Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  “So, what happened while I was away? Did you get lonely?” I ask. He lunges toward me, tries to nestle his big head on my shoulder. I said the wrong thing.

  “No, no. Not here,” I find myself saying. “We can do that later.” I’m all bubbly or hysterical, maybe both.

  “Ahh, honey. You are an innocent, aren’t you. So sweet,” he says, pecking my cheek.

  “Why don’t you tell me about Australia and what you do there. I’d love to know.” Apparently that’s the right thing to say, and he drinks and talks. I guess the promise of later was all he needed. I make sure he isn’t watching Big Boss or his friend, whose girls climb all over them, sit on their laps, make sure the men drink a lot. I think it might go on forever. And then it doesn’t.

  Big Boss calls the hostess over. She escorts the tall one and his two girls from the room and returns too quickly. Smiles at the fat one. Helps him up. He’s wobbly. She takes his arm. Steadies him. She gives me a quick nod and I follow. We go down a long hallway with doors to many rooms on both sides. She opens a door.

  “This is nice,” the man says, looking into the softly lit room with its large bed. He grabs the hand of the hostess and begins to pull her in. She untangles herself and places my hand in his.

  I can’t bring myself to cross the threshold. What if there’s a mistake? What if Hawa isn’t hiding in this room? My chest heaves as I yank my hand free. I turn to the hostess but she’s disappeared.

  An iron hand grips my arm. The fat one is not that drunk. “Don’t play innocent, honey,” he says. “Your boss owes me—​bigtime—​and he said you were more than willing to help him out by offering me something quite special this evening to make up for it. Right?” He smiles.

  My strength drains from me. I can’t overpower this man. If it’s the wrong room—​if Hawa isn’t here—​I’ll kill him, somehow. Then I’ll be killed. Or rot in prison.

  He drags me toward the bed.

  Pretend! That’s what Hawa said to do. Pretend.

  “You—​you don’t understand,” I stammer. “I’m shy. I want you to be gentle . . . and kind.” My words are meant to be coy and cute, but I sound like a schoolgirl begging the teacher not to use a whip.

  He loosens his hold.

  “You’re right,” I say, my voice more under control. “Let’s go to the bed so you can get comfortable.”

  “Yeah, honey. That’s a fine idea.”

  I take hold of him now, the way the hostess did, and lead him to the edge of the bed. “You sit here and I’ll take off your shoes. That should feel good.” He’s grinning as I kneel in front of him and remove his shoes. He’s also got his fingers in my hair, following it down over my shoulders, stroking it. Stroking my breast. I move away. Leave his socks on.

  “Lie down now,” I tell him as soon as I can breathe again—​convince myself not to kill him. “I’ll lower the lights for us.”

  “Don’t turn them all off,” he says. “I want to see you.”

  “You will,” I say, “but candlelight will make it very romantic. Don’t you think?”

  He makes a low, rumbling sound and leans back against the pillows. What I’m doing is working, so far. My body trembles as I move about, but I’m managing.

  There’s a tray of drinks by the candle I leave burning. One of the drinks is set apart, and I know that’s the one I am to give him. I still don’t know if Hawa is here, but this is a hopeful sign.

  “Why don’t we have a little drink and then I’ll loosen your shirt collar. It looks too tight and uncomfortable.” I’m already standing over him with the drink. He reaches for it. I pull it away.

  “Wait a minute,” I say in a sickening, gooey voice. “Let me help you.” He has to drink it! Even if I have to pour it down his throat.

  He seems to like it—​or he likes that I’m touching his head, lifting it up so that not one drop is spilled. I still hold his head while I put the glass down, smooth a pillow, and push him down. I unbutton his shirt, releasing his double chins.

  Now I don’t know what to do, but he does. “Let’s see how that blouse of yours comes off, shall we, honey?” And he’s touching me again, mauling me. I get away. Stand up.

  I know it’s too soon for me to go to the toilet room. He’s not yawning or looking tired enough. I remember Hawa’s words. His pants if you have to.

  “Let’s get your pants off first,” I say, not having any idea how I’m going to go about it. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He’s nodding like a fool.

  “I’m going to help, but you have to promise to keep your hands off me.” I sound like a schoolteacher. I can’t find any more sweet words.

  “Okay, honey,” he says, and chuckles. “I’ll try.” I guess he thinks we’re playing a game.

  I unbuckle his belt. Undo the button. He starts struggling with the zipper himself, with an urgency I don’t like. But his movements are clumsy, faltering.

  “That’s enough for now, don’t you think? Lie back on the pillow for a minute. Rest. We have lots of time.”

  “Let’s get you undressed. I want to see that beautiful body of yours.” His eyelids are fluttering, but he grabs the ruffle on my blouse.

  This time I take his arms and fold them across his chest.

  “You know what I am going to do for you?” As abhorrent as it is to me, I bend close to him, take his big head in my hands, and rock it back and forth. “I am going into that room over there and taking off all of my clothes. Then I am coming back with a surprise. Will that be all right?”

  “Great, honey. Do it quick.” His words slur a little, but he’s awake.

  I wait a few more seconds, until my heart is pounding so desperately I’m afraid he’ll notice. I don’t know what I’ll do if Hawa isn’t there, but I can’t let any more time pass.

  “Hurry,” he says. “I’ve got a real hard-on for you.”

  Thirty-Five

  NO ONE IS in the toilet room when I open the door. “Hawa?” I whisper.

  She steps out from behind the shower curtain. “I had to make sure it wasn’t he who came,” she says.

  I stand motionless, tears streaming down my face. I can’t believe we have to go through with Big Boss’s promise.

  “Leave the door slightly open so we can hear him,” Hawa tells me.

  She still has her clothes on.

  “I told him . . . I told him I’d come back naked,” I say.

  “All right,” she says. “Did you find the drink?”

  I nod. “He drank all of it.”

  “Good,” she says. “The room seems dark enough.”

  I nod again. “Just one candle. I got all the lights out. Hawa, I . . .”

  She puts her finger to my lips.

  “We’ll talk after. He’ll probably sleep for a while.”

  Then Hawa removes her clothes and walks out into the room. I close the bathroom door to a crack.

  “Close your eyes,” she says to him in Mandarin. “I’ll tell you when to open them again.”

  “Honey, none of that foreign stuff.” He drawls his words. “Talk to me in English.”

  Hawa says nothing.

  He’ll know it isn’t me! I sink to the floor. Helpless. Both of us caught in our deception.

  It’s quiet. Too quiet.

  Then I hear moans and grunts from the fat one. Squeals of pain from Hawa that sound so fake I almost laugh. And in the sweetest voice, Hawa lets out a stream of vulgar Uyghur words, calling him every lowly animal that crawls upon this earth.

  Then it is quiet again.

  Hawa comes back. Showers. Dresses. Comes to me. “You’re a mess,” she says, and hands me a wet cloth. My flood of tears has not cleansed my painted face. Nor can it wash away the shame that has fallen on both of us.

  Even so, I rub my face until I think the skin might come off. Most of the eye stuff and rouge and lipstick are now on the cloth.

  Hawa squats beside me on the floor. I turn to her. “Why, Hawa?” I say. “Why are you doing this? I hate Boss
Lee!”

  “Yes. He’s pathetic. What he’s done to you is evil. My path is not a good one, but yours is different.”

  She rises quickly. Glances into the room. “He’s still sleeping.” She comes back to me, checks her watch. “There are things I want you to know.” Her eyes send the same message that was on her face when she was first named Kitten and left our room—​determination, strength, and fear. She does not hold my gaze. She turns away. “It seems important that someone know what happened.”

  I barely hear her at first. Her voice is hollow, far away. “My father was a successful trader. He needed support from the new Chinese cadre to keep doing business. Putting my name on the cadre’s list to be sent south was the deal they arranged, but my father would do it only if the cadre agreed to get me special training. I didn’t mind. I was arrogant and willful like my father,” Hawa says, her voice more animated now. “I thought I was special and could become a successful businesswoman, but it wouldn’t happen if I stayed in Hotan. I agreed to come; Mr. Lee was to train me.” Her words become hurried as she keeps glancing at her watch. The fat one’s time must almost be up.

  “When I was finally brought down to Mr. Lee’s office, he saw what I could do. I was much more useful and clever than Ushi. I went on business calls with him. Then the businessmen came to the factory. For the first time, he asked me to go to the club to help him. But he got too busy with his own whore to pay attention to me. The men drugged me and raped me.” She gives a violent shake to her body. “Ushi planned it. I know she did. She hated me. Loved the thought of my being raped.

  “I couldn’t go back to the factory. There was nothing for me there anymore. I’d learned all I could from Mr. Lee, and I couldn’t be around Ushi. I asked Mr. Lee to arrange for me to work at his club. He had the cadre tell my family that I was on the path of my new career.” Her body jerks with silent laughter.

  For a moment the imperious Hawa I remember so well returns. “I let myself get into this. I’ll get myself out. I’ve made a lot of money,” she says. “Soon I’ll escape across the southern border and be free. I’ll do it, Roshen. I’ll be as successful a businessperson as that fat man lying out there.”

  “But your home? Your family?”

  “The purity of my body and spirit is gone forever. I will never be welcomed home. No one back there will want me.” She takes my hands in hers. “I have your notebook, Roshen. The factory boy brought it to me. It was in our language; he thought it might be valuable. May I keep it with me? Your own poems, the ones you wrote, give me courage and comfort.”

  My hands cover my mouth to keep me from crying out. “Yes. Oh, Hawa. Yes.” I grasp her. Hug her to me. “May Allah be with you.”

  She tears herself away. “It’s time,” she says. Her face becomes fierce. “You must leave the factory. You have to. Do you hear me? I may not be here next time. I hope I’m not. I’ll be all right, but you must take care of yourself. Do you understand?”

  Then she’s gone.

  I wait for the phone call. I think I should be getting him up and dressed, but I can’t face what might happen—​that he might touch me again.

  Then the phone rings and I must go to him. “Time is up,” I say. “Time to go back to the party.” I think that’s a good thing to say. “You can get dressed by yourself, can’t you?” Even in the dim light I see his nakedness, his private parts hanging out of his unzipped pants. I look away. I hate seeing this. Bile stirs in my stomach. If he says he needs my help, I’ll zip his pants up and squeeze him until he howls like an animal.

  He’s just taken my virginity. He can’t expect anything more. “I . . . I’m a bit shaken right now. I hurt a little,” I say, hating the sound of my voice. I want to let out a string of Uyghur curses and condemn him to eternal life in hell.

  “Honey, come over here. Let me give you a little hug. You’re so sweet.”

  “They’re expecting us downstairs.” I head for the door. “I’ll go tell them you’re on your way.”

  “No, honey. Give me a minute here,” he says, struggling to get up. He pulls his pants up and closes the zipper. He puts his shirt on, buttons it enough to cover his belly, tucks it in. He picks up his jacket and tie and heads toward me. I rush out the door into the hallway. I’ll scream if he touches me.

  The hostess greets us when we return to the lounge. Big Boss and the tall one are already there, and the girls. More drinks are brought in. The fat one seems content to sit for a while. Then he leans toward me. “What were you saying to me up there?” He looks puzzled. “I didn’t understand a word of it.”

  “It was Uyghur,” I say. “My native language. I forgot my English for a moment.” My voice is cold and stony as I say this.

  He shrugs. Goes back to sitting in his stupor, then begins to yawn.

  Big Boss keeps looking over. He’s now more interested in the fat one than in his girl. He should be. The fat one has the money. “It’s been a long evening,” Boss says. “Maybe it’s time to leave.”

  “Mr. Lee is asking if you’d like to go back to the hotel,” I translate.

  “Tell him I am tired. Very happy, honey.” He stops talking. Grins. “But ready to go.”

  “He’d like to leave,” I say.

  The tall one is still having a good time. He’ll stay. Boss, the fat one, and I make our way through the crowds, the noise, the flashing lights, into the street. The car is waiting for us. As much as I abhor touching the fat one, I grab him by the elbow and escort him to the front seat. Stuff him in and shut the door. The attendant looks surprised that I took over his job but says nothing. He opens the back door. I slide in.

  Boss Lee is full of effusive words of appreciation for the fat man’s understanding, and I translate in even more flattering terms. Boss guarantees that the next deadline will be met, and I say only that every effort will be made to meet the date.

  We’re about to pull up in front of the hotel when a hand creeps over the front seat. It’s filled with yuan notes. He flutters them, trying to get my attention, I guess. I turn away. He leans over the seat, clears his throat. “Honey?” he says. I’m as far away as I can get—​looking out the window. “Hon-ey?” he says again.

  He throws the money. It scatters on the seat. On the floor.

  Boss Lee sees this. He jumps out of the car. Goes to the other side to help the doorman extract the fat one from the car and walks with him to the hotel door, uttering useless Mandarin words of apology for my rude behavior. The double-chinned, fat-bellied one waves him away. He’s had what he wants. He’s paid for it. He’s ready for bed.

  Boss gets back into the car. Slams the door. The car motor roars as he takes off. “You’re an ignorant peasant!” he screams. “You insulted him! If you just ruined this deal for me, I’ll make you pay bigtime.” Then he roars his engine some more as we careen through the streets.

  We are the tamarisk.

  Pink white flowers our deception,

  For we are barren in this foreign soil,

  Our roots deep planted in the desert sand.

  Will these words I once wrote and put in my notebook give me the courage and comfort I need now, as they once helped Hawa?

  The ride back to the factory seems shorter than the ride to the club. Drunken Boss believes he’s invincible, and we arrive safely only because of the careful driving of others who know to get out of the way of this speeding madman. The factory is dark. Shut down for the night. I jump out, run to the door, and am surprised to find it unlocked. I don’t look back to see what Boss is doing. I dash up the stairs. No Ushi, no Spy Girl.

  One dim light is left on in the toilet room. I go to a dark corner. I step out of the shoes, rip the maroon stockings from my legs and throw them in the garbage. I rip off the ruffly blouse and throw it in the garbage. Next the skirt, my panties.

  The bra.

  I am left with only the white jade necklace.

  I am no longer worthy of the purity I hold in my hands. It has been touched by an unclean man. A pig
. I place it underneath the clothing to be buried with the trash, deep in the earth from which it came.

  Perhaps someday it will be found and hang again on the breast of a pure soul.

  I creep, naked, along the shadow of the walls and go to bed.

  Thirty-Six

  THE ROOM FILLS with hushed voices as I climb down from my bunk the next morning. “We were worried, Roshen,” Adile says, coming to my side. “Are you all right?”

  No is the real answer, but not the one I give. “I made a mistake,” I say, and I don’t recognize my voice. My head spins. I grab the bed pole and sit.

  A hand strokes mine. “It’s all right, Roshen,” a voice says, and I know it is Jemile. Jemile. I told her it was all right that a man touched her breast and under her panties—​the man tried to hurt her and she escaped, I said. But it’s not all right. She was tainted—​ruined by the touching. Jemile will never be the same. Nor will I.

  Long-overdue tears flow from my eyes as I look at my Uyghur sisters huddled around me.

  For the moment I feel safe. I wipe my face with the backs of my hands. “Ushi found out I speak English. I was forced to go to Boss Lee’s club with him to translate for one of the visitors.” I stop. It’s hard to get the words out. There is much I’ll never tell them. “It . . . it was awful. Noisy, lots of drinking, dancing. They made me dress like Quin Fong and wear makeup.” I lean against the pole, signal that I have no more to say.

  “We worked late,” Adile says. “You weren’t here when we came upstairs. All we knew was that someone put your work smock on your bed. We’re so glad to see you. You must have had little sleep.”

  “I’m glad to be back . . . and I’ll be fine. We need to hurry or we’ll be late,” I say, and then I don’t move.