t money?
The cashier gave her an incredulous look. Harriet went back to the table where Gretel and the professor and the man with the mop were waiting, and the professor asked what was wrong. She showed him her money and told him what the cashier had said. Professor Procházka flattened the notes on the tabletop before him and then turned them over, smoothed them again, counted them. He asked her how many more she had, and she emptied out her pockets. The way he and Gretel looked at each other and at the note-covered tabletop . . . that gave her a very bad feeling.
It isn’t money?
They were searching for words. Harriet muttered that she hadn’t seen money up close before, so.
Harriet Lee, Professor Procházka said. I can see you’ve collected all this carefully, and that suggests you’ve been doing all you can to earn it, so these . . . items are valuable in that sense. But it’s not money, no.
What to do, Gretel murmured. I didn’t bring any out. And we were supposed to treat you!
I don’t—what is it, then, if it isn’t money?
The professor showed Harriet a banknote that bore a passing resemblance to the ones she had and said he’d go and pay with that, and it was his pleasure entirely, really, it was.
This is what Harriet would have liked to hear Gretel say: You mustn’t worry; we’ll go to Clio together and straighten everything out.
This is what Gretel actually said: Seems like there’s nothing to be done about you.
What? What do you mean by that?
Do you remember when I offered you half a lottery ticket and you asked: Is it money? After that you go away, hoard these worthless bits of paper, and ask: Isn’t it money . . . ?
You’re saying getting tricked is my own fault, for doubting when I should believe, and believing when I should doubt . . . ?
That’s not what I’m saying.
You are. You’re telling me I’m stupid.
Oh, stop it. Gretel’s expression was a soundless fireworks display, the sort you see when someone’s trying very hard not to laugh or cry.
Professor Procházka had slipped away without saying goodbye, so they left too. Back in Gretel’s bedroom they watched a TV show about a woman who had an interesting job, a nice house, a great many high-heeled shoes, and a seven-year personal memory limit. This woman absolutely couldn’t do without a proper past, so in each episode of the TV show she dived into Druhá City’s criminal underworld and stabbed hoodlums with her stiletto heels, demanding to be told things that would lead her to her lost memories. This was counterproductive; most of the hoodlums just said any old thing in order to buy the time to get away from her, and she had to beat a lot of other people and compare statements to uncover some sort of truth. Harriet and Gretel were unsure about the show for the duration of the first two episodes. Each second of screen time was designed to advance the plot, even the coded way people greeted each other or talked about the habits, diets, and personalities of their household pets, so you couldn’t relax at all or you’d get left behind. But by episode 3, they couldn’t stop watching. They were propelled by a strong premonition that when the woman finally managed to retrieve her true memories they would disappoint her, and she’d wonder why she hadn’t just kept living peacefully with her fabulous shoes and her girlfriend, who only had eyes for her. This expectation was probably one the writers of the TV show (and elements of the Druhástranian government) preferred viewers to hold, undermining the urge to clamor for systemic change as it did.
Gretel’s floor rug was a woven map of the world—its threads glinted bronze and blue and emerald-green, and the two girls bridged oceans with their bodies. Harriet asked: What about Clio, Gretel? You say there’s nothing to be done about me, but is there anything to be done about your mother? For instance, can’t you get her to actually pay us?
By the way . . . Gretel lifted up one of Harriet’s pigtails and pointed at the bruise on the left side of her neck. What’s this? Her eyes narrowed. Is it a love bite? Are there more?
Swindlers are the ones who need to be different, not the swindled, Harriet continued.
Have you been letting people bite you for . . . those bits of paper Clio gave you? That’s unexpected.
Shut up. Some girls came and . . . pinched us. Zu, Dottie, me, and all the others. It wasn’t a question of letting it happen; they just did it.
Harriet, I don’t—
I don’t really want to talk about it.
Later, both kneeling and both undressed so that it was fair, they looked at the bruises together. Harriet tried to cover the sore places on her breasts but moved her hands away.
We’re going to start carrying gingerbread shivs, Harriet said.
Gretel said she didn’t think that was a proportionate response.
You’re sounding like Zu. She said violence isn’t the answer.
No, it is the answer. The shivs aren’t enough.
Gretel looked down at her rug, muttered that the world that lay at their feet lacked detail and pulled an atlas from her desk drawer. Maps of 196 countries including Taiwan and excluding Druhástrana.
Now then, Gretel said. Let’s do this before I forget. Where shall we meet once you’ve grown up?
Anywhere but here . . . hang on. Aren’t we going to do that together?
Gretel looked up from examining Budapest street names through a magnifying glass. Hmmm? Do what together?
Grow up.
Oh no, said Gretel. All that happens when you grow up is that your ethics get completely compromised and you do extremely dodgy things you never imagined doing, apparently for the sake of others. Plus, growing up isn’t in my job description.
You’ve got a job? What is it?
Changeling.
Changeling as in nonhuman replacement for a human child?
Changeling as in changeling. We’ve had bad press.
Right. What are your duties, then?
Mainly we assist people who’ve changed their minds in a way that means their lives have to be different too.
Harriet tried to hold Gretel’s gaze, but the other girl kept looking at the pinch marks instead. Even though she now knew they were malign in nature, they still came across as evidence of jaunty affection, of having been nibbled here and there just a bit, a tiny, tiny bit . . . the pinch marks really bothered Gretel, to a degree that enabled them to play an interrogative role and startle her into disclosure she might not otherwise have made. We—er—we try to help out with practicalities, next steps, etc. No two workdays are the same . . .
Is the pay good?
There is none. Usually I need a second or third job to get by, but being Clio’s daughter this time around makes things a bit easier in some respects.
No pay? Really none at all?
I’m not saying I
don’t have serious talks with myself sometimes. I’m not saying there aren’t moments when I say to myself: This is a mug’s game . . . let’s just hand in that resignation letter, you and me, let’s give two lives’ notice and leave all this behind. But. “Whát I dó is me: For that I came,” Gretel said. That’s from a poem I read once, and that’s really all there is to it.
So . . . am I a client?
No. You’re very . . . I trusted you at once, so you’re a friend. Even changelings need people they can place confidence in.
But not people to grow up with.
Like I said, that’s your job. You’ll get your real wages this time, but there’s an underlying issue here. I’m not sure how to put this . . . it’s about value systems . . .
Try putting it in terms of gingerbread.
Oh, then it’s simple. About that gingerbread of yours: What do you want in exchange for it? Look at your little face . . . had you really told yourself you intend to give the stuff away for free? If that were the case, would you really be this upset about the fake money? Right. So think. What’s the minimum you can accept in exchange for your gingerbread? And what about the maximum? Better to set honest prices if you want to make an honest profit, don’t you think . . . ?
After a pause, during which Harriet thought to herself that this was the sort of thing that would take decades to work out, Gretel said: Best get going then, hadn’t you, and Harriet jumped, then pretended she’d only been sneezing. Gretel laughed and held up her atlas.
But first: Where shall we meet once you’ve grown up? Stick three pins in so we have two backups.
They sounded out the names of foreign towns and cities. Consonants clattered and vowels unwound like parchment scrolls—every word they mispronounced sounded good to them. In the end it was the vividly tinted photographs that helped them refine their short list. Harriet flipped through the atlas backward and there they were—three photos in which the same two women recurred. One city scene, one spa-town snapshot, and the third was neither city nor countryside—two semi-smooth surfaces met and cast multilayered light. Harriet considered that light and said: Wasn’t this taken on a beach? Sand and sea? Gretel said it could be a beach, but there was a castle nearby . . . she definitely saw the type of mildewed shadow cast by a castle. At first the two women were barely distinct from the scenery, just two blurry figures holding on to each other. Gretel’s magnifying glass revealed that twice they were looking in the same direction and the third time one was looking down and the other was looking off to the side. Harriet pointed out that the one on the left was slightly in the lead. I think she’s guiding the old biddy on the right. It must be me and you.
Gretel looked up the place names and stuck three pins into her map.
Was Clio unnerved by the scene that greeted her when she opened Gretel’s bedroom door? Two girls fast asleep and as naked as the day they were born, sharing pages of a map book as a pillow while a blaring TV screen tracked the progress of a woman beating her way through an identity parade armed with nothing but a pair of scarlet stilettoes . . .
She probably stayed calm. She certainly managed to do so when Gretel and Harriet confronted her about the counterfeit money. Clio looked at the stacks of paper, looked at Harriet, put her hands up in the air, and said: Whoops!
Margot Lee has made Harriet recount that moment tens of times, and each time she’s assured Harriet that if Clio had done that in Margot’s presence no power in the heavens or upon the earth would have been able to save Clio Kercheval from getting strangled to death.
But of course I was going to pay you, silly. It’s just that as a mother I know how careless children are with money, so I issued these slips as tokens you can exchange for your actual wages. There’s a note about it in the contract your parents signed . . . oh, you didn’t see it? Well, it’ll all be there in writing when you go home and check with them.
Harriet hadn’t the faintest doubt that even if this clause hadn’t originally featured in the contract Margot and Simon had signed, they’d find it there when they looked. There was nothing Clio Kercheval couldn’t switch around if she had a mind to. Clio would stop at nothing to make sure the girls weren’t upset. Or, at any rate, not upset with Clio.
I would certainly have paid you before you left. Darling, you must have been thinking such terrible things! I’m glad you came straight to me . . .
Well, the truth is, Harriet ought to report you, Mum, Gretel said, in much the same tone of voice as someone at a bus stop might say, “I see the bus is late again today.”
But she won’t. Will you, Harriet? It’s all cleared up now. Besides, each of these representative vouchers I gave you—
Representative vouchers. So many switches were suddenly being pulled that it was hard to know what money actually was in and of itself. It seemed you got hold of some and then people told you what it was on that particular day. It was also hard to know whether money was like this because of Clio or whether Clio was like this because of money.
Each of these representative vouchers I gave you corresponds to ten English pounds, Clio continued. The strongest currency in the world, you know. Much stronger than ours. The exchange rate’s so good you’ve got much more than you thought you had! Isn’t that wonderful? No need to thank me . . . you know I’d never cheat you.
That’s the thing, Harriet said. I don’t know that. So I’m not going to work for you anymore, Mrs. Kercheval. I don’t want to find out what else you’ve got in store for me.
Clio gaped, and her daughter said: Oh. Not even slightly curious?
No. I’ll take the money—the real money, whatever that may be—and run, thank you.
Gretel handed Harriet a dressing gown and told her mother to bring the full amount in small notes.
Don’t count on being allowed back into the Gingerbread House to lead some sort of rebellion, Gretel said, when Clio had gone.
But she won’t pay the others.
Yes, she will. I’ll make sure of it. It’ll be . . . nice to see your friend Turandot. Maybe I could help her out—if I hit her again, it might reset her sense of smell.
I’ll thank you in advance for not hitting Dottie again under any circumstances, Harriet said, through nervous laughter. And I’ll write to you from the farmstead.
They went for a walk along the misty riverbank. Every now and again there was a parting in the clouds and sunlight struck the bridge’s iron fin and spliced the surface of the water. The girls liked that, but more wondrous still—nine divers surfaced. Nine snorkeled divers, each bearing a board with a number painted on it.
Thursday, Harriet said. It’s Thursday, Gretel.
She searched her coat pockets for her half of their lottery ticket, and Gretel turned out her own pockets too. The drivers began to disperse, but they stopped when they heard Gretel’s shrill command: Please wait a minute, just a minute . . .
Then one by the one the divers approached to shake hands and join the girls’ celebrations. Above them pedestrians gathered on Dolphin Bridge to deliver a round of applause. The pedestrians weren’t sure what was happening, but there’s no harm in showing you’re glad for people when they’re jumping up and down and screaming, WE WON! OH MY GOD, WE WON!
* * *
—
BY THE TIME GRETEL AND HARRIET had collected their winnings, there were ten missed calls on Harriet’s phone, all from the phone Harriet had sent to Margot. So Harriet phoned back.
How do you feel about England? Harriet’s mother said, without preamble.
Hi, Mum. One sec. Harriet held the phone against her chest and consulted Gretel.
(How do I feel about England?
Well, one of our three pins is stuck in England, so . . . good?)
Harriet told Margot she felt good about England. “Good” felt too committed, so she backtracked. Good-ish. Why?
Listen, Harriet . . . I’ve been so f
ed up with all the intercepted letters that were supposedly from you, but a few weeks ago a real one came. Through the Pigeon Post.
Eh?
Maggie Parker’s homing pigeons came to roost . . .
What—the geriatric ones everyone decided had been abducted by aliens?
Not everyone . . . just the Cook family. But yes, those pigeons! All three of them. Well cared for . . . positively GLOSSY, actually, each one carrying a carbon copy of the same letter. Couldn’t tell you who was more excited—me or Maggie Parker. She was doing high kicks and all kinds of risky moves . . . seriously thought she was going to dislocate a joint. And you should’ve heard her. They said the Parker talent was dying out, but the Parkers have still got it! Better not talk about the Parkers unless you know! Parker’s Pigeon Post, YEAH! Nonstop for eighty-three years! From here to England and back, that’s right! She’s tapped Jiaolong for next Pigeon Postmaster, and she’s teaching him how to raise the next three squabs . . .
Oh Maggie! She used to live so much in the past, didn’t she, thinking she was the least impressive of the Parkers . . .
Nobody can ever say that now.
The letter—was it addressed to you?
Sort of. It was in English, and it began: If your daughter’s name is Harriet Lee—
Oh Mother, Harriet said, in English. So you can English? I can too!
Margot responded in English, too fast for Harriet to understand, but Harriet still had to show some ability, so she kept up the English: Lovely!
Margot switched back to Druhástranian: Sweetheart, I’m so pleased we can both English. (Hearing this in Druhástranian, Harriet understood her grammatical error.) What a pair we are—the daughter’s got brains and perseverance, and the mother’s got parents who paid for her to go to International School. So when that note came, I wrote back at once. I’ve had to keep Maggie from spoiling those pigeons, mind. She’s so proud of them there’s a chance they’ll get overfed, and there can’t be a Pigeon Post if the messengers can’t even carry their own body weight. Anyway, I wrote back, and he replied, and . . .
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