by Sarah Fine
I start the water heating and grab the broom to tidy up a bit. There’s a small pile of those ever-present metal shavings a few feet from the window. As the broom bristles push the shavings and metal scraps across the floor, mingling them with the dirt from our shoes, I see it. It’s the size of my thumb, a piece that’s bigger than the rest. I pick it up and hold it to the light of the window as the shift whistle blows. I am too mesmerized by the object in my hands to be bothered by it.
It’s a girl, a metal girl, tiny scraps soldered or welded together to form her face, her dress, her hands. The finest wire is braided down her back for her hair. I examine her face closely, my heart fluttering uncomfortably.
It’s me.
“What are you doing?” my father asks.
I spin around, clutching the tiny metal me tightly in my fist. My mouth opens and closes a few times, but I’m not sure what to say, so I hold the thing out to him.
He blinks several times as he takes her from me. He walks over to the lamp and switches it on, then tilts the figure under the light. She gleams prettily, more beautiful than I’ll ever be. My brain is still sluggish from the sickness, and I don’t understand why my father seems so perplexed when he looks back at me. “Where did you find this?”
I point to the half-swept pile of metal shavings. “There. When I woke up. I don’t know how long it’s been there.” I glance around the room, as if there’s something here that will tell me what day it is.
“It wasn’t here last night,” he says. “I would have noticed. And I haven’t left your side for nearly two days.”
“Two days? You mean, it’s—”
“Tuesday, yes. I told Mugo you wouldn’t be able to start until next week.” His face twists. “I also told him this would be a great disappointment to you, and that comforted him. He’s agreed not to charge you for your meals until then.”
I manage to find myself a chair before I fall down. “Thank you. I could start before then, probably.” The sooner I start, the sooner I can begin to help him pay off his debt—and keep him from falling deeper into it for my sake. Who knows what would happen if he did? Mugo might decide to bring in some other doctor. My father wasn’t the only one left without work when the crash came. He was lucky to secure this position, and lucky to keep it. And I will not be the reason he loses it. “I could start tomorrow, even.”
He shakes his head. “You look much better today, but you’ll be tired. You haven’t eaten solid food for almost three days, and you were already exhausted when you got sick. I should never have let you spend so much time in the Noor dorms.”
“You couldn’t have stopped me.” It shouldn’t be true. I should obey my father, and I usually do, but in this case I couldn’t have, not if I wanted to live with myself. Which reminds me of something I wish I could forget. “How’s Tercan?” I ask in a small voice.
Father makes a pained face. “He held on for a long time. He wanted to live.”
I feel like the metal version of me, unable to expand my lungs to draw breath, caught in one rigid position forever. “When?”
My father gazes at the small figure in his hands. “Last night. Melik discovered him when he returned from his shift.”
Melik. He must be devastated. I don’t know whether Tercan was related to him or not, but he obviously loved him like a brother. “How are they?” I ask, because I don’t want my father to know how much I think about Melik. “That’s three they’ve lost from this. Unless . . .” I can barely breathe—what if Sinan didn’t make it?
Father reads me easily. “No, only three. All of them are recovering now. The illness is spreading through the other dorms, though, and there are many bad feelings toward the Noor.”
“Because they blame them.”
He nods. “You can’t tell them otherwise.” He gets to his feet and holds the metal figure out to me. “You have an admirer, it seems.”
I take it from his hands. It’s warm from his skin. “I do?”
I immediately think of Melik, but he could never do something like this. He wouldn’t have access to the tools. Plus, he has a million other things to do, life-and-death kinds of things. He has no time to fashion works of art to impress a stupid, selfish girl like me.
My stomach tightens. “It’s not Mugo, is it?” He has the money to pay someone to make things like this.
Father’s expression darkens. “No, he wouldn’t send something like this. You really don’t know who might have done it?”
It dawns on me slowly, like water reaching a boil. Yes, I know who might have sent me this. I wonder if my father does too. If he doesn’t, I’m not going to be the one to tell him. I promised the Ghost that I would do nothing to give him away. I need to ask my father about it in a way that doesn’t reveal what I know, and I’m too tired to do that right now.
I turn the little figure in my hands. Is this how the Ghost sees me? Is this some kind of peace offering? A get-well wish? Does this mean he isn’t angry with me? Would he talk to me again?
How did he deliver this present, exactly?
I look at my father and shrug, but my palms are sweating. I cross my arms over my chest to try to hug away the chill.
Father is watching me closely. “Still feverish?”
I shake my head.
He looks at his pocket watch. “I have to go help the Noor dispose of Tercan’s body this morning.”
His words hit me like the kick of a mule. “Are they burying him?”
“No, they can’t afford a burial plot, and they’d never be able to get one anyway, because the people of the Ring would not want their ancestors lying next to a Noor. We have to take him to the furnace.”
The furnace is the final resting place of those too poor to be buried. The fire eats their flesh and bones and sends the rest out the chimney stack, into the sky. I actually wouldn’t mind that kind of end. It seems better than being stuck in the cold, hard ground. But people who go to temple believe in the sanctity of the body, that even in death it must be preserved. Destroying a body with fire is the height of disrespect because it implies the body—and therefore the person—is unclean somehow. Unnatural. Unworthy of being returned to the earth.
I don’t know if the Noor believe that, though. I don’t know if they have the luxury of believing anything. “I’m going with you,” I announce.
The least I can do is pay my respects to the boy I killed.
MY FATHER AND I trudge down to the Noor dorms, our breath huffing white in front of our faces. Even huddled in my overcoat, I am freezing. I think the fever burned away all my insulation, and now I’m just bones and flesh. Sinan is sitting on the front stoop of the dorm, blowing his breath into his hands to warm them. His eyes are a bit swollen, like he’s been crying.
“Are they ready?” my father asks him.
“They’ve been waiting,” Sinan says. He will not meet my eyes.
More sorrow awaits us inside. I don’t want to see it, don’t want to face it. I want to pretend like it never happened. I want to go back in time and skip lunch on that day, or forget to put the tin coin in my pocket that morning . . . or maybe be a better person and never challenge a ghost to avenge me. But I can’t do that, so I will do this. I march up the stairs and make my way down the hall.
Before we get to the room, Melik and three other boys come out, carrying the body wrapped in sheets. Melik’s eyes are red. But when he sees me, his expression brightens with something like relief. I should lower my eyes, but I don’t. I want to look at him, and I want him to look at me in that way I don’t deserve. So I watch as his brightness fades back into sorrow as quickly as it appeared.
My father asks after the health of a few of the Noor, and then we’re escorting Melik and the others across the compound to the southwest entrance of the factory, where the furnace burns off all the parts of the animals we can’t use, all our garbage. The smell is of
burning meat, day in and day out, charred and acrid if you get too close.
We’re too close right now, stepping through the doorway that will take us to the furnace. I stare down the long hallway lined with tangles and coils of pipes, with access panels and little alcoves. As we walk, I hear a faint rhythmic tapping. At first I think it’s the random protests of a worn-out set of pipes, but it turns out it’s not random at all. Five slow taps, then alternating fast and slow, then three slow and two fast. I hear the pattern three times before we’re halfway down the hall, but no one else seems to notice. Except my father. He’s listening carefully, his head tilted slightly. After the completion of the fourth repetition of the pattern, he frowns, and his lips become a tight gray line.
Soon the roar of the furnace is too loud for us to hear anything so quiet as tapping. I shed my overcoat because it’s already boiling and we’re not even in the furnace room yet. All of us are sweating. Some of the Noor look sick, but Melik looks determined. He holds up his hand to the others before we go in. He allows another boy, the one with the mole on his cheek, to take Tercan’s shoulders and head.
With tears in his eyes, which are probably as much a product of the bitter fumes as his grief, Melik addresses the Noor. He is not the oldest of them, but it is clear he has some authority here, because they listen to him with absolute attention. As he speaks, the throaty words flowing smoothly off his tongue, I watch the Noor. I see jaws tightening, chins lifting, shoulders shifting from slumped to straight. Eyes brightening, heads nodding. He spreads his arms, his long fingers, and his eyes are blazing. His voice rises to ask the group a question. They all answer in unison. He does it again, a different question. They all answer in unison again, louder. Tears are rolling down some of their faces, but all of them look fierce.
I have no idea what he’s said, but I think he’s just reminded them who they are.
It’s like he’s taken off a mask, or maybe put one on, I don’t know. This Melik is a man, a warrior, a soul that could never be crushed. Now I see what could be possible if the Noor are pushed too far. They are not weak, not passive. It’s only a hint, a glimpse, but there’s fire here. My father was wrong; they are not defeated, not completely.
With their heads high, the Noor carry Tercan’s body to the furnace. The men who shovel offal and garbage into its flaming mouth all stand back, looking unhappy. My father hovers close to me. I try to focus on the Noor but am distracted by the enormous bins full of animal guts, the stench of rot, of sewage. This will be Tercan’s resting place. There is nothing more humiliating, I would think, but the Noor are now impassive as they place his body on the metal plate. Melik himself slides his friend into the fire, and when he turns away, it’s still reflected in his eyes.
He looks neither left nor right. He simply strides toward the door, and the other Noor fall in behind him. I’ve never seen anything like it, this kind of defiance within compliance, refusal to be broken while standing inside a machine that would gladly tear you to bits.
My father nods to the furnace workers and asks one of them how his daughter is feeling. Their expressions relax as they speak to him, as he tries to smooth things over. It takes him a few minutes, and I stand near the exit and wait, unable to take my eyes off the carnage, the bloated coils of intestines, the shattered, bloody bones. My father takes my arm. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
I tell him I’m fine, but I’m relieved when he opens the door and we’re out in the hallway again, where the air is slightly more breathable. The Noor are gone, back to their dorms to finish their mourning. They’re scheduled to work in a few hours, and I wonder if they’ll carry their defiant expressions onto the killing floor. For their sake, I hope not.
I take another bath when I get back to the clinic because the smoky smell of death has seeped into my hair and clothes. I’ll have to wash my brown dress again and use the strongest soap we have.
I choose the plainest dress in the closet, an unbleached muslin. With purple thread my mother embroidered a simple, looping pattern around the neck and waistline. I braid my hair and then coil it in a knot at the base of my neck.
When I get to the cafeteria, Vie and Onya are there, and they look happy to see that I’m back on my feet again. I get myself a bun from the cafeteria line and join them at the table.
“You’re so pale!” Onya says. “We heard you were on death’s doorstep.”
“I don’t think it was that bad,” I say.
Onya humphs. “Those Noor have fixed us up good. Everybody’s sick. Production is down. Boss Jipu is in a panic.”
I swallow a bite of bun and pray it doesn’t come back up. “This happens every feasting season, Onya. I remember my father talking about it last year.”
She makes a sour face. “Don’t you stick up for them. It’s worse this year. They’re filthy bad luck, pure and simple.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Vie doesn’t give me the chance. “When are you starting in Mugo’s office?” she says. She looks excited that I’ll be joining the ranks of the office girls, and I suppose I should feel that way too, since I’ll finally be earning my keep.
“My father insisted I have a chance to recover, so he told Mugo I’d start Monday. I think I’ll start sooner, though.”
Vie nods eagerly. “You look all right to me.”
Onya laughs. “You’re so desperate for company that you’d tell her that if her arm was hanging by a thread. She looks like a ghost!”
Vie has the grace to look embarrassed. “Jima’s been gone for a week, and she was the fastest typist.”
“What happened?” I ask. Jima is a smart girl and a hard worker. I don’t understand why she would be fired. And it doesn’t bode well for me, because I can’t type my way out of a paper sack.
Vie raises her eyebrow. “The rumor is her extracurricular activities got her in trouble.”
I stare at her. Is she saying Jima was promiscuous? Did Mugo discover her with a boy and fire her for impropriety?
Onya slaps Vie on the arm.
Vie yelps. “What did you do that for?”
“Because you are a stupid girl who doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And you’re lucky, too, that Jipu is your boss and not Mugo.” Onya turns to me, and she’s shaking with anger. “You watch yourself, Wen. Mind your manners and don’t wear fancy little girl clothes like you do. You’re asking for trouble.”
And with that, she takes the bun from her plate and storms out of the cafeteria, leaving me with blazing cheeks and a lot of questions.
Vie has questions of her own. “Iyzu told me you spent time in the Noor dorms, alone with some of them. Was he right?”
I sigh. Those rumors were bound to circulate, but I’m too tired to worry about it. “All of them were bedridden with fever at the time.”
She grimaces. “You’re lucky. I can’t imagine what they would have done to you if they had the strength. Weren’t you terrified?”
“No. I don’t think everything we’ve been told about the Noor is true, Vie.”
She gapes at me. “One look at those barbarians tells me everything I need to know. What is wrong with you?”
“They’re human beings,” I snap. “And they take care of each other.” More than the Itanyai do, I think.
Vie rolls her eyes. “I take back what I said a minute ago. I think you’re still feverish.”
“Maybe I should go lie down, then,” I say, eager to get away from her. I leave the cafeteria, but instead of going straight back to the clinic, I creep to the Ghost’s altar. Two of the slaughterhouse workers are there, reeking of blood, obviously having decided that their wishes are more important than a cup of tea and a moment to sit down.
“. . . if not, it’s a transfer for me. And you know what that means,” mutters the older of the two.
His companion slaps him on the back. “The Ghost will fix it, and then you�
��ll have no trouble making that quota. Have faith.”
The older one with the paper folds it up tightly and gives me a suspicious look that makes me take a step back. I find myself wishing I had an ink stick and a piece of paper, something that made me look like I belong here. The two of them brush by me, and I hope I’m imagining it when I hear one of them whisper, “Noor-lover.”
I drop to my knees in front of the altar, glancing over today’s offerings. A fresh plum cake. A packet of green tea. A few coins. A candle. A small book of homemade paper along with an ink stick. I can almost tell by the cost of the gift what kind of wishes they are, and whom they came from. The women leave pretty gifts, sweet gifts. The men leave presents of cured hard salami. One has left a bottle of beer. Another has left a wish for good health along with a pair of clampers—which I suspect was stolen from my father’s clinic. All of these items, all of these wishes. I wonder which ones the Ghost can and will grant.
On impulse I lean over and tap the pipes, a kind of greeting, maybe a thank-you for the little metal statue. I’m not sure if I actually feel thankful for it, but I certainly don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful or angry at him. I want us to be at peace with each other.
I want to stop thinking about him, but that’s not possible.
“Can you hear me?” I whisper, but there’s no answer. No tapping, no sound from the pipes. I peer into the side hallway where I chased him the other night. In the daylight it doesn’t look so sinister, just a dim, plain corridor leading to a staircase. I walk its length and place my hand on the metal door. As badly as I want to open it, I don’t. He made me promise.