by Tina Shaw
Moustache shoulders his way into the pub, the scent of smoke and coal dust on his bulky jacket. Without a word, he pulls a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and flattens it out on the table. It is one of the cheaply printed bulletins that appear from time to time on lampposts and fences.
My brother reads the sheet with a frown.
Free land!
Fresh air!
Plentiful food!
A new incentive open to all Cerel families.
Apply at House of Law.
Transport leaving daily.
If you didn’t know better, it would sound tempting and I still find myself liking the idea of open space and plentiful food. What could be wrong? Maybe Emee is right and the Director really does want the best for everybody, even Cerels. Jorzy, however, his face closed, sits back and takes out his pipe.
Moustache stabs the sheet with a grimy finger. “They’ve only just appeared, but already there’s a buzz on the street.”
The third man, who’d been sitting there silently, looks up darkly. “Surely people wouldn’t be so gullible–”
Another man leans over our table, trying to read the bulletin. Soon a small group has gathered. “There’s a story in the Travester newspaper about that,” one of them says.
“Gods bless the Director,” says another.
There’s a laugh. “You won’t catch me going,” says a short man wearing a porkpie hat.
The bartender pulls out a dog-eared newspaper and slaps it on the bar. “It says here we’ll be given land. We can become farmers and grow our own food.”
Jorzy is looking from one face to the next in despair. “Come on,” he shouts, waving the handbill, “you don’t really believe this shit, do you? They’re wanting to get rid of us. It’s the Caucasas, for godsake–”
Nobody is listening. Everybody is talking at once. A round of beer is called for and toasts are made. The bartender is plonking tankards of beer onto the wooden counter. This is the effect the Director must have hoped for, I reckon, for people to get caught up in the excitement, the possibility of a fine future.
Moustache is shaking his head in disbelief.
Jorzy gets up and pushes his way out of the pub. Without thinking, I hurry after him.
My brother is marching along the street. “They’ll never learn,” says Jorzy under his breath. “You’d think, with the men in the wild camps, with the disappearances, with all the humiliations we have to put up with, what they did to our mother, what’s happening with Marina …” He makes a gulping noise that means he’s very upset. “You’d think that people would learn.” Jorzy brushes away furious tears. “And what will be waiting for them there in the Caucasas?”
He stops and glares at me as if it’s my fault. A gas lamp casts a puddle of sickly light onto the pavement around us. His expression is pained, his voice breaking with raw emotion. “There’ll be nothing. Stone and ice. And they won’t even be able to get back again. Leho,” he says, his gaze like a searchlight, “it’s a death sentence.”
I honestly don’t know what to say. My brother stares into the future and sees only a nightmare. Is this what our father once looked like? Enraged and despairing? It makes me think about my brave parents who once saw a future that nobody else wanted to believe.
Jorzy’s eyes focus on me again and he puts a hand on my shoulder, saying lightly, “Go home, Leho, get some rest.”
“Where are you going?”
But my brother is already striding away into the gloom.
* * *
Back at the house, Marina and Therei are sitting at the table, sewing in the light from the lamp. I’ve noticed that Therei is hanging around more these days, as if drawn like a moth to Marina. She’ll know about the pregnancy, and I wonder if Therei is envious. My sister smiles when she sees me and holds up her handiwork.
“What d’you think?”
It’s a tiny dress made from calico. I lift the skirt, feeling the softness of the material between my fingers. “Will its legs really be that long?”
Marina laughs. “No, silly. You have to make it long to keep the baby warm.”
“You must remember what a baby looks like,” says Therei. She’s working on a similar dress, the needle flashing between her thin, nimble fingers.
“Sure I do,” I huff. Though I don’t remember much from when Babet was a squalling infant. “Is there any food left?”
“We saved you some patties.”
Standing at the bench, eating, I listen to the women’s quiet talk. Perhaps it’s better that Marina is going to the countryside. At least away from the city, she might have a chance to be safe to bring up a baby. What other choice is there – the Caucasas? I try to picture a flat, desolate place with crops growing on the horizon, but it’s hard. I’ve only ever known the city, and can only think in terms of a sports field, which is the largest open area I know. Maybe the Caucasas won’t be all that bad. Maybe my brother and his friends are exaggerating. Maybe the Director really does want the best for everybody.
I glance up to find Marina’s gaze on me. “What?”
“I said, how is your job going?” And to Therei: “Leho is working in the Director’s garden.”
Therei’s eyebrows rise. “Really!”
“Yes, that’s why he looks so healthy and tanned these days; all that time spent working outdoors.”
“Is that it,” says Therei, with her sideways glance, “and I thought it was a girl.”
My thoughts fly to Emee, and my face goes hot. Ridiculous!
Thankfully the women don’t seem to notice. Marina is examining the hem of the baby dress with a critical eye. She continues to chat: “Working at the Director’s house, we’re hoping it will keep him out of the factories.”
Therei says nothing, undoubtedly thinking about her own son. He’s an older boy who I don’t know very well, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t been called up already by the committee that organises the placement of boys into the factories. I’ve heard there’s a gigantic book at the House of Law that contains all the Cerels’ names and ages. It’s how they keep track of us, or at least, how they think they can keep track of us. Then there are the letters that are sent out. A letter always means bad news.
“So, what’s it like, working in the Director’s garden?” Marina persists, licking her thread.
I shrug. “It’s nothing special.”
The women hoot. “Nothing special,” echoes Therei.
Suddenly I’m angry with them. My plan is to kill the Director. I don’t want to talk about the place, or my feelings about the place. This is serious stuff. It’s something they can’t even begin to understand. And I think about Boss, and what might happen to him after the Director is dead. He’ll get blamed because of me. But maybe it’ll be for the better. Once the Director is dead, the city can return to normal again … that’s what I hope and believe. What I have to believe. Cerels won’t have to go to the Caucasas. Women can have babies if they want. The men will be set free from the wild camps. All of this will happen, I’m certain of it, once the Director is dead.
“Go on, tell us about it.” Marina laughs, not seeing the look on my face.
“Leave me alone,” I mutter, pushing out of the room.
* * *
More and more I notice the handbills as I make my way each day to the Director’s garden. Boss even has one in the shed that he huffs over. “A special opportunity for Cerels,” he says darkly. “Hurry, don’t miss out! The first transport will be leaving on the …”
A date has been set, I realise. So it’s serious. Everybody seems to be talking about it. Marta Gayer, on her last visit, asked if Nanna was going to go too, and Nanna snapped that she was too old to go haring off on reckless adventures. Yet I can tell she’s curious. Everybody is. Even Babet’s asked if we can go to the “precious land”, which is what people have started calling it.
Jorzy is seldom at home these days, not even to sleep, and when he is his face seems bruised as thunderclouds. I try to talk
to him, wanting to be part of whatever he’s planning, yet he brushes me off.
It stings, but what does it matter? I’m going to kill the Director and put a stop to all this nonsense. Then Jorzy will see that I’m not a kid any more; I’m a man. I just have to pick my moment. It has to be right.
When I reach the garden this morning, Boss is sitting outside, his boots in a patch of dew-laden grass, a mug of steaming chicory in his hand. His glance, when he looks up, is anxious. He waves a letter in my direction. “From my sister,” he says forlornly.
“Yeah?”
He hands me the sheet of paper, and I frown at the lines of ant-like scribble. Dear Valerie, This may come as a shock but I have decided to … A cool weight sinks down my spine. The Caucasas.
Boss wipes a hand across his forehead in a gesture of despair. “What can I say to her?”
Drawing up the other crate, I sit down and hand the letter back to Boss. His brooding glance surveys the rows of vegetables that march away from where we sit. All that hard work, for the Director’s benefit.
The sun is just coming up, sending beams of yellow light through the trellis fence that separates the kitchen garden from the rest of the grounds. A figure passes across one of the top windows of the house – one of the bedrooms, as I now know.
“I mean, she’s got a perfectly good room where she lives, people who care about her, and none of us is getting any younger.” Boss takes a mouthful of chicory, grimacing as if it’s too bitter. “What’s she want to go off to this place for?”
Boss gazes at the letter. It’s obvious he’s read over it several times. He probably got it late yesterday, after I went home, and spent the night brooding over its contents. With his sister gone, Boss won’t have anybody left in Ursa.
“The other day,” he mumbles, “when the Director … I had no idea. I’d have said something, otherwise. I mean …”
Embarrassed, I realise he’s at a loss for words. I get up, wanting to be busy, away from his clumsy grief. He sits unmoving as I fetch the fork from the shed and go down to the potato patch. There are plants to be dug up, potatoes to be put into sacks for the cellar. Somebody has to do it. They aren’t going to bag themselves.
When I next look up, Boss is coming out of the shed dressed in his suit. Without a word, not even to give me a list of chores, he leaves the garden, heading for the towpath.
19
White quartz pebbles, taken from a courtyard garden. I throw them, one by one, at Emee’s attic window. Most of them don’t make the distance, but one or two hit the glass with a ping. Then finally! The curtains are drawn back and a rectangle of golden light falls across the dark street. The girl lifts up the sash window and peers down. Seeing me, she makes a funny face then disappears from the window.
I’m expecting her to come out the front door like she usually does, and am surprised when she appears from around the side of the house, out of a narrow gap I hadn’t even noticed before. With a single glance back up at the house, Emee, carrying the little dog, crosses the street.
“I suppose you want to go to the park again,” she says, standing in front of me. She’s wearing another floaty, flimsy dress that looks blue in the light from the gas lamp.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
I hadn’t realised it until she put it into words. I just wanted to see her again after her visit to our house – which my mother is still talking about, amazed that I’m friends with a Travester girl. I also want to talk to her about what happened in Market Square, though I’m not sure how best to raise the subject.
“Well, come on then,” she says, “before they see us.”
We set off down the street and once we’re a few doors away from the house, Emee tucks the dog under one arm and slips her free hand into mine. That’s a surprise, yet I try not to show it. Her hand feels cool and soft, and I’m aware that my own hand will be rough from all the outdoor work, my palms hardened by callouses and the skin cracked around the fingernails. She doesn’t seem to mind, or at least, she doesn’t show it.
The little dog’s eyes are bright and alert. Does she take it everywhere? Maybe it’s her alibi to be out at night.
“That … incident in the square,” she starts saying, and I’m relieved she’s the one to bring it up. “Does that happen very often?”
“Often enough,” I mutter.
“Were many people hurt?” She frowns.
“Don’t know,” I admit. “I ran off straight after you left.”
Her profile is serious, the dog snuffling under her arm. “It gave me nightmares. And I didn’t think …”
“What didn’t you think?”
Her sideways glance is impenetrable. “The Director,” she says, “I didn’t think you people hated him in that way.”
We hate the Director in all sorts of ways, but I don’t need to tell her that.
“And then, when the …” She stops for a moment to look at me, releasing my hand, and I realise we’re both thinking about the Black Marks. “It was just a puppet show – Leho, it doesn’t seem right.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I couldn’t tell anybody, you know,” she continues, dropping her gaze. “Not that there’s anyone much to tell, but when I got home Cook wanted to know where I’d been, and I lied and said I’d been shopping.”
“So?”
Emee shrugs. “It’s not right to lie about something like that. It ought to be spoken about, and I wasn’t brave enough to do it.”
She raises her chin and sets off again. We reach the iron gates of the park, and walk along the dark path. The gas lights shimmer buttery yellow among the trees. Like before, it’s a relief to be off the street, to be out of public view. This time, instead of sitting on the bench, she leads me to stand beneath the spreading branches of a tree.
She is still clutching the dog. Although if she puts it down, she might not be able to find him again in the darkness.
“If you tie a bit of string to his collar, then he could get down.”
“I don’t have any string.”
I feel around in my jacket pocket. Something Papa taught me: always carry string, a knife, a couple of spare coins. “Here.” I fumble a finger between the dog’s skinny neck and the collar and make a boatman’s knot, which I can do with my eyes shut. Then I lift the dog down, putting him onto the gravel, the end of the string wound around my forefinger like a fishing line.
“I can barely see him,” Emee complains, craning into the darkness at our feet. “He’s just a black lump.”
“He won’t get away. This is good string. I got it from–” Well, never mind that.
With no warning, Emee leans over and, without touching me, presses her mouth against mine. Another surprise! Her lips taste sweet, like some kind of fruit. To steady myself, I reach out and put my hand on the bare skin of her arm. This has to be what it feels like to drown.
“What was that for?” I ask hoarsely.
Her expression is unreadable, and she moves away from me to lean against the tree trunk. “My aunt says the Cerels will be going away soon, leaving Ursa … I thought you might leave without my getting a chance to do that.”
Ye gods, what can I say to that? The Caucasas swims through my head, closely followed by Emee’s kiss and her aunt.
“I’d never leave without telling you,” I croak.
She laughs drily. “I’m glad to hear it.”
The string tugs my finger like there’s a fish on it. “But what makes you think I’ll be going somewhere?”
“My aunt says you’re all going.” Her face is pale in the gloom. “And, you know, my aunt is always right.” A strangled laugh. “That’s irony, by the way.”
I clear my throat. “Really? I thought it was sarcasm.”
“Touché.” Emee makes that tinkling laugh she does when she’s trying to be somebody else, somebody her aunt might like better. Then she shrugs and flops down onto the grass, smoothing her dress over her knees. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, is quiet
ly serious, confessional.
“My aunt told me about admirers, you know, when I was younger. All Travester girls are supposed to aspire to having at least one admirer.”
I sit beside her and put my arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, feeling her birdy bones beneath my arm.
It’s like she’s trying hard to be another kind of person; to be a girl who has lots of admirers, a pretty Travester girl who’ll marry well when she’s sixteen or so, and get taken off her aunt’s hands. But Emee’s not like that.
“And when your admirer goes away,” she says softly, like telling a fairytale, “you give them a romantic, meaningful kiss, according to my aunt, so that the admirer will remember you forever and ever.” The effect is spoiled by her unladylike snort of contempt.
“What was that you just gave me?” I can’t help asking.
Her eyes gleam in the dim light. “That was just a kiss,” she says.
So that’s where all that horseshit about admirers and romance comes from. I really thought she believed all that stuff. I feel a spark of pity for Emee. Especially after my telling her about the wild camps and after her visit to our building. Yet there’s a hard tone to her voice, and I realise I might have misjudged her all along.
“So where exactly am I going?”
That tinkling laugh of hers cuts through the dark, yet her eyes are watchful, and I wonder if there’s fear in that laugh as well.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s all everybody can talk about: the Director’s generosity, the astounding opportunity the Cerels are being offered …”
Astounding.
There’s something else in her tone that I haven’t heard before; there’s doubt, and maybe even a veiled criticism of the Director. I realise that my talk of the wild camps has changed her somehow. Or maybe it was seeing the Black Marks attack the puppeteer. It’d be hard to keep pretending after seeing something like that.
“Is there any hope for us?” I ask suddenly, our faces close.
Her gaze flickers as if she wants to tell me something, but can’t, and I think of her situation – an orphan, relying on the generosity of her Travester aunt and uncle. A girl who’s like an outsider in the household, and my heart nearly breaks for her.