Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

  A guard opens the door, but it’s not Juda. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. I wonder where he is. Does he work for Damon all the time? I’m much too nervous not knowing if or when he might pop up.

  We step inside the foyer. A boat-size chandelier dangles from the recessed ceiling, throwing its twinkling light over a black floor so shiny I can see my reflection in it. White orchids spill out of white vases placed on long, black, lacquered tables that line the white walls. The only color in the room is one chair covered in bright coral.

  I hear click-click-click, and soon a woman in a cloak is walking around the corner toward us.

  My father says, “Peace.”

  She responds in a monotone voice. “Peace.”

  “I am Mr. Clark, and this is my daughter, Mina.”

  She doesn’t look at me. “God is kind for bringing you here in safety.”

  “God is kind,” Father agrees. “I will be back at ten o’clock to pick up Mina.” He’s anxious to leave. He has never liked social situations.

  “Peace,” the woman says, releasing him.

  “Peace,” my father says. The guard opens the door, and Father darts out without looking at me.

  The mysterious woman then pulls off her cloak and veil and surprises me with a giggle and a big embrace. “Mina, darling, I’m so happy to meet you! Damon and Mr. Asher told me all about you, but I had to see you for myself.” She smells like lilies, but the scent is overwhelming and too sweet. Perfume, I think. Forbidden.

  “Mrs. Asher?” I ask.

  She laughs. “Of course! Did you think I was the maid?”

  Mortified, I say, “No! I—”

  “Come this way,” she says, with a goofy smile.

  My first thought is that Mrs. Asher is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She’s short and voluptuous, with smooth caramel skin. Her hair is thick and dark, and her eyes are a deep amber. She’s much younger than I was expecting, no more than thirty-five. She wears lots of chunky gold jewelry and a chocolaty cashmere wrap dress the exact shade of her shiny hair. Cashmere! In this heat!

  And that’s when I first notice it. It’s cold inside the apartment. Air-conditioning. The Ashers have air-conditioning. Despite Mrs. Asher’s kind smile, I’m suddenly afraid. I’ve never been around this kind of wealth.

  “Would you like to take off your cloak?” Mrs. Asher asks.

  I look at the guard in the room and shake my head. She giggles. “He doesn’t count. And you’re family now. You should be comfortable.” She reaches out for my cloak. The truth is, I would be more comfortable if I stayed in it, but she’s insistent. She pulls up my veil.

  I’m grateful for my demure gray dress as I hand over my cloak. She looks me up and down, and I can see she was determined to get a good look.

  “You’re as lovely as Damon said. And those eyes! Like blue topaz. Come this way.”

  I follow her across the marble floor. She’s wearing high heels! Like Nana told me about. I’ve never actually seen anyone walk in them before. The loud click-click of her steps echoes through the enormous apartment, and the way Mrs. Asher has to walk—it’s kind of embarrassing; her big bottom is just swaying back and forth and back and forth. It’s mesmerizing. I notice the guard is watching me watching her, and I look away quickly, but not before he smirks. I’m humiliated.

  Does she wear forbidden shoes like that all the time? Even outside? Will Damon expect me to wear them?

  We reach the living room, and there’s a big white leather couch surrounded by white leather chairs with silver metal legs. There’s a glass table in the middle, displaying a white leather–bound copy of the Book next to a weird white sculpture that looks like a scoop of mashed potatoes. I look around and see that there are more of the white plastic sculptures all over the room. There’s an enormous mirror on one wall, making the room look much bigger than it actually is, and a white bearskin rug on the floor.

  Mrs. Asher folds herself onto the couch and then motions for me to join her, but I don’t want to sit anywhere. Everything is white and perfect, like nothing’s ever seen a piece of dust. I’m confident I’ll ruin something. Knowing I can’t stand all night, I finally sit on the front edge of a chair and place my hands in my lap.

  Mrs. Asher looks at herself in the mirror and runs a hand through her hair, causing her gold bracelets to clink together. The gold hoops in her ears catch the light, but they can’t compete with her chunky necklace. It’s all very striking, but I would guess that Mrs. Asher is not wearing the jewelry for its beauty alone. Nana once told me that the wealthiest women in Manhattan always wear real gold so that if their husbands decide to divorce them and throw them out onto the streets, they at least have something of value on their bodies.

  I decide a woman wearing as much gold as Mrs. Asher must not have much trust in her husband. What kind of son does that man produce? Looking at my own bare fingers and wrists, I decide to ask for something gold as soon as possible.

  “So, Mina, your father is a very clever man. He has revolutionized energy production. What do you know about this fungus he grows?”

  “Uh, it’s not fungus. It’s algae, actually.”

  “Ah! Algae, of course. And algae makes gasoline?”

  “Not exactly. It makes an oil that can be turned into fuel.”

  “Amazing.” She then yells into the hallway, “Ray, bring us some Dom!” I’m not used to hearing a woman bark orders at a man, even if he’s a servant.

  Looking back at me, Mrs. Asher says, “My husband has told me about this whole new water supply. He says it’s very clean, but . . . I don’t know about you . . . I don’t want to drink water that used to be something in the toilet.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “Uncle Ruho is very excited about this algae, though. What will he want to fuel next? Cars . . . trains . . .” She arches an eyebrow. “Roller coasters? Who knows where the lunacy will end!?”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m not used to this kind of talk, especially from strangers. Nana and I sometimes talked about Uncle Ruho, but I’ve never heard anyone else question his judgment. And there are servants and guards all over the Ashers’ apartment. It makes me uncomfortable, and then I wonder if she’s testing me.

  “Have you met him?” she asks now.

  “Who?”

  “Uncle Ruho!”

  “No. My father did, once.” Wanting to commend him on his work on the plant, Uncle Ruho blessed Father with a few seconds of his time last year. “Father said he was very majestic.” Mrs. Asher stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for more. “Father also said he was, um, shorter than he expected.”

  She cackles with laughter. “Yes! He’s a little troll of a man. It’s no wonder he can’t find a wife!”

  I smile politely, trying not to grimace at the blasphemy.

  An elegant man in a white suit comes in, carrying a tray supporting two skinny glasses filled with a liquid through which bubbles rise in streams of gold. He hands one to me and one to Mrs. Asher. I very carefully take mine in both hands. It’s cold, and when I smell it, it tickles my nose.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Try it,” she says. “Tiny sips at first.”

  I do as she says. The drink is strong, and I choke a bit. It’s not refreshing at all.

  “One more sip,” she insists.

  Not wanting to be rude, I take another sip, and this one tastes a bit better; the little bubbles seem to rise up from the glass and into my head. I become alarmed. “Mrs. Asher?”

  There’s a glint in her eye. “Yes, darling?”

  “Is this alcohol?”

  “No, Mina.”

  Relieved, I take another sip.

  She continues, “It’s champagne. Men drink alcohol, but real ladies drink only champagne. This bottle was smuggled in from France, many years ago, and cost forty-five thousand BTUs, so you should savor every drop.”

  My head spins. “But alcohol is forbidden!”

  She giggles,
tips back her glass, and finishes her drink in one long gulp.

  I put my glass of champagne down on the glass table. “When will Damon be home?”

  “Any minute! And he’ll be furious about the champagne, don’t you think?”

  I leap up, looking for a place to throw away my glass.

  She roars with laughter. “No, no, no, Mina! We have hours, dear.” She motions with her hand for me to come back to my seat. “I wanted a little time alone with you.”

  She then signals for Ray to refill her glass.

  “A toast, Mina. To your engagement!” She raises the glass and waits for me to raise mine.

  “I’d rather not,” I say.

  She smiles, and her beauty is overwhelming. “I insist that you celebrate with me!”

  I lift the glass, making a toasting gesture, and then press it against my lips.

  Mother told me to obey my new mother-in-law. Uncle Ruho says that alcohol is forbidden, that it interferes with our ability to properly worship God. If I disobey God, he may not allow me into Paradise. If I disobey Mrs. Asher, I’m insulting her in her home and possibly creating an enemy for the rest of my married life.

  I reason that I can beg God for forgiveness tomorrow, but an unhappy mother-in-law is forever. Saying a quick prayer, I drink the champagne. I feel it rushing down to my toes. Is that possible? Does liquid go all the way to your feet? My stomach is a little woozy, but in general I feel quite good, less stressed than when I first arrived. I notice that my back has stopped stinging as much.

  Mrs. Asher laughs, clapping her hands like a delighted toddler. “Good!” She turns to Ray. “Refills!” He refills our glasses, and she sweeps her arms around the room. “This is your new home. Isn’t it grand? Everything a young girl dreams of?”

  I look down at the rug. The bear’s face is glaring up at me with a horrible grimace. She sees me staring at it and says, “It’s extremely rare. Polar bears have been gone for decades.”

  I smile, like this is wonderful news. She drinks more of her champagne, watching herself in the mirror. She sticks her chest out a little and tosses her hair. I look to see if Ray has noticed, but he’s staring off into the distance, eyes as glazed over as the polar bear’s.

  “This building used to be a hotel. It was very chic, and many famous people stayed here. Presidents. Movie stars, even.”

  She means during Time Zero. I bet she doesn’t know anything about it—doesn’t even really know what a movie is. Or maybe she does. If she has champagne, maybe somewhere in this apartment she’s hiding Relics—actual movies, or “discs” that hold music. Wouldn’t that be exciting!

  For a brief moment, I imagine sitting with Mrs. Asher and showing her the Primer. She would “ooh” and “aah” as I showed her all the places that used to serve people food, and she would laugh at the ridiculous ways everyone spent their time—paying to see a man sing a song, or traveling miles for a special bowl of noodles.

  At the thought of food, my stomach gurgles like a busted pipe, and I look down, embarrassed, wondering if Mrs. Asher heard it.

  She answers my silent question by turning to Ray and saying, “Bring Miss Clark some snacks.”

  Within seconds, there are two identical long, thin green boxes in front of me. One says CRACKERS, and the other says COOKIES. I open the one that says CRACKERS and quickly eat five in a row.

  “Better?” she asks, and I nod, feeling steadier.

  “Leave us alone, Ray,” Mrs. Asher says, without looking at him, and he glides out silently. “I understand if you’re nervous. I remember the first time I had to meet my in-laws. I was terrified. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Asher, was a real chupacabra.”

  I give her a blank stare.

  “You know, a ‘goat-sucker’?”

  I giggle.

  “She never had one kind word for me, and before she would let me marry her dear, sweet baby boy, she had to make sure for herself that I was a virgin.”

  I look up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. Anywhere but at Mrs. Asher.

  “That’s right. She took me into the bathroom and shoved her wrinkled hand right up inside me.”

  The room spins. I take another gulp of champagne.

  “Oh dear, little Mina’s gone green.” She bursts out laughing. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I’m not going to check. I have better things to do.” She then says, as if to reassure me, “Besides, Damon will show us the sheets the morning after your wedding.”

  I’m mortified.

  “You wouldn’t believe the stories from the old country. Girls would do amazing things to pretend they were still virgins. Like, they would soak sponges in pig’s blood and then put them inside themselves on their wedding night. Can you imagine?”

  Why is she telling me this? Am I supposed to react? I hear Nana’s voice: When in doubt, say nothing. I keep my face neutral.

  “Mr. Asher never had to worry. I was only thirteen when he bought me off the street.”

  “B-b-bought you?” Now I know she’s telling me too much. It must be the champagne. The way she tittered when I first arrived—has she been intoxicated this whole time?

  “Oh, yes. Don’t let the packaging fool you,” she says, motioning to her dress and hair. “I come from Convenes.”

  Nana taught me that when the Teachers took over Manhattan, they ordered anyone who didn’t follow the Prophet to leave immediately or die. Some people were too sick or poor to leave, or had nowhere to go, so they stayed and converted. Although the Teachers allowed the new believers to live, they were treated as if they were equal to the dogs that roamed the streets.

  After a few years of being looked down upon by their neighbors, new converts started to convene on the Lower East Side, rarely venturing to other neighborhoods, and that led to their name, the Convenes. But I’ve heard people like my grandfather joke that the name actually comes from the fact that the group decided to convert because it was “convenient.”

  The Prophet gave the Deservers our name because we followed Her unquestioningly from the beginning, recognizing Her divinity as soon as it manifested. She declared we deserved unhampered access to Paradise. Deservers like to think that Convenes are all jealous of our stature, but they seem to look down on us just as we look down on them. Father once told us a joke they have:

  Question: Why can’t a Deserver walk into Heaven alone?

  Answer: Because he needs a servant to carry his ego.

  Mother didn’t like this joke.

  It’s impossible to believe Mrs. Asher was once a Convene. I can’t picture her in any surroundings other than the beautiful, white, air-conditioned penthouse she sits in now.

  Enjoying my astonishment, she says, “My sisters and I used to walk the streets, looking for horse dung we could sell for fuel. I don’t think my parents really considered someone taking notice of me, since I walked around all day covered in dirt and shit.”

  I wince at her language as if Mother were in the room.

  “But my husband has a ‘talent for seeing potential.’ He followed me back to my parents’ house one day and offered to buy me on the spot. I was only eleven. My parents said I was too young, and I was so relieved. I thought they were looking out for me. But, two years later, on the very day I hit puberty, they got in touch with him, and he came to get me that night. My parents took his money, said goodbye, and put me in the arms of a total stranger. I haven’t seen them since.”

  She gives me a rueful smile, but I see little tears in the corner of her eyes.

  “I’m sorry . . . ,” I begin.

  “Why?” she says, snapping at me, her brown eyes going dark. “Don’t you think your parents just did exactly the same to you? Maybe they call it a ‘bride price,’ but it’s the same thing. They sold you. And now they’re at home celebrating and eating a big fat meal. So drink up!”

  I want to fight with her, tell her she’s wrong, but I’m sure Mother is celebrating right now, bragging to our neighbors about what a fabulous price she got.

  “A
toast, Mina. At least we’re not in the street, collecting shit, right?” She takes another drink and waits for me to do the same.

  I look down at the glass in my hand, now half-empty. I’m frightened by the change in her mood, and, not wanting to make her more angry, I drink it down.

  I slump down a little in the chair, suddenly exhausted.

  “I think we’re going to be friends, Mina, don’t you?”

  “I hope so,” I whisper. I really do.

  Mrs. Asher seems farther away. Once again, I’m struck by her beauty, but now I can think only of what a curse it was. Maybe if she’d been plainer, she would still be at home with her sisters. Or did they all get sold, too?

  I let out a little burp.

  I just burped in front of Mrs. Asher! My mother would be destroyed. This is hilarious to me. I burst out laughing.

  Mrs. Asher starts to laugh, too, and the two of us just sit there, giggling at my burp. I’m amazed at her lack of formality.

  Then she catches her breath, saying, “What’s wrong, Mina? Don’t you like our cookies?”

  I find it hard to focus on the unopened box in front of me. “I love cookies, but these have ginger, and I hate ginger.” Mother grows it at home and puts it in everything.

  Leaning forward, Mrs. Asher narrows her eyes on the cookie box. She looks back up at me.

  “My husband gave those cookies to me as a gift,” she says. “And I’ve been wondering what kind they were. But the picture on the box looks like a hundred different cookies, so how could I guess? How could I possibly know what the ingredients were, unless”—she pauses—“I could read?”

  She leans back, a nasty smirk on her face. “Clever little Mina! How full of secrets you are.”

  Trying to think quickly, I say, “We eat the same kind at home. I recognize the box.”

  “Really? Your family has access to cookies from England?”

  My family could never afford such a thing, and Mrs. Asher knows it. I have no reply.

  She takes a triumphant sip from her glass.

  Be calm, I tell myself, trying to slow my pulse. My first instinct is to drop to my knees and beg her not to tell the authorities. But I’m frozen in place, head swirling. She’s drinking alcohol, so of course she won’t summon the Teachers. I continue to study her face, that sneer, and I see her expression contains no disapproval—it’s all self-satisfaction.