Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  “That’s disgusting,” Ushi says, and I hear the chair scrape again. “Clean her up the best you can, Quin Fong. She’s going no matter what.”

  A door slams.

  Slowly I raise my head. Look at the mess. It’s not that bad. When so little goes into your stomach, there’s not much to come out.

  Spy Girl seems to be struggling not to vomit herself. Her face is pale. “We have to get a bucket. . . .” She stops. Wipes her hand over her mouth. “And clean it up.” Now both hands are over her mouth, and she makes a quick exit.

  I have to sit. I go to Ushi’s chair. Collapse. My arms cushion my head as it drops to the table. I smell the stench of my vomit and hope some of it stays ingrained forever in the wood—​for Ushi to smell every time she sits here.

  Spy Girl returns and bangs the bucket on the floor. “Well, get over here. Start cleaning,” she says.

  The “we” has been forgotten. I alone am to scrub. And I do. This is not the battleground I choose. Quin Fong is not a worthy opponent.

  Task done, I’m taken to a toilet room where I get to clean the bucket. Hanging in the same room, on a towel hook, are two “cute” outfits. I feel myself getting sick again.

  “Take off your smock,” Quin Fong says. “Let’s see if either of these fits.”

  “No,” I say.

  “What makes you think you have a choice?” Spy Girl says, and for the first time I have some respect for her. It’s hard for me to think of her as a victim, but maybe she is too, of something she doesn’t quite understand but is forced to obey.

  “I could call Ushi.” She stops, gives a nervous little laugh. “Or Mr. Lee,” she says, trying to make her voice sound high and mighty.

  I want to laugh, but she’s right. She could—​and she would.

  “Hand me the skirt,” I say. “The black one.” It’s less offensive and maybe a bit longer than the fluorescent-green one. Still, when I pull it on under my smock it barely covers my underpants.

  “The black blouse,” I say, in my imperious voice. Maybe she won’t notice that my hand is trembling when I take it from her.

  I turn around, remove my smock, and quickly pull the blouse over my head. The deep-cut neck leaves the top of my breasts exposed and my arms totally bare, with only a little ruffle at the shoulder. I can’t do this!

  “You have to find me something else!” I scream. “I do not and will not ever wear this kind of thing! It’s against the values of my people. We cover our arms, our legs . . . our hair . . .” My voice dies away because Spy Girl just shakes her head back and forth, stares at me as if she doesn’t even hear.

  “You don’t wear a bra. You have no boobs—​that means breasts. We’ve got to at least push you up a bit. I’ve got an extra bra,” she says. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

  Quin Fong is embarrassed for me. She’s trying to fix me up like they did Hawa. Will Spy Girl come back with a new name for me, too? I’m no Kitten. Maybe they’ll call me Dog. And where is Hawa? Why isn’t she going with the men? Doesn’t she know English?

  I’m in tears and clutching my jade necklace, because what will I do with it? I can’t—​I won’t wear it! It’s too sacred for these people to see. But where can I hide it?

  Spy Girl comes back and I turn away from her again. Take off the blouse. Put on the bra. Put the blouse back on. Ahmat’s jade piece is clutched in my hand as I turn to face her.

  “Doesn’t change much, does it,” she says. “Okay. Let’s keep going. Stockings.” She hands me two long maroon lace things. I slip my necklace into the bra and fit the stockings over my feet, up my legs until they’re above my kneecaps but below the skirt. Then shoes.

  “No,” I say. “I could never walk in those. I won’t wear them.”

  Spy Girl looks at the two pairs she’s holding out to me and shrugs. “You have to.”

  “No,” I say again. “Give me the ones you’re wearing now, and you wear those.” I point to her lower-heeled sandals.

  “Good idea,” she says, and she actually takes the shoes off her feet and gives them to me. She seems to love the strappy ones I rejected. I guess I’ve done her a favor.

  “Well, let’s go see Ushi.” She takes one more good look at me and rolls her eyes. “You’re her problem, not mine.”

  I grab my smock and try to cover myself as I’m led back into Ushi’s office.

  She’s sitting at her desk.

  “Well, look what we have here.” Ushi gets up. Circles around me, closer and closer, then grabs the smock and rips it out of my hands. “You won’t need this, sweetheart,” she says. Maybe that’s my new name. Sweetheart.

  It’s as if I’m standing before her naked. How will this short skirt and scanty blouse help me to understand English, to do the job they want me to do? I’m reasonably pretty and I am tall and slender and graceful. Why is that not enough?

  “Here’s the story, sweetheart. The guys from Australia are unhappy, especially the, uh—” I think she wants to say the short, fat one, but that would be describing herself and she can’t seem to do it. “The, uh . . . white-haired one. He’s the guy with the money. You”—​and now she’s right in my face—​“you are going to make him . . . happy. Tell him he’s cute, get him drunk, whatever you have to do to get him to talk. He doesn’t seem to know much Mandarin, so that’s why you’re here. He’s planning something. But he still owes us money, and we want it before he pulls any tricks. Do you understand?”

  Only too well, but I don’t say that. There is no way I’ll tell him he’s cute or try to get him drunk.

  “I ask you, do you understand!” She’s shouting now as she pulls my arms away from my body, where they’ve been glued in my pathetic attempt to cover myself.

  “You want me to spy,” I say quietly.

  She snorts. “Yeah, like that,” she says. “If you only knew, sweetheart. If you only knew.” She looks at her watch. “We still have some time. Quin Fong, get your makeup. Do her face. Do whatever you can. And you,” she says, pointing to me. “Sit.”

  Quin Fong must have been ready for her assignment. She goes to the toilet room and returns with a bag. Empties it onto the table.

  Ushi keeps watch. I sit stiff and unmoving. I can wash it all off when I get where I’m going, I keep saying to myself.

  “I like the paleness of her skin tone,” Spy Girl says. “I’ll just give her some rouge.”

  A brush hits my cheek. Quin Fong steps back, takes a look, does the other side. “It’s the eyes that need the most work,” she says. “Purple shadow. That’s good.” And she keeps talking as she stabs at my eyes with a black pencil and then goes after my eyebrows. She pulls something from a tube and starts attacking my eyelashes until they’re so thick with paint or something that I can hardly move my eyelids.

  She stands back and takes a look. “How’s that?” she asks Ushi.

  “An improvement,” Ushi says. “She’s beginning to look the part. Do something with her lips now. You know, big and pouty. And then her hair.”

  Spy Girl puts lipstick on me that tastes like berries. It’s not the taste that repulses me, it’s knowing that the color of raspberries is now slashed across my lips. Then she pulls my hair to one side, pins it, and drapes it over my shoulder.

  “Show her what she looks like now,” Ushi says. “It’ll help her play her part.”

  “No thank you,” I say. “I have no desire to see myself.”

  “Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. Everyone else can.”

  She looks at her watch again. “Good job, Quin Fong. This is one thing you do very well. So,” she says, turning to me, “it’s time to go downstairs. The car should be here to pick you up.”

  I can’t move. I don’t know what my options are—​no, I’m aware I have none—​but my body doesn’t respond.

  Ushi takes my arm in a bruising grip and jerks me to my feet. “Oh no,” she says. “Those can’t be the shoes you’re wearing! Well, it’s too late now. Anyway, no one is going to be looking at your feet.”
She marches me to the door and down the stairs.

  A fancy black car is waiting outside the factory. Big Boss is driving. He gives Ushi a nod. She opens the door to the back seat and shoves me in.

  Thirty-Three

  I’M IN THE BACK SEAT. Alone. Boss Lee doesn’t say anything, just drives like a maniac, careening around cars, buses, people. Headlights blind me. Horn blasts pierce my ears. I try to pay attention. It seems important to know where I’m being taken. We’re on the highway, headed east. Small towns, cities emerge in the darkness. He keeps driving.

  Now there are higher buildings on both sides. Nothing but city in every direction. A city engulfed in garish neon signs—​beside us, in the sky. Whole buildings of gold. Some orange. Or blue and red. And Big Boss keeps turning right, then left, through so many streets I lose track. And people. Lots of people. Help me. Please, I plead silently.

  I don’t need to be afraid, do I? I’m here because I speak English. The men are nice. They worried about us working overtime. I’m Ushi’s spy, not a painted woman.

  Big Boss jams on the brakes and stops in front of a hotel. “You’re to report to me every word they say in English. Got it? Every word,” he repeats. He turns, looks at me. “And you are to give them whatever they want.” He narrows his eyes. “Whatever they ask for.” He cocks his head. “The one with the belly likes girls who speak English. You got that, honey?”

  I sink back into the seat. My head shakes back and forth.

  Slowly I let my hand go to my face. I touch my glossy lips. My fingers go to my eyelashes. The stuff they’re encrusted with leaves a black stain on my fingertip.

  My hand falls to my lap. I am painted.

  The car door opens. The fat one gets into the back seat. “Hi, honey,” he says.

  My name is now Honey.

  My breath comes in desperate gasps. I have to choose. Fierce or arrogant? Mikray or Hawa? I’m neither. I crouch against the door.

  “Ah, come on, honey,” he says. “All I want is to hear a little English. You look so cute tonight.”

  Big Boss clears his throat. He can’t know what the man said, but he knows I didn’t answer.

  I mumble, “Hello.”

  The tall one sits in front. Doors close. We speed into the streets. “We’re ten minutes from my club,” Big Boss says, and then goes into a speech about the great city, pointing out the amazing sights.

  The tall one leans over the seat back to talk to the fat one. “Why did we agree to come?” he says in English.

  “We’re here. Might as well make him pay for our booze and good time. Right?”

  Big Boss clears his throat again.

  We stop in front of a plain-looking building. Big Boss gets out. Hands some money to a uniformed man standing out front, then opens my door. He grabs my elbow. Pulls me out. And doesn’t let go. I walk with him and the two men to the door of the club as the car is driven away. Another man in uniform opens the club door.

  There’s an explosion of noise and flashing lights. I’m dragged into a huge room of throbbing beats. Streaks of red, blue, green burst before my eyes. I see almost-naked dancers on a stage, throwing their arms and legs around. Men reach out and touch them, and they don’t seem to mind.

  “How do you like this, guys?” Big Boss calls out. “Pretty good, huh?”

  “Yeah, good,” the fat one says, loosening his tie. He, the tall one, and Boss are all wearing suits and ties. “Let’s get a drink.”

  “Follow me,” Boss says. “I’ve reserved a table.”

  His grip still firm on my arm, he pulls me through the crowd of gyrating bodies—​dancing, singing, drinking, hollering to one another. We go through an open arch into a room off to the side. Lots of people, but it’s quieter. The ceiling is flooded with lavender light. The red and blue glass walls give off a muted glow above the long fuchsia couch that snakes around the oval room. A hostess greets Big Boss, and we walk on a plush carpet to a low table with lights under the glass top. The tall one, the fat one, and I sit on the couch, in that order. Boss sits on a special seat across the table so he can face all of us. He gives the hostess some money. She smiles and leaves. Other girls come over. They’re all Chinese, wearing nice blouses and skirts. They want to know what the men would like to drink. When I’m asked, I shake my head. Boss orders something for me, I don’t know what.

  They return with our drinks and some food. And stay and talk. Each man has a special girl. One wiggles her way in between the Australian men. One is next to the tall one. And one brings a stool over beside Big Boss. They laugh and giggle, flip their hair, say cute things.

  I finally take a deep breath. Maybe everything will be all right after all. I eat some fruit they have brought to the table. It is delicious.

  Then the fat one takes my hand in his. “Talk to me, honey. I’m bored. I don’t understand a word they’re saying.”

  I freeze, and he knows it. “Now don’t be afraid, little honey. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “I . . . I can translate for you. Let me try. It could be fun,” I say. And for a while I do, and it’s a game. His girl speaks no English, so I can say most anything I want and deceive them both.

  All the voices get louder and louder. The men have long ago taken off their jackets, loosened their ties. The talk is all silly nonsense. The girl near Big Boss keeps ordering drinks. Yet another round is brought in. I still haven’t touched mine. She takes it. Leaves another. “It’s water,” she whispers, and slips a paper under my thigh.

  “I’m thirsty. I need to drink,” I say to the fat one. “You pay attention to your girl for a while. Okay?” My words are all sugar, and I hate myself for the sound of my voice, but he does what I tell him and I lift my glass, hoping I’ll have a chance to read the note. The water trickles down my throat. Then I gulp it. I’m so thirsty. No one seems to notice. Big Boss is paying attention to the girl beside him. I unfold the note. Glance down. The note is in Uyghur. Go to the ladies’ room. We need to talk. Hawa.

  My body begins to tremble. I can’t stop it. Somehow I get the words out. “I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

  “Can’t handle your drinks, can you, honey? That’s all right, you’ll be more fun,” the fat one says, laughing.

  The drink girl is beside me, helping me stand, leading me to the ladies’ room. I open the door, and there is Hawa in a white blouse and black skirt. Tall, stately, beautiful even under her thick layer of makeup. There is no past that can keep us from clinging to each other.

  “Hawa,” I say after we let go. “You . . . here . . . We didn’t know.”

  “I never came back after I was taken here to entertain Mr. Lee’s clients. They drugged me, Roshen. Forced a man on me.” Her eyes close as she turns away. “I couldn’t go back.”

  “But . . . Zuwida? You left the package for us when she died.”

  “Mikray’s friend is a good man. He let me know. He took her to the hospital, helped me arrange for the burial. You were brave to go.”

  Hawa starts pushing me toward the door. “You must not be gone too long. Mr. Lee will notice. Here’s what we’ll do.”

  “But . . . everything’s all right, isn’t it? They each have a girl.”

  Hawa looks at me. “How did you get here, Roshen?”

  I can’t return her gaze. I search the floor. “I made a mistake,” I say. “Ushi found out I speak English. They’re Australian. I’m supposed to report what they say.”

  “The white-haired one wants you. You’re tall, you’re a virgin. He likes that.”

  “He has a girl,” I say.

  Hawa shakes her head. “The other man will take both Chinese girls. Mr. Lee has already paid for them.”

  No one else is in the room, but we move away from the entrance. “What’s happening is real. Listen carefully,” she says. “Keep calling for drinks. Get him drunk. I’ll be watching.”

  “But, Hawa, you’re working.”

  “Not tonight. Tonight I’m keeping you safe. Never, ever let Mr. L
ee bring you back to the club—​no matter what! Do not take pills or drinks that they give you. Do you understand?” She takes my hands in hers. “Don’t let this happen to you,” she says.

  “Oh, Hawa. I’m so sorry,” I say, and squeeze her hands. I don’t want to let go.

  She shakes me away. “Pretend. Be coy. Tell him you don’t want him to touch you because you’re shy. When Mr. Lee goes off with his girl, he’ll make sure you go off with the white-haired one. Get him to the room. I’ll know where you’re going. I’ll be in the toilet room. There’ll be a special drink waiting for him. Get him into bed. Take his pants off if he wants you to. He’ll try to undress you, but say you’ll do it yourself in the toilet room and surprise him. Turn the lights out and leave no more than one candle burning. He won’t know I’m the one who comes back into the room.” She starts walking toward the door.

  “He’ll probably fall asleep,” she says. “When the phone rings, his time is up. Get him downstairs. He’s gotten what he wants. He’ll be harmless.”

  “Hawa . . .” I try to find words. Nothing comes out, but my arms encircle her. I hold her close.

  “There’s no good escape from the factory, Roshen,” she whispers. “But you have to do something while you’re still pure. They’ll force you to come again. Don’t be stained by their ugliness.”

  Thirty-Four

  AT THE QURBAN Heyit—​the Feast of the Sacrifice—Uyghurs celebrate the story of Abraham, who was willing to sacrifice his child according to God’s command. Abraham was released from this command and allowed to substitute a lamb for his son. Is God asking that I be sacrificed? I do not submit by my own free will. And is my sister Hawa to be offered in my place?

  I stand in the doorway longer than I intend. The girl who led me to the ladies’ room again takes my arm. Seats me. Places a drink in front of me, whispering “water” as she bends her head. She passes drinks to everyone.

  The double-chinned one’s arm goes around me. His other arm is on my knee, rubbing my net stocking. The arm to get rid of first is the one on my knee. I grab his hand before it gets farther up. “You have to leave one arm free if you’re going to keep drinking,” I say in what I think is a cute, friendly voice. I guide his hand to his drink. Help him pick it up. Guide it to his mouth. “That’s better,” I say as I slip forward, out from under the sweaty arm he’s thrown over my shoulders.