by Phil Tucker
What had happened? What had happened? She had no idea, no idea if it had indeed been a fever dream, something brought upon by the alcohol, but one glass, was that really enough to push her so deeply into something so febrile and hallucinatory? Slowing down, she stopped, leaned against a wall and rubbed at her throat. It was so unfair, so unfair. What had she done to deserve this? Tears stung her eyes and she felt a crushing sense of despair swamp over her.
Get it together, she thought. Pull yourself up. Don’t fall, don’t fall now because if you do you won’t stop, you’ll fall forever. Maya ran her hands through her hair, pulled it back, away from her face. Straightened her clothing, forced herself to stand up straight. She felt manic, her fear making everything electric, every sound resonating within her head. She felt as if every hair were sensitive to the air currents, more terribly alive than ever.
Basics. She needed to do something, anything, but she had to get off the streets. Where could she go? Thoughts of bus tickets and freedom were too much, at least for now. So—where? Work. She could lose herself in work for some hours, make some more money. Give herself time to think. She suddenly craved the familiar, the world she understood, no matter how abusive and horrible it was. At least she knew the people at the factory, would not be alone.
Turning, she took her bearings. She was late, already late enough to earn a serious reprimand, but showing up late was better than nothing, so she began to stride down the street. The air was cold, freezing her wet clothing, but there was nothing she could do about it. Raising her chin, ignoring glances that were probably not even being sent her way, Maya headed toward work. One step at a time, she thought. Keep it together.
Twenty minutes later she reached the building in which the factory was housed. When she had been told by Mrs. Mercedes that she would be working in a clothing factory, she had imagined a massive building, a warehouse with thousands of women busily sewing and stitching. This was nothing like that. Walking up to the door, she buzzed the intercom and then gave the password. The security door opened and she let herself in. How many times had she slipped in like an illicit shadow? How familiar this dingy hall, the air of bruised smoke and bad perfume. Burnt hair, the most noxious smell she knew.
Up the stairs, up six flights. Don’t use the elevator, too dangerous, too unreliable. Her feet grew heavier with each step, her legs leaden, her head light. She wouldn’t make it through the night, thought Maya, she wouldn’t survive. Finally, however, she gained the seventh floor, and staggered down the hall to the door behind which she would work for the next six hours. Passed other doors, some bearing name plaques, graphic designers, attorneys, other official sounding names ending in capital letters. Finally hers. A blank door, no sign, no name. No real existence. Just a door, scuffed and bare and unnoticeable.
Knocked three times. The door cracked open and Jose looked out at her, his lined, seamed face suspicious, angry, doubtful.
“What you doing coming here so late?”
She didn’t have enough energy to argue, no voice to speak regardless.
“Why should I let you in? So you can waste more time in here? You don’t want the job, we find someone else who work hard, harder than you.”
Maya shoved the door open. Jose was a blowhard, a little man given enough power to feel important, but not important enough to matter. He was nominally the shift leader, but he got paid about as much as everybody else. His true payment was the right to boss people around, to issue empty threats and make everybody’s life worse than his own. But he was also a small man, small enough for Maya to surprise with a hard shove and knock aside.
The door swung open, Jose stumbled back, and she entered into the dull chatter of sewing machines, the low voices in muted conversation, the narrow echoes and sordid smells that were the ‘factory’. It was little more than a cheap apartment, some four rooms crammed with tiny desks at which women and older children worked, sewing belts that would then be sold to expensive stores with brand names. Some of them worked six hours like her, others three times that much, sewing and stitching until they collapsed from fatigue, trying desperately to make enough money to change their situation, knowing that they never would.
Jose was spluttering, demanding explanations, excuses, apologies, but she had none to give him. She was too tired, too worn out, and she knew that nothing she could say would have pleased him anyway. Anyways, she couldn’t talk to him no matter what she might have to say, so instead, she lowered her head, allowed his words to land on her shoulders like licks from a lash, and walked stolidly toward her station and sat down.
Maya had worked these past months for hours on end in this tiny room. It violated all kinds of codes, with seven women packed into a room barely large enough to qualify as a pantry, desks rammed against each other, the backs of their chairs clacking and banging whenever a woman moved or turned to say something. Overhead, harsh, stiff light shimmered down from their fluorescent cages, flattening out the beige, scuffed tones of the walls, the dirt colored hues of the mongrel carpet. There was no music, no energy to the voices, no spirit to the work. Just deadened fingers busily managing the crafting of belts and other accessories.
Jose had followed her to her station, and now stood over her, hands planted on his hips, ranting on about respect and professional obligations and how he would be reporting her to his superior and that she couldn’t just walk in when she liked. Maya knew that as soon as he had made a big enough show for the others he would walk away, and, as such, ignored him, instead setting about the arranging of her workspace, pulling her box of materials out from under the desk, turning on the sewing machine, adjusting her light, straightening her back for one last stretch before diving in.
Six hours to go, five really, given her late start. Maya could normally produce about one belt every ten minutes, five an hour, with breaks, and about thirty or so for the whole of the shift. She would get paid for each item produced, so it was imperative that she produce as many as she could, letting quality slide for quantity. It was always at the beginning of each shift that she wished for a source of music, something to listen to, something to play into her ears as she began to work. To make her fingers more nimble, to distract her mind, to lull her thoughts and imagination into a routine series of movements that produced precious little money, but enough to placate the people who ruled her life.
Jose moved away, sniffing, pausing to glance back at her once and then was gone. Something was settling over her, not resignation, but a determination to simply work. Where some might turn to drink to escape her problems, Maya turned to work. That was how she had been able to plug away for so many months at such horrible jobs. As her situation grew worse she worked harder. Always her attitude had been to succeed, to make money so as to save money, to work harder until she had enough to disappear. The more miserable she became, the more important it was to punch through the frailties and vicissitudes of life through sheer sweat and will.
The light was perfect, a piercing illumination. The workspace became her world, the other women fading into the background as she pulled out the first length of black leather that would become her belt. Stitches, awl, the metallic components of the buckle imported from China, the label that had to be stitched in, all assembled before her, ready for construction.
A deep breath, and then she dove in. The sewing machine began to chatter, its machinery spinning and whirring and acting according to her desires. The black leather was fed beneath its blurring nib, its darting beak of undeniable sharpness. Her hands were not her own. They moved with devastating alacrity. If she could not dominate the world outside, or her own fate, or even her own body, if she were to lose control of her voice, if she were eventually to be given to the tasting and sampling of gross men, then at least here she could prove herself a master of something. No matter that the job was mean, that the pay was absurd, that the competition was overwhelming, that there was no chance of recompense or recognition for her achievements. She was her own audience, her own judg
e, and for the sake of her own pride she focused her attention into a narrow laser beam and worked.
Time passed. Her hands flowed. Leather was fed beneath the dancing nib of the sewing machine, its chatter and clamor endless. Labels were sewn in with terrible precision. Each and every one finding its perfect place. Metallic buckles were assembled, tongues and lathes and frames placed within the double backed leather belt ends, then sewed and closed shut. Over and over and over and over again.
She sewed and thought not of the fact that she would have no day job. She sewed and ignored the fact that she was alone, that there was nobody there who loved her, who cared for her, who wandered how she was. Sometimes she even forgot her parents, her dreams. Her pain, her loneliness. She buried it all in the deft hummingbird movements of her hands. She wouldn’t think about what had happened tonight, the man with the smile, the man in green, the press of his lips against hers, waking up on the ground soaked and mute. She wouldn’t think about the loss of her voice. She wouldn’t think about the loss of her voice. She would not.
Time passed. Over and over again she repeated the same movements. Stillness about her. The sense of people watching. Voices. She blocked them out. Leather fed like a snake into a hole. Metal hoops latched in. Her box emptying, somebody refilling it, emptying again, and again, and again. Belts set aside, completed, stitched shut, ready to be boxed and sent out into the city. The quality of light changing. The dull shimmer of fluorescent light slowly augmented by something clearer, diffuse, coming in from the next room. Morning light.
One more belt. Just one more. The sewing machine scalding hot to the touch. Her fingertips raw, nearly bleeding. Eyes sore, straining. What time was it? How long had she been working? Finally, she set the last belt aside, sat back, her back one long score of knotted whorls of bone and muscle. Peripheral vision returning. She’d never gone so deep, been so focused on her task. People were in the room with her, watching. She turned her head. Looked at them.
Jose, eyes wide, mouth a narrow line. The other women, hands idle, simply staring at her. People crowded in the doorway. Maya felt her heart rate begin to beat, to pick up. What were they staring at? She tensed to rise from her seat, but instead simply skittered her gaze from one to the next. No friendly looks. What had she done wrong? Had she been humming, or distracting the others while working?
Then she saw. By her table. The belts. A pile of them, a slithering horde of them. Not ten, not thirty, not even forty. Hundreds. They had slid over, fallen onto the floor, buried the brown carpet beneath their morass of twisted lengths. A hundred? Two hundred?
Maya stared at them, not comprehending. Had she made them all? Turning, she looked at Jose, who couldn’t meet her eyes. Then she looked at Sarah, the closest to a friend she had in the group. Sarah’s face was pale, drawn. Her eyes were closed off, afraid. Maya raised her eyebrows, then pointed at the pile of belts. How many? She asked, and Sarah shook her head.
“Over four hundred,” said a voice. Mr. Donahue. He was standing in the corner of the room, and the way he looked at her made her shiver. As if her body were a pale thing in his hands, and he was turning her over and over while gazing down at her from the dark, searching for a place to bite. “Over four hundred,” he said again, “In six hours. That’s about sixty belts an hour. One belt a minute.”
He stepped forward, and Maya shrank back into her seat. She wanted to shake her head. The light was hurting her eyes, the endless shimmer. People were murmuring now. Mr. Donahue was staring at her, his lips wet where he’d been running his tongue over them, his gray, receding hair brushed back and gleaming with gel. “A belt a minute. Incredible,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out and run his hand over her hair, pet her like one might a prize dog. “Incredible.”
Maya looked about the tiny room. Nobody would meet her eyes. Everybody looked away, including Sarah. Everybody looked away except Mr. Donahue. Words came back to her, from earlier in the night. I can help you, the man in green had said. I can help.
Maya shook her head, tried to rise to her feet. Mr. Donahue reached out, placed his hand on her shoulder, and pushed her back down. “Shhh,” he said. “There’s no rush to go anywhere. Stay still. Shhhh.”
Chapter 5
Maribel wrapped her scarf once and then twice around her neck and then tucked each end into her coat which she zipped closed, right up to her chin. It was getting colder in New York, as if the city were settling in for a big freeze, a premature ice age of its own, each day a premonition of the frozen centuries that were to come. Stepping out of the building’s front door and into the street, she paused like a hound arrested by a new scent, and lifted her face to the wind that moaned down the building canyon. There was a charge in the air, a metallic tang mixed with the noxious smell of exhaust bled into crusted snow. Suppressing a shiver, she walked quickly to the end of the block and stopped at the avenue. Extended her hand, and waited for the first cab to pull up to the curb. For the first time since she had moved in, she had a place to go.
She’d spotted the small store two days ago, and spent the intervening time debating the wisdom of going. A red palm had been lit in bright red neon in the window front, and gaudy curtains of the kind one might expect to find gracing a gypsy’s caravan filled in the rest. Ms. Silestra’s Psychic Readings, had read the sign. The sight of the small store had fallen on her like a depth charge, not making any impact at first, only detonating later that day while she had sat in her corner café, chin resting on her palm, gazing out the window at nothing.
Why not? She had felt nothing but disdain for psychics all her life, considering them charlatans, but now the decision to go made a clinical, logical sense. Something had coalesced out of the air, taken Sofia and left in her place a dead log of tissue and bone. If that was possible, then it required no leap of faith on her part to accept that a psychic might be able to help. And any psychic that could afford to operate in the West Village must be very successful indeed.
Stepping out of the cab, she absentmindedly handed the driver twenty dollars and turned to face Ms. Silestra’s shop. The red palm glowed like warning sign. Halt, it seemed to say. Do not advance further. Danger lies within. Straightening her dove gray coat, Maribel raised her chin and opened the door. It was too late for such warnings.
Soft music was playing. The door opened into a small lounge, two couches set around a coffee table, both broad and inviting. A bookshelf reared up behind each couch, and the colorful curtains were pulled open so that clear light fell angled perfectly across the open book that a young woman was reading as she sat on one of the couches. Maribel paused, glanced at the closed door that led deeper into Ms. Silestra’s domain, and then at the young woman who was rising to her feet, a smile on her faced.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Ms. Silestra. Come in, please.” She was older than she had seemed at first, mid-thirties, a little older perhaps than Maribel herself. Her hair was cut close to her scalp, but was so thick and luxurious that it seemed more the pelt of a black panther than human hair. A handsome face, broad cheekbones, and dark eyes that smiled as she set the book down on the table.
“Hello,” said Maribel. “I don’t have an appointment.”
Ms. Silestra smiled, and walked around the table to take her coat. “I know. That’s not a problem. I have time to see you now, if you like.”
“Yes,” said Maribel, allowing her coat to be taken and hung from a series of pegs on the wall. There were no crystals in evidence, no New Age posters. She couldn’t decide if this was a good or bad sign. “Yes, that would be good.”
Ms. Silestra turned back to her, and quite naturally reached out and took her hands in her own. The skin of her hands was rough, warm, as if she spent her time handling concrete. Their hands hung between them like an inverted suspension bridge as Ms. Silestra searched Maribel’s face. The smile faded from her eyes, and her mouth pursed into a line. “Oh,” she said, and shook her head. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She reached out, with
the same lack of self-consciousness, and cupped Maribel’s face with her rough hand.
As if her touch had broken something, Maribel’s eyes flooded with water. Clenching her jaw, suddenly furious, she stepped back, and drew her sleeve across her face. She wasn’t wearing make-up, thank god, but still, how dare she? Maribel felt as if Ms. Silestra had espied a crack in the field of ice that held her together, and, without thought, simply pushed her hand through it to touch her.
“Come,” said Ms. Silestra before she could remonstrate, turning and walking to the closed door. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” She opened it, and stepped out of sight, leaving it ajar. The quiet music played on, and Maribel found herself blinking rapidly and suddenly, terribly adrift. What had just happened? It had been like a jolt of electricity. Had Ms. Silestra remained in the room, she would probably have said something cutting and left, but now she had no choice but to follow, reluctantly curious, a curiosity more real than her previously abstract interest. Could she really know something that might....?
Beyond the door was a short hallway. Several doors were closed off of it, but the one at the end was ajar and soft light from a lamp poured through, illuminating the dark hall. Tentative, Maribel walked toward it, and reached out to open it slowly. A square room lay beyond, dominated by a circular table covered in a black cloth. A large plate was set in its center, painted an arterial red and filled with still water. Candles were arrayed along shelving that circled the walls, and a soft scent of incense pervaded the air.
Ms. Silestra was seated across the table from her, having donned a long robe of pale blue silk. She looked almost foolish wearing it, as if she had purchased it from a Chinese store with a mind to look mysterious and ‘psychic’, but for some reason this helped Maribel relax, took the edge off her apprehension so that she stepped inside.