“Ugly, right?”
“Fucking ugly. Who would buy them?” The voice was fading away.
“Who knows?”
A door opened and closed.
“Okay. Get out.” Firuzeh cautiously emerged from the blankets and found herself in a luxurious sitting room. A lavender chaise longue sat against a backdrop of silver-grey drapery, which covered the windows. A long tan leather sectional filled the corner. A crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. A large kitchen was adjacent to the sitting room, with white cabinets and tiled floors. Despite its opulence, the same familiar line of mould crept up the walls of the house to the water line from the floods. A slight damp smell.
The Boot opened the door to a pantry. “Get in.” Calm. Graceful. Firuzeh obeyed. She sat herself down on the floor of the pantry and folded her knees into her chest. The Boot nodded and closed the door of the pantry. He left the room, closing the door behind him. Time passed. Was she supposed to escape from here? Was she supposed to run while the room was empty? She sat, her heart pounding, confused and conflicted as to what to do next. After what seemed like hours, she could hear voices down the hall. The room’s door opened. Firuzeh watched through a narrow opening in the pantry. The room lights turned on and people entered.
“Can I get you more champagne?”
“No, Charles. I’m very close to making a fool out of myself,” Liv said to a Boot who wore a well-trimmed beard.
More voices.
“Dinner was excellent.”
“I rarely like lamb, but this was exceptional.”
“Champagne? Can I top you up?”
“Yes, please. Please do.”
Firuzeh could distinguish about four different people in the room. Since they had just eaten, they did not have their headgear on. From her vantage point, Firuzeh could see Liv lounging with the bearded man, Charles. Two other Boots, one with a strong cleft chin and another with a handsome moustache, occupied the room. They downed their champagne over more frivolous conversation, and then Firuzeh could hear the clinking of ice into tumblers. They were moving on to more serious topics with more serious drinks. The smell of cigar smoke.
“This is smooth.”
“Did Charles ever tell you we met at a bar? Yeah. I was serving back then. So if you all behave, I may mix you a drink later.”
Firuzeh nervously moved her head right and left to see what was happening. While Firuzeh was drenched in sweat, Liv acted as cool as a cucumber. Did she even know Firuzeh was there? Liv’s familiarity with Charles made her even more nervous. The image of her playfully rubbing his thigh had Firuzeh thinking this was all a set-up. She bit her lip and searched her mind for a possible plan B or C or D for escape, none of them sensible. She willed herself to breathe, albeit silently.
“Shall we bring them in?” Charles said, his arms wide across the sectional. He looked in Liv’s direction.
“I’m not leaving.”
“I didn’t ask you to leave. It’s up to you if you want to stay, Liv. It’s just shoptalk. I don’t want to bore you, is all.”
“Well where am I gonna go? Have a walk along the beach? Look into the windows of each of the workhouses? That sounds like fun.” A few laughs. “Where’s my cigar, by the way?” Charles obliged and lit her up. Liv took several puffs like a pro. Charles forcefully pinched her chin between his forefinger and thumb and gave her a kiss.
“Okay. Liam. Go get them, please.”
A door opening and closing. The sound of shuffling along the hallway.
“Here they are!” Charles exclaimed. At first, Firuzeh could see only fabric. Then she could see that the beautiful graphics of gold and black and red were on a large skirt worn by two Black women. Firuzeh covered her mouth in shock at the sight of them. It was Adea and Amana, the Queer twins who had travelled the world promoting peace leading up to the Renovation. Of course they were captured, Firuzeh thought to herself. Peacekeepers are always the most dangerous ones in a time of revolution.
Their skirts, as always, were wide enough to be parachutes and seamed together at the hips like they were conjoined through tulle. Their arms were tattooed from their fingertips to their necklines. Indiscernible messages from a lifetime ago. The Boot with the cleft chin nudged the two sisters, and they began to recite the creed as the Boots watched silently.
Through our work, our nation prospers.
Through our unity, we end conflict.
Through our leader, we find peace.
Through order, we find tranquility.
“Excellent,” said Charles. “Adea and Amana. My name is Charles. You already met Liam. And this is Carl. And this is Liv. Everyone, these are the twins.” Rumblings of introductions. The twins nodded silently and held hands, fearful.
Charles gestured towards the chaise longue. “Why don’t you two have a seat?” They both stood still, unsure of what to do. “No, really. Please. I insist.”
With reticence, Adea and Amana slowly made their way to the chaise longue and sat down in unison. Their skirts cascaded a printed waterfall over the curve of the couch. Firuzeh’s heart ached to see their beauty. It had been so long since she had seen racialized people clean and in the clothes of their choice. They were both the kind of femmes whose self-adornment was their magic. Every placement of every jewel, every choice in earring, of tattoo, was a form of expression and resistance. But their unevenly shaved heads told the story of capture.
“Would you like a drink? The booze and cigars aren’t for you, but would you like water? A juice box?” Charles started making his way to the pantry, and Firuzeh held her breath. The twins looked to the pantry, made direct eye contact with Firuzeh through the crack of the door and said, “No. That’s fine. We were taken care of already.” Charles made his way back to Liv’s side and his cigar.
Charles dragged an accent chair closer to the twins’ chaise until they were practically touching at the knees. “I’m so glad you’ve been taken care of. I imagine it’s quite different from where we found you. I mean . . . how long were you in hiding? Four months? Five months?” The twins held their grasp on each other. “It must have been quite the struggle without power or food in that community centre you hid in. I mean . . . when we busted down those doors . . . You remember, right, Liam?”
The one with the cleft chin nodded.
“It smelled pretty dank in there, right?” Liam nodded. “There you were among dozens of Others, hiding like cockroaches. I’m glad to have you both here where you are safe.” Charles toked on his cigar. The twins were unmoved.
“It was extremely important to me that I meet with you face to face. While I know my men are quite capable of getting a message across, this message is different. Do you know why you’re here?” The twins shook their heads cautiously at Charles. “July 1 will be the Summit of Nations, and it’s taking place right here, in Toronto. Delegates from all over the world will be coming to the city to discuss everything from climate change to AIDS to trade agreements. Lots of lunches, photo ops, politicians shaking hands, blah, blah, blah. This is our chance to show the world the glory of our Renovation and the launch of the federal initiative, led by me and my team. You can imagine the last time we had such an event, the entire country was trying to rebuild itself, no thanks to riots inspired by people like you. Now that things have changed for the better, now that we’re finally at peace, the Others are finally putting what little skills they have to good use and it’s very important that we make a good impression. Even Prime Minister Dunphy will be there. Now, I know you haven’t seen any television for a while . . .” Charles looked at Liam and Carl with a smile. “So let me bring you up to speed. It seems the UN has some concerns over our tactics to ensure that people like you across Canada are put to work. Seems they have issues with cleaning up a place. Of course, from the inside, it’s pretty clear how incredibly things have changed in such a short time. We need to give them that perspective. That’s where you two step in.”
Adea and Amana looked at each other know
ingly, then back at Charles.
“During the summit, all officials will report to the mainstage, which will be set up at Yonge-Dundas Square, the same place you two held your concert before the Renovation. But this time, the world will be watching you, listening to all the details of how you have been cared for, hearing your story of being rescued from hunger.”
The twins looked at each other confused. “Rescued?” Adea asked fearfully.
There was a pause. The pause was long enough that Firuzeh could hear the waves crashing on the shore outside. Long enough for her eyes to widen. Long enough to cover her mouth to keep herself from screaming inside the pantry.
Charles abruptly grabbed the back of Adea’s neck and forced her head down in her own lap. Amana shrieked.
“Amana, can you please explain to your sister why you were rescued?”
“Because, because . . .” Amana scrambled.
“Because?” Charles held Adea’s head down with increased force, and Amana covered her ears, struggling with the words.
“Because . . . we were rescued and brought here to safety!” Charles loosened his grasp. The twins held each other close, quivering with fear.
Charles stood over them, his tone suddenly a quiet bedtime story. “You will be delivering a speech about how the Renovation has created prosperous change. About the safety of the Others. That they’ve all found jobs. That the country has improved. Do you understand now?” The twins nodded quickly. “You don’t even have to write the fucking thing. We’ll write it for you. You just have to deliver it perfectly and believe it. And if you don’t—” Charles pointed his cigar towards Amana’s face and she shook in fear. Liv stood up.
“Hey. Leave it to me.” Liv took the cigar away from Charles and kissed him on the cheek. “Go on. I’ll meet you in the foyer after I’m done. I’m sure the truck is ready to take us to the ferry dock.” Charles passed his cigar to Liv.
“Thanks,” Liv laughed. “Now go on.” The Boots left. Silence.
“Firuzeh? Are you still there?” Firuzeh slowly emerged from the pantry, her legs cramping.
The twins approached Firuzeh. “Are you okay?” Amana asked. Firuzeh wasn’t sure what to say. “You can trust Liv. You can trust us.”
Firuzeh exhaled, and the entire group of women embraced.
“That man, Charles. He held your head down. Are you all right?” Firuzeh asked.
Adea nodded. “I was more scared than hurt. My heart was in my throat!” They embraced tighter.
Liv loosened herself from the circle and said, “All right. We don’t have a lot of time. Adea and Amana: let’s go over the plan.”
Amana started. “When we hit the stage, and once I get the signal from you, we will deliver the alternate speech.” Adea continued: “Allies will subdue the Boots, and we will lead a procession of Others north on Yonge Street. At the same time, the workhouses will be bombed.
“But what if we are attacked?” asked Amana. “What if they turn off our microphones?”
“We have allies throughout the crowd whose job it will be to protect you. The Others with you have been trained to defend themselves. And the media will follow the story. They’ll capture all the audio they need as we do the procession.”
“But what will happen after the procession?” Firuzeh asked.
“That’s a big question, Firuzeh. And I wish I had solid answers for you. I’m not going to lie to you. The international community may do nothing. The last step in any genocidal campaign is denial. We saw this with the residential school system here in Canada. But I can promise you that the allies will do everything in our power to relocate the Others to several strongholds outside of Toronto and negotiate your freedom under the guidance of the Resistance leaders.” Liv glanced at the door. “We should get out of here pretty soon. The truck will be here by now. Are you ready?”
The twins nodded in unison. They took the cigar from Liv’s hand, and Adea toked on it until the ember turned orange. Amana closed her eyes and readied herself before Adea placed the burning cigar on her sister’s face.
“YAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOW!” Amana screamed. Amana took the cigar and did the same on Adea. Another scream.
Firuzeh’s jaw dropped in confusion. Liv touched her arm.
“As for you. Let’s talk about the most immediate plans.”
All of us are leaning into Firuzeh, wondering what happened next. I want to give her enough time to wipe her face with tissues after recalling the events she has endured, but the agony of suspense is gnawing at me.
Finally, Bahadur pleads, “I’m dying to know: how did you get out of that room?”
Firuzeh looks at Liv and they share a weak laugh. “Do you want to explain this? I mean . . . I could barely see. And it’s so unbelievable to describe it, even now.”
“I’ll try,” says Liv. “Yes, it may seem far-fetched. But in history, the most preposterous ideas are usually the ones that work best.”
The twins screamed from the cigar burns. Liv opened the doors of the sitting room to the foyer where Charles, Liam and Carl stood waiting. Charles was grinning from ear to ear. Proud. Liv emerged triumphantly with the twins behind her, each of the twins shaken, holding hands tightly. A perfect red circle marked where Liv had seemingly burned each of them.
“There you go,” said Liv.
“All good?” inquired Charles.
“I’m pretty sure my message was clear,” Liv said before moving behind the twins and forcing them to walk forward. The Boots led the pack, but Charles couldn’t help but look back at the women.
“Jeez, Liv. What did you do to them? These twins are walking funny,” he said with a laugh. Liv smiled in a smug way, knowing Firuzeh was hiding and crawling forward under the twins’ immense skirts.
In history, the most preposterous ideas are usually the ones that work the best, Liv thought to herself, willing success as she nervously watched the twins make their way to the ferry dock. Safe passage to freedom was sung behind the backs of slave owners. Sharing self-defence techniques against colonizers had been disguised as dancing. Outlawed Indigenous storytelling survived by being woven as code into textiles. Firuzeh is going to make it, Liv believed. She is going to escape.
It feels like a lifetime since Firuzeh’s story has ended. But my body is doing that thing it does when time does not matter, when my limbs are not screwed on right and my eyes are looking to the upper right corner of my vision, where all the bad memories sit like misbehaved children. They all sit here on timeout, waiting to be triggered and cued into place for me to relive again and again. Only this time, I’m contemplating the shape and form of my Whisper Letter to you, and I need your help, Evan. You see, when I was still in Liv’s basement, I could divine with absolute clarity the transmittance of my messages to you. I could, without a doubt, envision you somewhere, in your respective hiding place, plucking my words from the ether and stuffing them into whatever you lay your head on at night.
Now . . . after hearing the horrors of Firuzeh’s experiences, I fear you’re not in hiding at all. I know now the likelihood of your capture. The commodification of your body. The subdividing of your most exquisite parts into the cogs of the Renovation’s machine. The urge to fight back met with gruesome force.
Is this why I sense you beside me between the physical and spiritual realms? Is this why I feel you holding my hand or laughing at my thoughts?
I suddenly hear the sound of crickets. It is night. I am sitting on my bed. I squeeze my eyes shut after fixating on the frame of the cottage’s window. I look around the room. You’re nowhere to be seen, but I can sense you. Feel you.
Firuzeh stirs in her sleep, then sits up and coughs herself into waking. She looks at me. I cannot see her face, but I can see her piecing together her surroundings.
“Are you okay?”
She shakes her head silently. I slowly walk past Bahadur’s bed and approach Firuzeh slowly.
“I’m not okay either.”
Firuzeh clears space for me to sit besi
de her on the bed. I try to do so without it creaking, but the springs are too old for it to obey the slowness of my descent. Bahadur turns over on their bed and resumes snoring. We cover our mouths in a soundless chuckle.
Outside the moon waxes across the sky, fatter than the night before. We watch. Without words, Firuzeh rolls up the right sleeve of her shirt and I do the same with my left. We touch shoulders. Warm. Soft. I wonder about the quality of my shoulder compared to Emma Singh’s. I imagine the spirit of Emma sitting on the other side of Firuzeh, joining in on this moment of care.
And then it happens. I sense the spirit of you, on the other side of me, rolling up your sleeve, connecting with my right shoulder. I know now. The past tense of you.
We continue our training.
“You ready?” Beck asks Firuzeh, who nods solemnly and joins us. She has changed into one of Beck’s high-school track suits, and she rolls up her sleeves.
Beck draws lines in the soil beside the cottage’s porch with a brittle birch branch to illustrate the plan of attack. I follow the doodles of his instructions along every grain of sand, trying desperately to understand. Two lines representing Yonge Street. Squares. Xs. Arrows. Every scribble a movement, our movements, using our own bodies, using our own weapons. He makes us stand in formation. He demands that we act out every possibility, from best- to worst-case scenario. He says that for each one of us, the first action will be to disarm a Boot and use his weapon against him.
Days pass. The moon waxes. We continue the drills of four moves to disarm. Deflect end of rifle with left palm. Punch with right fist to the chin or kick to stomach. Butt of the gun to the face. Take the weapon. It is a clunky dance for me and Bahadur. Something stops the full breadth of our extensions, a forced passivity in a world that thrived on our inaction.
In response to this, Beck shows us another exercise. He demonstrates on me. He asks me to lie on my back; he straddles me, and Liv hands him punch mitts to wear.
“You ready? I want you to punch me from where you are. Keep punching and don’t stop.” I look at him. I notice I am holding my breath. My arms are at my sides, frozen. He is suddenly my ma.
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