by Jud Widing
THE YEAR OF UH
by Jud Widing
copyright © 2017 by Jud Widing
All rights reserved.
designed by Boy Bison
[email protected] / instagram @boybisonzines
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Jud Widing except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
PROLOGUE
ARRIVAL
Twenty-eight hours after Nur bade Africa farewell, here came America, rushing up to say ‘howdy’ at 200 kilometers an hour. The landing was a bit rough – not that she had much to compare it to, this being her second-ever flight. A laconic voice flopped from the speakers, the classic American airline pilot’s drawl that set one wondering if perhaps he wouldn’t have preferred they crashed after all. The other passengers laughed, so the message was probably something to do with the graceless conclusion to an otherwise smooth journey – not that Nur had understood a word of it, English being her second-ever language.
Or at least it will be, once she learns it.
As the Boeing 777 whined and whistled its way to the gate, Nur took a trip down memory lane, to her first-ever flight. Was it really twenty-eight hours ago that she waved goodbye to her parents, boarded an Airbus to Paris, and left Seychelles for the very first time?
Sure. Twenty-eight hours ago, she was in Africa, halfway around the world. Twenty-eight hours, objectively. Subjectively, though, the journey lasted more in the ballpark of a million billion hours. She was well educated, and knew all about time zones. But she’d never experienced them before. Education is fine and good and necessary, but there’s a stark difference between learning all about voltages and conduction, and sticking a fork in an electrical socket.
Witness: she left Seychelles at 10 pm. Ten hours later, she arrived in Paris at 6 am. Ten hours after that, she departed Paris at 4 pm and, after another seven hours, arrived in Boston at 6 pm.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad had she been able to sleep. But she hadn’t, so it was. This was hardly surprising; she was a naturally anxious person, and it wasn’t as though she’d expected her neuroses to lighten up at 30,000 feet. But she was also a naturally sleepy person, and had made a point of abstaining from caffeine and all its works (its glorious, glorious works) in the day prior to her departure. What this decision failed to yield in slumber, it more than made up for in irritability and headache.
Speaking of irritability and headache, Nur felt a finger jabbing at her upper arm. “We’re here,” hissed the finger, in Seychellois Creole. “Nur. We’re here.”
Nur De Dernberg suddenly felt as if she could sleep forever. She found that her sister Deirdre had that effect on her.
“I know we are,” Nur replied as patiently as she could.
Jab. “Hey.” Jab. “Nur.” Jab. “Hey.” Jab.
“What is it?”
“We made it.”
Nur flopped her head forward, turning skeptical eyes towards her fifteen-year-old sister. Sincerity and emotion weren’t Deirdre’s style, and yet there was quite a bit of both swirling around those three words. Nur was familiar with this game, though: now it was a simple matter of teasing out the tiring irony of a setup, or waiting for the snarky punchline…but neither came. They’d talked about America plenty in their younger years, and now that they were here, Nur saw nothing but dewy earnestness in her sister’s eyes. It was catching.
“We made it,” Nur confirmed warmly. With some effort, she peeled a white-knuckled claw from the armrest and patted Deirdre’s smaller, softer paw.
They both slept soundly the rest of the way to the gate.
The pale-faced boy in the too-tight jacket told them to have a nice night. Something to that effect. Nur wasn’t completely clueless when it came to English. It was, after all, an official language of Seychelles. She’d picked up key phrases here and there, bits and pieces, but she’d never studied it. Which was just as well, because if she had studied it in Seychelles, maybe her parents wouldn’t have been as inclined to let her study it in America for a year.
Thanks to some helpfully pictographic signage, the De Dernberg sisters staggered their way down fluorescent-lit hallways to reach the baggage claim. From there it was a matter of looking at the flight number (trusty numbers, the universal language!) and tracking down the carousel displaying three matching figures.
It was a no go on the matching numbers, but Deirdre spotted a young woman with a bright blue Mohawk who had been on their flight, standing purposefully in front of a stationary belt. As they fell in behind her, Nur reflected that there’s more than one way to sheer a sheep.
As they sat on a chilly mesh bench, waiting for the carousel to groan to life, Nur tried to listen in on neighboring conversations. Not being completely clueless regarding English, she figured she’d be able to make out some snippets of the overheard exchanges. Best as she could tell, the primary thrust of the chatter was ‘blarb blarb blarb blarb’.
So while not completely clueless, she quickly came to learn that she was almost entirely, to such an extent that perhaps rounding up to ‘completely’ would not be unreasonable…clueless.
Fortunately, there is a second universal language, and it is industrial sounds.
BBBBBRRRRRRZZZZZZ, the baggage carousel informed the assembled. It thoughtfully accommodated the hearing impaired by spinning a little red light, such as might be found on an ambulance for clowns. Nur retired her voyeuristic ambitions and rose to her feet, gesturing to the bulky backpacks they’d lugged onto (and, more importantly, off of) the plane with them.
“Stay here and watch our stuff?” It was an order, but the only way to prevent Deidre’s out-of-hand dismissal of these injunctions was to end the sentence an octave higher than where it began.
“Mhmmmmm,” the younger replied, her typical truculence having returned with a vengeance. Nur started to roll her eyes, but wound up double taking as Deidre pulled a pack of gum from her bag and plucked out one minty-fresh stick. It was an American brand, and they hadn’t stopped to buy anything since debarking.
They had walked past a few cart vendors, though.
They had all but brushed past them.
Nur finished rolling her eyes, but with an extra oomph the first go-round had been lacking. She couldn’t well snatch the gum from her sister, march back and return it to whatever vendor she’d stolen it from. For one, she wouldn’t know which vendor it was. For two, she wouldn’t be able to communicate the concept my troublemaking sister stole this gum from you, she does this a lot and I apologize that I was not vigilant enough to have stopped her from doing it in the first place, please forgive both of us, I would pay you for it but I only have enough for a taxi cab and I need that taxi cab.
She did know how to say “We’re very sorry, your room will be ready shortly” in English, but she wasn’t sure which sounds corresponded to which semantic concepts. Getting it wrong back in the De Dernberg Towers was no biggie, as context clues filled in the blanks. The airport was a setting less conducive to self-correcting mistranslations.
Anyway, there was a third reason; the big angry red signs that, even in their incomprehensibility, signaled that going back the way they’d just come was no longer a viable option. And, finally, reason the fourth: here came the checked bags, somersaulting down onto the carousel.
Nur watched as travelers to her left and right rushed forward to yank their bags from the scuffed merry-go-round. The woman with the bright blue Mohawk grabbed a bag covered in patches and buckles and zippers, a minority of which appeared to serve any practical function.
At last, Deirdre’s bag emerged from the mysterious netherworld beneath the belt. It Plinko’d off a few other bags before thunking onto the silver lip of the carousel.
Nur knew “excuse me”, and used it liberally as she slunk her way between her fellow travelers to meet the valise. The throng had thinned since that red light started spinning, but those remaining graciously gave Nur room to maneuver.
She picked a spot a few feet in front of Deirdre’s case and waited a few seconds with her hand outstretched. Letting the belt do most of the work, she slipped her fingers through the handle and pulled.
After about five clumsy steps backward, she managed to extricate her fingers from the handle. Walking alongside the bag, which as far as she could ascertain was full of anvils and bowling balls, she reassessed her approach. She paused a moment, falling behind the bag a step, then clutched the handle with both hands and yanked. The idea was to use its forward motion in her favor, to inch it up and over the side of the lip. The practice was to hurt her back.
She paced the bag all the way around the carousel, until Deirdre was back in sight, chewing her gum with her mouth open, as she did when she wanted to be annoying, which was just about always. Mercifully, Nur was too far away to hear that moist, breathy aaal aaal aaal sound her sister made a point of making. Nur hoped that as Deirdre grew up, they could share more moments like the one that passed between them just after they touched down. But until that time, she would continue to indulge that fantasy in which she woke up one inverted summer’s dawn, being, and having always been, an only child.
Hobbling after the bag, one hand wrapped impotently around the handle, Nur called to Deirdre at the apotheosis of her orbit. “Why is your luggage so heavy?!”
aaal aaal, now Nur could hear it. Ugh.
“It’s not!” Deirdre called back.
“It is!”
“No, you’re just weak!”
Nur straightened up, and let the luggage get away from her. “Then why don’t you come and lift it, with those big heroic muscles of yours!”
Deirdre shrugged. “You told me to stay here and watch the stuff!” aaal aaal aaal. “Ask for help!”
Ah, that’s what it was. Nur didn’t know how to ask for help, and Deirdre knew that Nur didn’t know how. She just wanted to make her big sister feel a fool. Well, she’d just see about that!
Nur dashed after the bag, clutched the top handle in one hand and the side handle in the other, and lifted from the legs. Groaning a bit despite herself, she managed to conscript her entire body into the effort of hoisting the bag over the silver rim and onto the buffed linoleum.
It fell with a satisfying thud, and she managed to keep herself from doing the same. She wiped a hand across her brow and it came back sweaty, which tempered her pride. But still, she’d manag-
“Blarb blarb blarb,” said a tall, muscular man next to her.
He sounded friendly enough, but Nur wasn’t about to venture one of her very limited responses without knowing what the prompt was. She settled on “hm?”
The flurry of blarbs coalesced into words. Unfortunately, the words still didn’t make any sense.
“Sath bym gat, am,” he repeated. Nur despaired of ever learning such a strange and garbled language.
The man pointed to Deirdre’s bag.
No thanks, I’ve got it, is what Nur wanted to say. But she couldn’t. So she settled on a negatory “m-mm”.
The man pointed again, with slightly more insistence, as though that would clear up the confusion. And, as it happened, it did.
Nur took another look at the impedimenta that had claimed the sweat of her brow, and despaired once again. It was very nearly the same as Deirdre’s, but…
She slipped back into the comfortable blanket of Seychellois Creole. “Oh hell, this isn’t even the right one!”
As the big man took his bag and strode easily through the automatic glass doors, Nur turned back to Deirdre, whose sticky, mint-green grin communicated knowledge that it had been the wrong bag all along. Nur wondered how hard it was to make somebody disappear in Boston (if American movies were to be believed, the answer was not very).
The De Dernberg Sisters, in America at last. They made it.
CHAPTER 1
Their first real glimpse of the city was by the peeled citrus glow of the setting sun. Most of the eventide fireworks had gone up while the cab was whisking them through a long tunnel, and they emerged just in time to see the show.
Zipping through the narrow streets of a low, Italian-looking district, they rounded a corner and came out at an open, paved park. The view wasn’t anything special in and of itself: a smattering of skyscrapers (nothing of a scale that couldn’t be seen in Seychelles; one might get closer to the mark by calling them ‘skyticklers’), vibrant verdure in tight patches, strolling couples snuggling against the first cool sighs of an outbound August. But the whole was greater than the sum of its parts; this was a vista to bridge that pesky divide between education and experience. She’d read all about Boston in the weeks (oh who was she kidding, months) prior to their visit. Now, in this long-shadowed glimpse, she was finally getting to meet the object of her fascination.
She liked what she saw. It felt…cozy. Not the way she’d expected to be describing an American city, but there it was. Warmth flooded her weary mind. She didn’t even notice she was smiling until her cheeks started to hurt. Her spirits were high, so it was with great trepidation that she turned towards her sister.
Deirdre was staring out the window, elbow propped against the glass and the beveled edge just below it, head hanging limply in her palm. Whether she was bored or angry or what, Nur could never guess, and she wasn’t about to try. Deirdre’d be in the same mood later. For now, Nur just wanted to enjoy the ride. And she did.
The cabbie parked at the curb and turned back to the sisters. “Sill ihp heysh ahl ni repop,” he said in what Nur could only assume from her reading was a pronounced New Englander accent.
“We…don’t speak English.” She knew that in English, but hated to use it. American cities were dangerous places, from what she’d read, especially for girls aged nineteen and fifteen. Highlighting one’s inability to make sense of the city was one step removed from bunching one’s crisp cash into balls, throwing it at people’s heads and shouting “Here, you take it.”
Then again, if the cabbie hadn’t guessed they didn’t speak English when they mutely tumbled into the backseat and handed him a well-thumbed piece of paper with nothing but an address and the words “PLEASE THANK YOU” on it, the thought of perfidy would probably never occur to him without a full-color diagram showing him the steps. If he were going to take advantage of them, he’d have done it already.
And as the squat, two-story pastel-yellow shingled edifice outside the window looked an awful lot like the pictures Nur had seen of her uncle’s house, the cabbie appeared to be honest.
Honest and bright aren’t the same thing, though. The cabbie pondered “we don’t speak English” for a moment, before replying by repeating himself, but louder and slower.
“SILL IHP HEYSH…AHL NI REPOP.”
Deirdre sprang back to life, whirling on the well-meaning cabbie with loud, slow
Seychellois Creole. “WE DON’T SPEAK ENGLISH, SHE SAID.”
Nur grimaced. The cabbie shrugged, popped the trunk, and got out of the cab. Nur followed suit before Deirdre had a chance to explain herself. She wasn’t interested in hearing it.
After a mercifully brief round of ‘cabbie tries to call their bluff on not speaking English’, Nur paid and sent the kindly buffoon on his way. They schlepped their luggage up the steps to the front door. Deirdre lunged forward and rang the doorbell, then fell back in with a surprised Nur.
Nur was a surprised Nur because that’s how Deirdre used to be - she used to be downright effusive, bubbly and giggly and fired up about life. The type to rush forward and press buttons, just to see what they did – whether they lit up or beeped or bingle-jingled – that was who Deirdre used to be. Curious, excited to learn. Post-puberty Deirdre was gloomy, and Nur couldn’t understand why. It was exhausting, being around her. She still loved her sister, but that love was slowly morphing into the instrumental ‘yes I will pick you up when you fall but I don’t actually want to talk to you about it’ love found only amongst blood relatives who would never be a part of each other’s lives were it not for the accident of birth.
Perhaps a year abroad will bring back the old Deirdre, Nur thought to herself. The thought was equal parts meditation and incantation.
The windowed door in front of them swung open on the whitest woman on the planet. “WELCOME TO AMERICA!” their Aunt Amy screamed in clunky but functional Seychellois Creole. Their little ginger aunt (aunt by marriage, naturally; Nur and her family had dark, smooth skin) snapped her arms out, grabbed each sister by the shoulder and yanked them inside.
The prevailing sensibility of the house was an uneasy rapprochement between traditional Seychellois (which is itself an even uneasier compromise between African and Colonial styles) and classic New England. This is to say, it was a mess. Palm fronds cast long, lazy shadows on bescribbled baseball memorabilia, buttoned leather and wicker stood arm-to-arm like reluctant buddy cops on the case, and most explosively, the current flag of Seychelles (adopted in 1996, a mere 20 years after the country attained Independence) hung next to gilt-framed oil paintings of the sorts of men who were all about Independence, albeit for people who looked more like Amy and less like Nur and her family.