The mentalegraphers, on the other hand, are expressive, animated, lively. Walking into their office, she’s overwhelmed by a maelstrom of voices. Waves of laughter. Cadences rising and falling. Deep-pitched susurruses of public arguments. Wet swellings of unrestrained tears.
How spirited they are when channelling! How very life-like.
Not that they’re exactly dead, Mireille decides, following a receptionist past several plexiglass cubicles, each furnished with a simple hardwood desk, white fibreglass tulip chairs, and a chrome pendant lamp shining blurred cones of yellow onto the figures sitting below, clasping hands across the tables. The mediums aren’t corpses; it’s just, some say they were born without souls. Mireille doesn’t quite believe that, though. How can they function without at least some spark of their own? True, they are channels, conveying other people’s thoughts—not just mimicking, transmitting other people’s voices. But surely that doesn’t mean they’re empty the rest of the time.
I mean, Mireille thinks, look at this one.
The woman sitting behind the desk has more spirit than most. Her eyes, though opaque with cataracts, are alert; protruding irises fix on Mireille the instant her shadow falls across the shag carpet. Dimples pucker the medium’s broad brown cheeks when she stands, open-lipped and open handed, welcoming. Her long black hair is tied back with a white velvet band, and the white fleece shawl draped across her broad shoulders is embroidered with whimsical balloons. She is matronly, almost plump. Mireille can’t help feeling she’d give strong, all-encompassing hugs.
Her nametag is buffed steel, labelled INEZ.
Her breath—her lip gloss?—smells like vanilla.
Her smile widens, without hint of a scowl, and Mireille’s pulse regulates. Inez makes her feel like a long-lost friend. Like someone she’s known for years. She helps Mireille with her coat, then stalls her mid-sit. “Cash or trade?”
In her thick accent, it sounds like kiss or tread. It takes Mireille a moment to translate what the woman has said.
“Of course.” She blushes. Fumbles through all her layers for the money belt tucked into her pants. Peyt sends funds whenever he can—coins individually wrapped in cotton batting, unclinking, so Pigeons won’t know the parcel’s worth stealing—but lately the grocer’s prices are nearly as bad as the bazaar’s. The purse is lighter than she remembered. And some things can’t be rummaged: soap, milk, pencils …
“Trade.”
Inez tilts her head, assessing. Mireille shrinks under the woman’s blind scrutiny; her body stripped and inventoried in seconds.
“Destination?” she asks, and Mireille is flummoxed. How am I supposed to know where he is? Isn’t that her job? To track him down? To find him?
As if attuned to her client’s distress, Inez expands the field of inquiry. “Domestic or international?”
“Domestic,” Mireille stammers. “I think.”
“Very well.” Inez nods. Gestures at the cardigan knotted around Mireille’s hips. “We’ll start with that and adjust if need be. If he don’t pick up, you gets a full refund.”
“Of course,” Mireille says, more harshly than intended. With the sweater on the desk between them, she is invited to sit and place her hands palm-up on the soft wool. The medium follows suit. She pulls her chair close, intimate. Heavy breasts millimetres above the tabletop. Shadows muting her features. She leans in and exhales. The scent of vanilla so strong, it’s befuddling. Mireille wonders where in the world she got perfume.
“Clear your mind,” Inez instructs. “Think only of—”
“Peyt. Peytr Borysson.”
“Just so,” says the medium. “Think only of Peytr Borysson. Mind-trap him fully, painted in detail. What makes him him? Narrow it down to the blood and bone. Then hang that picture in the right room. What’s around him? Got it? Got it? Now, when you’re ready, call.”
“Out loud?”
Inez nods. Sage. Reassuring.
Mireille does as she’s told. Holding nothing back, she squeezes Inez’s fingers. “Peyt?” she whispers, annoyed at the saltwater rise in her veins. She clears her throat. Swallows thick. “Darling?”
Cataracts twitch rapidly, left right left right left, and Inez’s forehead pleats. Nostrils flaring, her lips become a black line. “Again.”
Twice, three times, Mireille calls. Sweat trickles down her back and in runnels beside Inez’s nose. It’s not working, she thinks, calling, “Peyt? Peyt?” Temples pounding, white and blue spots dancing across the desk. “Please answer, Peyt. Please—”
Inez’s grip slackens.
Mireille’s heart plunges.
“This was a mistake,” she says, pulling back. “This was a complete waste of time.”
Fool… . Stupid fuckin’ fool …
The medium catches Mireille by the wrists, holds fast. Physically, her features remain unchanged—but within seconds, her bearing is transformed. She sits tall, shoulders thrust back, chin lifted. The fine brown arcs of her eyebrows dart up in surprise; Peyt’s voice, when it comes, is haughty, high-pitched, almost feminine. His words, Mireille thinks, are coloured by Inez’s peculiar inflections.
—Who is this?
“Peyt. Darling. It’s me.”
—And you are?
“Oh, Peyt.” He’s having an episode, she thinks. He’s confused again.
All the lists stuffed in her coat pocket are forgotten. All the things she wants to tell him will keep. Until he’s himself again. “It’s me; it’s your Mimi. I’m here, love—remember? Getting everything set for you and Neddie and dear Tantie to arrive. It’s just about ready, too. You can come home anytime now, anytime. Come home, Peyt. Come home. There’s no shame in—”
—Enough! Why are you doing this?
“Well,” Inez says, blinking fiercely. Gusts of sweet-vanilla air heave across the desk. A tissue appears from her sleeve; catching her breath, she pats the sweat from her brow.
“That’s it? He’s gone?”
“Not quite worth the price,” Inez admits, making no move to return the sweater. “Make sure you see me next time. I’ll give you a discount.”
There won’t be a next time.
Let him seek me out for once, Mireille thinks that night, her weak tea going cold on the kitchen table. Let him miss me, see how he likes it. Pencil in hand, list at the ready, she jots down a title, then gets up. Circumnavigates the sitting room, cracking her knuckles from pinkies to thumbs. Vitriol in motion.
She makes three laps clockwise, three widdershins, then sits. Starts writing.
Mireille is not selfish. She does what she can, all things considered. She contributes. She would do more if she could. Honestly. She’s trying, even though he’s not here half the time to see it. She is trying.
Things I Would Change
– That tone he used today.
– The way he fast-talks to avoid actually talking.
– The way he thinks I don’t notice when he does this.
– That he squirrels away most of his pay—who knows where? Who knows why. Sending a few coins wrapped in cotton, every once in a while. No paper, no notes. When there’s Ned to consider. And May. When he says he wants better for us all, a house like the one he grew up in, or better, better: one that is ours. No shared walls, no shared rooms, no shared rations. A place of our own.
– That he’s been promoted twice, however that works—higher bounty for killing greys? More time on the field? So he’s earning more and is away more, but is still as close-fisted as he is close-lipped.
– That he won’t offer a cent more than I can match.
– That he says it’s even this way. It’s fair.
– That he’s often more fair than supportive.
– That nothing is fair, not really.
– Least of all love.
Blue road for a blue sky day. Mireille’s boots scuff along the chalky gravel, stirring up heel-clouds, miniature versions of the ones woolling overhead. Every few minutes, thin golden fingers streak down f
rom above, directing her to the train station.
A good sign, she tells herself, unconvincingly. She hasn’t slept well in days; now her luck metre is off. All morning she’s been foggy-headed, distracted, walking green and orange paths. The wagon trundles behind her, empty, startling her with each clatter and bump. Restless, her limbs feel hollow, her hands tingling. She should eat, but her stomach is gone, disintegrated with worry. A strange, nervous feeling has lodged behind her ribs. It’s almost like someone is trying to call, she thinks. But no matter how she listens the message eludes her, just beyond hearing. The muscles in her neck are hard. Her eyes are dry. Each individual lash itches. Knuckling brings no relief. At the turnstiles leading into the train station, she is seized with panic. Convinced she’s left the gas-lamps burning in Neddie’s room, that she’ll come home to find nothing but cinder and smoke.
The platform is nearly deserted. Anyone not on the dawn run has missed out on a day’s tunnelling; likewise, any shifts at the welders’ three miles down the line have been filled by now. Workers with gear and gumption have been up and at it for more hours than most can fathom; the late-sleepers have tucked tail and gone to the alms-master to beg a ration of bread. Steel benches are seats for litter and rats, and wrought-iron clocks hanging from the rafters have boasted the same time for years. Pacing along the tiles, a few painted snakes click-clack in high heels, craning to see down the open-air tracks—as if staring and huffing and flicking smoke-butts on the rails will make the train magically appear. On the station side of the corridor, bannock and honey stalls are tarped and locked, the best wares saved for the evening rush.
No use peddling to ghosts from the ’port, Mireille thinks, as a big black engine crests the final rise. Out of habit, she looks at the clock. Guesses the train is about forty minutes late. Brakes shriek it home, shrilling to the roots of the teeth. Before the steam has settled, the wheels are chugging again, the shuttered carriages speckling the landing with no more than ten passengers. None of them straight-backed women. None beautiful little girls.
Tomorrow, Mireille thinks. Wishing, not quite believing. They must be coming tomorrow.
The station’s revolving door spits her back onto the sun-dappled road. There are months until lunch, years before dinner. Abandoning the blue route, she turns onto the red, tread heavy as her heart. Cranes trail shadows across her path, a confusion of lines and angles. Jackhammers rat-tat-tat behind chain-link fences, pounding asphalt and concrete to sand. Shovels scrape and scrape and scrape until there’s a tang in Mireille’s mouth. Sharp and metallic, like she’s just bitten tinfoil.
Something isn’t right, she thinks. Something is wrong.
I’ve done something wrong.
Peyt won’t talk. Neddie and May won’t come. What have I forgotten? She passes one construction site after another, jolting with each scrape of metal on stone, each screech, each rat-tat-tat-tat. A convoy of jets soars overhead. Mireille’s shoulders bunch up, as if trying to cover her ears. Green spots swoosh in her peripheral vision as she fishes a rough map from her breast pocket. Why aren’t they here? What haven’t I done? With heavy strokes, she blacks out part of the red district, then rubs out a thumbprint smudging the Neuemarkethub.
Rat-tat-tat
Rat-tat-tat-tat
Brushing away eraser dust, Mireille stares down at the yellow square outlining the hotel and its off-limit hoard. She looks up, gauges the distance on land instead of paper, taking the new construction zones into account. Two blocks? Three, tops. Rat-tat-tat. I’ve got to get that gold frame, she thinks, legs suddenly pumping, propelling her forward. The wagon jerks and bounces, snags on a coil of fuses, flips with a crash. Mireille drops the handle, leaves the thing behind. I’ve got to get that gold—rat-tat-tat-tat-tat—Ned won’t come until I get it—If I don’t get it—she’s not coming—rat-tat-tat-tat—if I don’t—she’s—rat-tat-tat—dead.
A wasp whizzes past Mireille’s head. Her fedora blows off and scudders away. She lets it go. Around her the workmen are scowling, running to their machines. They’re shouting, shouting at her—rat-tat-tat—and though she’s gasping, churning distance with every ounce of her strength, she can’t move any faster. She’s sprinting through molasses. The street lengthens the further she goes. Left and right, cranes ratchet backwards, tipping at odd angles, tips aimed at the sky. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Clouds shred like gauze, revealing clear patches beyond the grey and flaring green. Chest heaving, Mireille sobs as a boom blasts from nowhere. Half a block away, a taxi blazes, billowing greasy smoke, hanging on the lip of a yawning crater. Running past, she sees the mule that pulled it charred to the bone. Stinking of singed hide and raw meat.
Rockets blare from cannons on rooftops, zippo raids stream red noise. High-rises in all stages of incompletion judder and grind, unsteady as drunks. Ned’s dead, she thinks as a wall of heat knocks her to the ground. Neuemarkethub erupts, bombarded with fire. Stained glass sprays across the cluttered yard, chiming on the sidewalks and roads. Tiny, glittering shards nit through Mireille’s hair; her ’wind scatters, incoherent, desiccated. Scrambling to her feet, she groans along with the teetering hotel. Bricks and marble and crystal and glass tumble into the yard. Burying chandeliers and tapestries and huge gold-leaf frames. Burying her little girl.
– Ned’s dead
– Ned’s dead
– Ned’s dead
– Ned’s dead
– Ned’s dead
– Ned’s dead
– Ned’s dead
“Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhhhh.”
The shelter is full of scowlers and snakes. They turn their backs, huddle in corners, as far from Mireille as they can get in such a confined space. Fanning the stuffy air away from their faces. Covering mouths and noses with handkerchiefs. As if the sorrow—the death—clinging to her is contagious.
Mireille doesn’t stop crying.
“Shhhhhhh,” says a young girl, squatting next to her on the floor. Around Ned’s age, give or take. Wrapped in a shawl, with brown skin and messy black hair, the child is a perfect copy of Inez in miniature. ’Windless and wordless, her soft arm drapes across Mireille’s shuddering back. Hand fluttering a comforting rhythm. There, there.
A good sign, Mireille starts to think, when big dimples stave in the girl’s cheeks. Just like Inez… . Then she shakes her head, wracked with sobs.
I didn’t make it in time.
Ned’s dead.
This isn’t a sign—
Unless.
Inez.
“I’ll call them,” Mireille whispers.
“Shhhhhhh,” says the girl. “Shhhhhhh.”
“As soon we get the all-clear, I’ll call them. All of them. Ned, Tantie May.” She sniffs, swallows a wad of phlegm. “And Peyt.”
“Shhhhhhh.”
“I know,” Mireille says, snuffling into her sleeve. The girl is smart. She knows how Peyt will react. She knows calling will cause a fight. He’ll say I make him feel bad for being away. That I always want him to come right home—even though he can’t, not all the time, hardly ever. Then I’ll apologise, and he’ll say it’s all right. And we’ll make a deal, unspoken, untenable, that next time—next time he goes—I can’t say anything about it. Not even fake good wishes. Not even can’t wait to see you again. Not even see you soon because that’s too restrictive. When is soon? Today? Next month? My soon is different than your soon, Mimi. Don’t make me feel bad. So don’t call. Don’t ask. Shut up.
“But Ned is his daughter,” she tells the girl, whose little hand keeps patting and patting. “He needs to know—”
I didn’t make it in time.
“Shhhhhhh,” says the girl. There, there.
“Welcome back.”
“Trade,” Mireille says instantly, shoving her trench coat at Inez. “Call my daughter.”
The mentalegrapher squints as Mireille sits down. She looks tired; less beatific than she appeared yesterday. Slowly, she goes through the coat’s pockets, taking out pencils and maps and lists.
Glancing at them, occasionally saying, Hmm or huh before sliding them back across the desk. Ringed with blue shadows, her eyes narrow to slits.
“Ned, right?”
“Yes,” Mireille says. “Ned. But how—”
Inez taps the top list with her finger.
“Oh.”
“Children are sparrows,” the medium says. “So flighty. Hard to catch before they’re, oh, I don’t know.” She grasps a seven from Mireille’s ’wind. “Ten? Eleven?”
“This is important.” Mireille peels off her long-sleeved jersey, scrunches it into Inez’s hands. “Please.”
“Is she—” Inez waggles fingers at the wan letters storming overhead. “Like you?”
“Of course,” she replies, taken aback. “She’s my daughter.”
“Of course.” Inez sighs and Mireille catches a whiff of vanilla disdain. “So she’ll be projecting her little thoughts all over, won’t she?”
Today, Mireille takes no comfort in the medium’s grip. The skin is papery but, somehow, also clammy. Between each knuckle, the flesh is gaunt despite its plump appearance. The hand that was so reassuring, so warm, now feels like a leather bag Mireille rummaged last month, filled with dice and ivory dominoes.
Closing her eyes, she clears her mind and concentrates on Ned.
After a minute, Inez clicks her tongue.
“Nothing,” she says.
She’s dead, Mireille thinks, heart clogging. “Call Tantie May,” she manages, unlacing her boots. “I’ve got spare socks. Without holes.”
“Done.”
But it wasn’t.
“Nothing,” Inez says, less than thirty seconds later.
Maybe they’re in the air, Mireille thinks. Maybe there’s interference—
Reading her ’wind, Inez immediately says, “Sweetheart. There’s nothing. No one. No one is there.”
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