Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  I feel every muscle in my seatmate’s body tense, but she remains silent. Then she twists around. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait. Can you do that?” the angry one asks in Uyghur, her voice now gentle and caring. It surprises me.

  “I’ll try,” the girl answers in a whisper. Her hand covers her eyes, that little part of her face that is visible underneath her black and white striped scarf.

  “What’s your name?” my seatmate asks. “You must never let anyone call you Mouse.”

  “Zuwida.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. My name is Mikray.”

  I half stand so I can reach across the back of the seat to touch the young girl’s arm, to try to offer some comfort. “Hello, Zuwida. My name is Roshen.”

  “My name is Gulnar,” says the embroiderer.

  “You already know that my name is Adile,” our fourth seatmate says.

  “I’m Jemile,” says one of the waifs in the back seat, the one with the sweetest, most innocent face. Another who cannot possibly be more than fourteen years old.

  The remaining three introduce themselves: Patime and Letipe, who are sisters, they say, and Nurbiya. Now nine of us—​the scarf girls—​have names. For a moment I forget about watching for traitors as we chat quietly about sand dunes, the plantings at the sides of the road that help to reduce erosion, the sandstorm that seems to be brewing off to the northeast, way out across the desert plain. We wonder if it will sweep to the south. If we will drive into it. If it might delay us. No one speaks of home, of food or water, or of having to pee.

  Then we stop speaking, comforted perhaps by the awareness that we’re not totally alone, that we have shared some little part of ourselves. The motion of the van, the rhythm of the tires turning on the asphalt, lulls us as we speed across the desert and through small towns.

  Perhaps I fall asleep or drift into some unconscious state, but I pull back to reality when Ushi shrieks. The van is careening across the highway toward a massive wall of flying steel. I’ll be killed! Incinerated when we hit—​with everyone else who’s been thrown against me. Pushing me to my death.

  We miss the end of the tanker by a few grains of sand and now face head-on the stream of approaching trucks and tankers, horns blasting as they try to dodge us. Our driver keeps jerking the wheel as we thump along against traffic. I scream, waiting for the collision that will send our body parts across the desert.

  But we’re alive. We made it! To the sand along the wrong side of the road. We sit in the van, stunned, with arms, legs, bodies sprawled all over one another. Ushi erupts into a string of swear words at the driver, who sits ashen behind the wheel.

  “He couldn’t help it,” Adile says to us quietly. “It’s a blowout. I know. My family has a truck.”

  “Everyone out!” Ushi shouts. We push and stumble through the door until our feet touch solid ground and we take in deep breaths of hot desert air.

  Slowly, we seem to regain awareness that we really have survived, and again form into our scarf and no-scarf groups. Except for Zuwida, who cowers beside the van. This may be our chance to help, if she hasn’t already wet her pants. With Mikray’s assistance, I get the scarf girls to enclose Zuwida in a tight ring to shield her from the passing trucks and cars so she can squat and relieve herself with as little humiliation as possible. The three scarfless ones notice and come toward us. This is sure to alert Ushi, who could well inflict more embarrassment upon Zuwida for her uncontrollable bladder. I leave the circle and go toward the scarfless girls.

  “What are you doing?” the girl who seems to be the leader of the three asks, and I wonder why she suddenly cares. Maybe she too has to pee.

  “We’re helping someone,” I say in Uyghur. “Please don’t draw attention to us. Could you talk to Ushi? Distract her, so she doesn’t notice?”

  I’m met with a collective shrug, but the girl who asked looks over at the group again before turning away. I follow her, tap her on the shoulder. “We’ll help you, too, if you need it.” For a moment our eyes meet. Then with a jerk of her head she walks away, heading for our matron, who is frantically looking at her watch and at the driver, who is struggling with the tire. And then I can’t see Ushi because the girl and her followers line up to block her vision.

  There is little talk as we file back into the van and wait to move across oncoming traffic to our lane. Soon we are heading again toward the unknown. Gulnar takes out her embroidery. Perhaps some do as I do—​listen to the scarfless trio chat in Mandarin about French fashion and glossy lipstick. Their leader, I learn, is Hawa. Rayida sits next to her, tilting her head this way and that, always smiling, looking for approval. The third girl remains nameless. She’s dressed like the other two in a little short skirt and form­fitting blouse. It’s amusing to see her try to mimic their gestures, try to be part of their conversation when they ignore her. It’s sad, too.

  Will I ever wish to be other than I am? Other than the girl who wears Ahmat’s necklace?

  We all become alert as we approach an oasis and the dunes give way to grass and trees. We drive into a town where shops spill out onto the sidewalk and people who look like us are buying tomatoes and peppers or sitting under umbrellas scooping polo into their mouths.

  Mikray shoves against me, and we both lean out the window and shout “Salam!” to everyone who is Uyghur. We pass donkey carts, old men in big black woolly hats, women in all kinds of colorful headscarves. Soon everyone is leaning out the windows calling—​until Ushi hollers “Zhu zui!” We sink back into our seats and shut up as commanded. I don’t know why we obey. Maybe we’re all afraid she won’t let us use a toilet and we’ll have to soil our clothes.

  A blare of Chinese music comes from a huge loudspeaker suspended on a pole, high above the street where we have stopped for a traffic signal. Before we pass, the music changes to a voice telling us we must work hard to make China a great nation. I wonder if someone knows we’re here and is talking just to us. The voice makes me shiver.

  The whole town makes me shiver. Just as in Hotan, piles of mud bricks that were once Uyghur homes lie beside new buildings for the Han Chinese, who apparently need big, ugly places to live in and want us to be the same. Cranes loom beside half-built office buildings that reach high into the sky.

  The van pulls over to the side of the road. There is a plaza in front of one of the fancier buildings, and there beside two struggling, spindly trees is the public WC. We’re allowed to go in two at a time, starting, of course, with the first row. When it comes to Gulnar and Mikray’s turn, Ushi tells Mikray to stay in her seat. I crawl over her and Adile and go in with Gulnar. Then two from the back seat go in, and two more, which leaves Zuwida sitting there.

  “You’ll go in with me, Mouse,” Ushi says. “The driver is in charge of you others while I’m inside.” She looks directly at Mikray as she says this.

  Mikray sits as still as stone. I want to say something, but I don’t know if our driver understands Uyghur or not, so I do not speak.

  Ushi returns and calls for Mikray. “You’ll go by yourself,” she says. “I’ll have none of your troublemaking.” She walks Mikray to the WC and sends her in—​alone. I say a silent prayer. Ushi could have torn Mikray limb from limb if she’d chosen to, and none of us would have known what happened. I fear that Mikray carries a knife, as a Uyghur man would, and I’m sure she knows how to use it.

  As we pull out again into the busy roadway, Ushi reaches into a box on the floor of the van and hands back twelve bottles of water. It seems an act of kindness—​we’re all thirsty from the heat—​until I think that she’s probably being paid to deliver us alive and we do at least require water. Each row is then handed one small bag of salted dried peas and one small bag of spicy peanuts to share. The amount we are to eat is apparently determined by our status in Ushi’s eyes.

  The taste of a few peas and nuts leaves a gnawing hunger in my stomach. For food. For home. For my life as it was. I reach into the purse that hangs from my shoulder,
the purse that holds the yuan Father gave me, the only money I’ll have until I earn my own. It holds a packet of raisins, emergency food Mother insisted I take along—​and the emergency is now. The grapes were raised on our farm, harvested by my sister and me, sun-dried on our roof. It’s not my hunger I feed, it is the longing for what I’ve left behind.

  Even as I savor the taste, I know I will share. With a touch on Mikray’s arm I pass the bag along. She takes a few raisins and passes it on until there is a tap on my shoulder and the empty bag is returned to me from the back row. In this way some dried fruit appears, a few nuts from deep inside someone’s pocket.

  We scarf girls feast on a small taste of home.

  Seven

  THE SANDSTORM WE WATCHED rise in a giant swirl over the desert now covers us, creating darkness as we creep along the highway through a blanket of sand. The scarfless trio keeps us informed of the hour and our destination with their endless questions to Ushi, who answers with surprising politeness—​perhaps her boss will reward her for delivering these princesses of beauty and high fashion to him. It’s rumored that bosses like pretty girls. Our modesty will be our protection.

  It is evening when we arrive in Cherchen. Silhouettes of trees now line our way. Traffic lights blink hazy warnings that our driver ignores because no one else seems to be driving through the streets. We finally stop and are herded into a hotel. Ushi picks up keys and escorts us to the second floor, where she opens two doors. “Okay,” she says, “six in each room. There’s a bed and chairs you can sleep on. The toilet’s in the hall. Dinner downstairs in ten minutes.” Which would be useful information if any one of us had a watch.

  “Will our bags be brought to us?” Hawa asks.

  “No one is going back out into that storm to get your bags, honey,” Ushi answers in a horrible, mocking voice as she opens the door to another room and disappears.

  We’ll spend the night in our clothes, which are damp, sweaty rags. We have all endured the sweltering heat inside the closed-up van. Even a slit of open window would have buried us in sand. What was I thinking when I chose to wear my most precious blouse for this journey—​the filmy, soft, reddish-orange blouse I had on when I said goodbye to Ahmat? I rush into a room—​either room, it doesn’t matter—​and curl up in a chair. I’ll stay here all night while my blouse collects more sweat, and tears if I have any left in me.

  The gentle touch on my arm is Zuwida’s. Mikray is standing behind her. “We want you to come to dinner with us,” Zuwida says, and I do.

  We’re divided between two round tables. Each has a wooden circle in the middle that holds plates of food. It can be spun around so that the dish you want is right in front of you. We ooh and aah at the abundance of the food, at this sudden generosity—​until an unfamiliar smell fills our nostrils and we lean back. We’re being served Chinese food—​pork food—​and we will not eat it. Even the rice smells so strong we know it’s tainted with pork broth.

  Ushi has to know that Muslims don’t eat pork. Uyghur families do not eat pork even if they’re not religious. I look over at the next table, where Hawa sits. Her plate is full of food; a pair of the chopsticks they’ve given to each of us is in her hand, but she does not use them. I watch as she lays them down at the side of her plate. Not one of the twelve girls is eating. If one is a traitor, she, too, is going hungry.

  A waitress leaves a pot of tea at our table. We take turns pouring it into the small bowls at our places. We drink. That is our supper.

  Ushi and the driver eat much of what is at their table, then come to ours and remove the dishes of their favorite foods. They chat as if nothing strange is happening. When they’re done eating, we are escorted to our rooms. It is fortunate the toilet is in the hallway, or we might have been locked in.

  Mikray wakes me. I open my eyes enough to know that it’s dark and I’m curled up in a chair with my clothes on. “Come with me. Bring yuan,” she whispers. And I, who have lived carefully all my life, follow her into the hallway and out onto the street—​not knowing why and not caring.

  The storm has subsided, with only bits of sand and grit lingering in the air. Streaks of dawn break through the nighttime skies, lighting our way as we cross the wide highway in front of our hotel and head into a maze of windy, unpaved streets. Our cheap hotel is next to the Uyghur part of town. Mikray must have been paying attention enough last night to know this.

  I’ve guessed our mission. “I smell naan,” I say. We turn down an alley and find a woman loading flatbread onto a cart. We bargain for six loaves. Without saying so, we seem to have agreed we’ll share with everyone—​half a loaf each can be hidden and will sustain us for a while.

  It’s taken more time than we hoped. The sun has risen and so has Ushi. She’s talking to the manager as we slip inside. We’ve at least been wise enough to cover the naan with our skirts, but it’s obvious we’re hiding something. The manager has seen us and must have told Ushi, because Ushi turns around just as we start up the stairs. “You, girl, what are you doing down here?”

  Girl? And she’s right. Mikray has disappeared. I’m the one caught, and Ushi heads toward me. I bow my head, bring my free hand to my heart. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m sorry,” I keep saying over and over in Mandarin until an excuse comes. “I’d . . . I had hoped to find the van. It’s that time of the month,” I whisper. I hope my face gets red, although it’s absurd to think I might have found the van, untied the luggage, heaved it around, and found my bag. “I need something—​desperately. I should have asked you first. I know. I’m sorry.” I look at her now and try to make my eyes innocent. “Please let me go back to my room. Maybe one of the girls can help me.”

  Ushi heads toward me. My hand shakes, and I can feel the loaves slipping from my grip. I press against the wall. Please don’t let me drop them. But I’m going to. I grab the bottom of the loaves with my other hand, clutching them through my skirt. I’m too hungry to let Ushi steal my naan! I work the round flatbreads to the center of my belly, gather more of my skirt, and bunch it between my legs, two hands now grabbing my crotch. “I must get to a toilet,” I say, and I flee up the stairs and run down the hallway to the WC. It’s empty, or so I think until I see the legs of someone in the stall. “Mikray?” I whisper. “How did you get here?”

  “What did the fat ox do to you?” she says, and steps out.

  “You left me alone!” Fear and anger mix as I lash out. I hate that she chose me to go with her. And that I went.

  Mikray’s face falls for a second before the hard line of her eyebrows re-forms. “I’m sorry,” she says as she fastens me with a cold look. “I mistook you for someone who’d want to help. I won’t do it again.” She turns to march out the door at the same time Ushi bursts through.

  Ushi stops. Her gaze shifts from Mikray to me. “You chose this one to help you?” She points to Mikray. “Be careful,” she says. “I don’t think you want to get involved with her kind.” Glaring at Mikray, Ushi seems to have forgotten my transgression.

  “Breakfast downstairs. Now. Tell the others,” she says, and heads out the door.

  For an awkward second nothing is said.

  “Take your naan to the unscarved ones. I won’t go near that room,” Mikray says, and leaves.

  The steamed pork buns they serve for breakfast are eaten by Ushi and our driver. As we’re ushered through the lobby to the van, Mikray comes up beside me. “There’s another stairway down the hall.” I follow her glance, and there it is, in plain sight. “I had to leave you. We’d never have saved the naan if I’d been caught with you. Ushi would have suspected the worst.

  “You’re sweet enough to get away with anything,” Mikray says as she moves away.

  Sweet? All I feel is hate. Hate for Mikray, who got me into trouble and is now squashed against me in the van. I turn away, and I’m looking across the street at the Uyghur neighborhood. Why didn’t I see it the night before? Why didn’t I know there was a back stairway and sneak away, leaving Mikray stand
ing alone? What was her life like before to make her so sly?

  Somehow I know at this very moment that I’ll never again be the person I was when I left home. I’m traveling beyond the mountains, and I have much to learn. I’m glad Mikray chose me. I’m proud that I helped to fill our bellies for a few hours. Being “sweet” is a defense I’ll gladly use.

  “There are some rules you apparently don’t understand,” Ushi says, turning in her seat to face us as we drive off through yellow, dust-filled air. “Let’s get it straight. You don’t wander off by yourself. You ask me if you need help.” Her words are slow and snarly. Her eyes dart around the van until she finds me. “Do we all understand that now?” Her eyes don’t leave me, and I will not bow my head or look away. For awful moments she holds her stare and I hold mine. “I understand,” I say in a meek, quiet voice.

  I give her what she wants so I can break her rule again. Be sweet, I tell myself.

  Ushi rewards me with a grin and teeth and turns away.

  Eight

  WE’RE IN A HURRY to get somewhere. Ushi looks at her watch. Prods the driver. I’m waiting for the next blowout, wondering how a road can go on and on so endlessly through this barren land.

  Hours pass. We come to a rather large city. When it’s obvious we’re not going to stop, I break off a small piece of the naan hidden in my bag. I cover my mouth as I chew, even though I’m sure Ushi is too busy cursing traffic lights and slow drivers to be looking at me in the rearview mirror. Even the princesses in the front seats are careful to turn away when they sneak bits of naan from their bags or pockets. No sign yet that a traitor has reported Mikray’s and my wrongdoing. Perhaps hunger triumphs over treachery.

  There’s little talk in the van until we start bouncing around, the road now ridged and uneven, as the driver speeds along, not caring if we’re jostled from our seats. We laugh—​giggly, silly laughs—​although it isn’t at all funny. Then someone says that maybe the mountains up ahead are our own Kunlun and maybe our mountains won’t let us pass through.