by CK Collins
Me using his name did not make her happy. It also made her realize I wasn’t just shaken up — that it was adversary time. She asked if I’d like to know about the horrors he’s done. To Runais. To women. I said I don’t want to talk about the past, I want to talk about the future. That’s when she realized this was a negotiation. She crossed her legs and said, “Of course.”
“He’s coming to Jaya with me.”
She smiled, stunned. Like she’d never actually met an insane person. She goes in this icy voice, the negotiator in her battling against the revolted woman: “He is trained to rape. He is trained to torture and kill and inhale drugs. You would invite him, this creature, into your home? You would want him to be alone with your child?”
My heart was really starting to race, so I asked her my question: “And what’s going to happen if I don’t take him?”
“That would not be your concern.”
“It is my concern.”
“Americans know best. Is that it?”
“Totally.”
Her desire to tell me to fuck off fought it out with her business desires. And lost. “Of course you will provide compensation.”
“As in money?”
“My father will lose income. There will be a need to replace labor.”
“It’s about the labor, huh?”
“Clearly, you are incapable to see what it ‘is about.’ But if you’re determined to be mad, you can pay fair value to do it.”
I got nervous what “fair value” was — this from the woman who charges ten bucks for a candy bar — but it turns out that igmakis come cheap, and I had enough from Rika’s stash to cover it. She had me sign a paper to show to the government if they came. And when I handed her the cash, the bitch wrote out a receipt.
Some men came to remove the animal. They shook their heads a lot. Nobody would have anything to do with me, but I could tell they’d never seen an animal like that. They wrapped cloths around their arms so they wouldn’t have to touch it. Outside they dug a deep pit and incinerated it.
I gave Ephraim the bed again. And tried to explain with my hands what was going to happen. I packed then tried sleeping on the couch. Panic-level hunger is not a sleep aid and neither is a wicked bruise on your back. But it was my mind, damn thing, that really kept me up. My rational brain was finally climbing out of its hiding place and asking tough questions.
By the time Pashi showed up, I was ready to eat the bark off the trees. Bless her heart, she’d brought a couple pears and a bag of those fish chips. I introduced her to Ephraim. That discussion ended up being almost as fun as the one with Alimi. And I did feel bad for her — she finally convinces the Murais that it’s better having me near at hand, and then I go pull a stunt like this.
But another thing I learned from Dad is that when in doubt, always appeal to people’s egos. Or in this case their elitism. It wasn’t any secret that Pashi’s opinion of coastal Runais was not high. So I played on that. I talked about how these people had behaved toward him and how they’d broken their promises to the Church. She rolled her eyes at how ignorant and low-class they are. She said when we got back, she’d contact people she knew in the government — get him settled properly.
On the road out of there, Ephraim sitting on towels in the back seat, she goes to me in a tone that I decided to interpret as fond, “Never a dull moment with you, is there Callie?”
“Actually, you know, I’m a very boring person.”
* * *
Pashi found who I need to contact about Ephraim — not the government, actually, but the Liashe Church — and she said it was no problem writing them in English. Just describe what he did for me and emphasize that he needs better education than what he was getting. Say how much he deserves a better placement. And then wait. Given my past experiences with Masalayan bureaucracy, I think the wait could be a while.
The Murais — I get a kick out of speculating about them. Are they wishing they’d sent a better breed of wolf-beast to kill me? Is the baby shower going to be a surprise or am I supposed to register? Are they wondering where they can contribute to Ephraim’s college fund? These and other questions will be answered when I see them next, which is looking to be never. Pashi’s been making excuses — they want to see me, but things keep coming up. Fine by me.
* * *
Living with somebody who speaks a completely different language is interesting. Especially when they know next to nothing about the modern world. The kid has never used a refrigerator or operated a toaster. As near as I can tell, he’s never been inside air conditioning or slept on a real mattress. And forget about showers and western-style food.
It’s pretty surprising how far you can get with miming. It’s good for things like, “Do you want some juice?” and “I’m going to bed.” It’s less effective for, “Do you like it here?” And sucks completely for, “No we’re not married and that picture there is of his dead wife and honestly I hardly know him.”
The way Ephraim looks at me most of the time, I think he doesn’t get me at all. But he wants to, which puts him ahead of everybody else. He thinks he needs to protect me. All the time. It’s sweet, but I wish he wouldn’t. It’s like he thinks I’m always five minutes away from another mauling. If I could, I’d let him know that the most dangerous thing in Jaya is probably the traffic. Well, and tea with the Murais. But I really can’t mime that.
Traffic is an interesting subject, actually. Yesterday was my second time driving Rika’s Jag. Sweet car. And the great thing about Masalay is that my suckiness as a driver is shared by everybody. My only way of getting anywhere is to drive down the hill and get on the M1 and then exit at the Harbour — I’m pretty sure that’s just a big circle, but it’s what I know. Pashi says I don’t need a driver’s license, just a hundred-pound note in case I get stopped.
It turns out that Jaya has its very own community center for Hill Talids, which I gather is what Ephraim is classified as. Pashi told me how to drive there from the Harbour, and somehow I did it without killing anybody. Or getting killed. They call it the slough, and it’s like North Philly with less police presence and more malaria risk. Kind of nice, though, seeing where normal people live.
The place is just a converted storefront. Typical rec center in a lot of ways: pool tables, ping-pong, some games I’ve never seen before, a television of course. And some food smells that were pretty great.
The head guy gave us a quick tour. I was afraid I’d have to explain a lot, but he wasn’t interested in me. And he didn’t seem to care about Ephraim’s background. I asked about getting a tutor, and he told me he’d make inquiries. There’s a temple the next street over, and he promised that Ephraim would be very welcome. Hearing about that made Ephraim the happiest I’ve seen him.
* * *
Dad called while I was getting ready to drive down here for the appointment (actually, while I was miming the concept of obstetrician to poor Ephraim). The fact that I’m back in civilization — semi-civilization, in his view — and seeing a doctor has made him feel slightly better about my situation. But he still wants to send me a plane ticket. Ironic, him wanting the same thing as the Murais. And maybe they’ve all got it right — maybe it would be easier if I just went back where I belong.
One thing at a time. That’s the motto of the new calm-and-collected Callie. Tutor for Ephraim. Temple for him to go to. Me going through with this whole doctor thing. Oh and look, here comes my Perrier — that there lemon best be twisted proper.
Morning
West Anartha Autonomous District, Masalay
A glass barrier betwixt Rika and the other prisoners. Twenty-two vs. one. They were curious about him through the morning but have lost interest.
It would be good to sleep. But there’s nowhere to lay his head and the sun is blaring. Above is a U-shaped balcony, like in an operating theatre. (It may once have been an operating theatre.) If only his afflictions could be cured through surgery.
If he were a character in a film, he
would create a diversion, scale the glass barrier, leap to the balcony, get to the roof and then . . . and then? His thoughts can’t reach that far. Even in his mind he can’t escape.
Food is brought.
The other prisoners expect that means food for them too. They look expectantly at the door, but it opens only to admit a twenty-third prisoner. They are unhappy. He would happily trade the soup for a pillow and privacy.
The new prisoner is a woman. A round Karskan face prematurely worn.
Something about her is familiar.
She paces and mutters. Picking at her fingers and talking to them. The other prisoners crowd away from her, wary and revulsed. She is speaking, but the glass muffles the sound. She is deranged. And vile.
Rika wants to pull his eyes away. But he knows her face.
She looks about. As if someone is talking to her. As if she’s just sniffed something wonderful. And then she sees him. Almost pretty, she laughs and slinks to the glass. She presses her cheek against the glass. Rocking in ecstasy.
Rika steps back and she cries. He retreats and she wails, attempting to clutch him but the glass intervenes and she hits the glass. He retreats and retreats from the mother of Ikidris, and she hits and she hits the glass to get through it. She shrieks and flies at the glass. She is attacking the glass, bloody teeth shrieking, thrashing and the glass cracks and her skull cracks and her frail limbs twisted fall.
* * *
Viyka have removed the corpse.
The original twenty-two stand stupid, gaping at Rika. Above him, walking round the balcony for a better look, is a figure Rika has seen only in grainy pictures. Older than Rika imagined and more handsome, Aarum Sidaarik is smiling at him.
Morning
Jaya, Masalay
The nurse asks if I’m having trouble with my feet or anything else. “Yeah, it’s kind of tough,” I say, even though it isn’t.
“Sleeping?”
That’s a hard one. I answer that I’m doing alright. Which I am. It’s not like I can’t fall asleep — it’s just that I don’t need to. Lucky for me that there’s a million books in the house. My chance to read all the stuff I skipped in school.
We walk a lot, me and Ephraim, around Rika’s neighborhood. He doesn’t like it — always afraid people are looking at him, which they probably are. He was mortified about wearing Rika’s clothes so I got him cheapo stuff that doesn’t really fit. He wears long sleeves to hide his tattoos. And I’ve even started working on Disiri’s garden as a way of burning energy. But I haven’t found anything yet that really tires me out.
Do my breasts hurt? Doing fine, I tell her. My feet? My vagina? Heartburn? “Never been better,” I tell her. She looks at me like I’m just being shy. I feel a surge of professional bond and tell her that actually I’m a nurse too. “Used to work OB, in fact.”
“Have you come to work in the hotels, then?”
“No actually . . . well, it’s kind of a long story.”
She’s wheeling the ultrasound cart into place. “We’ve a lot of foreign nurses.”
“Why’s that?”
“Jaya hotels are required to have nurse on staff 24 hours.”
“Wow, seriously?”
“And by law they must have English fluency. It’s how I’ve come to Masalay initially. From Mumbai.”
“Oh, okay. Was it an alright kind of job?”
“This one is better. But yes it was very good.” She gives me the name of the place she used to work and writes down a couple others that she’s heard pay well. Not great money, she warns me, but the work is easy. And any hotel manager would be jazzed to have a qualified American walk through the door. “As it is, they must pay high fees to bring on nurses from abroad.”
“I don’t really have a visa . . .”
“No, they will obtain visa for you. It is cheaper for them.”
“Is there a reason they don’t just hire Masalayans?”
She shrugs. “Runai women do not obtain nursing educations, it is not in their culture. And in the other castes, few are English fluent.”
I thank her a lot and tuck the paper away. She finishes taking my blood pressure, charts me, and goes to tell the doctor I’m ready.
I’m too antsy to lie down, so instead I pace. It’s like being in a hotel room: there’s a little couch, a bookshelf, a mini-fridge. No real food, though, and that’s what I need.
Everybody seems to think this guy is fabulous and he probably is. But he’s going to annoy me, I know it. How often does the baby kick, he’ll ask me? “A lot,” I’ll say. He’ll want to teach me about how to count kicks, and I’ll nod like I’m listening close.
He’ll do an ultrasound. I’ll lie back and get slathered up with jelly and look at the monitor. It’s going to show the head and the little fingers and toes. It’s going to show a little cord connecting us. But what connects us is more than a cord, and it’s more than what a picture can show. We can’t be examined. We can’t be measured. We can’t be evaluated. This baby doesn’t kick, this baby moves.
I grab my bag and head for the door.
15 February
* * *
Jaya, Masalay
Ashma, You were all and all was You.
Came, then, a quiver. The quiver was Your urge to be known, and it made You crack mad apart.
But the broken pieces of You craved contact, and met in the creases, and in their brilliant collision is the seed of all things.
There were worlds. But none beheld. You were not known.
And so You rained life. That Your language might, in an age to come, be heard and learned and spoken back to You.
Ashma, I do not know the why of it. But into Callie You have Yourself breathed.
* * *
Of learning English I am a poor student. And the Masalayan that Callie reads from her language book I do not ever understand.
What we do most for talking is to use our faces and hands and sometimes even we draw pictures. But what I want to say many times does not fit in hands.
I have yesterday tried to do cleaning. A bucket I filled and poured the soap she showed me I should use. The floor of the kitchen is the place I started. When Callie has come in and saw of me doing it, her head was shake.
———No Ephraim, no.
Ashma, I like hearing in Callie’s voice my name. But I am sad at always doing wrong things. I made with my hands that I was sorry and on to a different floor I went. But she did not want that either. Into the room of yellow she has taken me then and given to me the stick of changing TV programmes. What with her hands she has said is I should sit in the biggest chair and use the stick. Then she has left.
What to do I did not know. The buttons on the stick I pushed until I made a programme of English and white people. I have fetched her then, hoping it was right. But she has only shaken her head in giving-up when I asked did the programme please her.
I am afraid for what is going to happen when Callie realises how not good I am for helping her.
* * *
For the teaching me of English and better Masalayan, Callie has found a person called Bidaan. It was through a place that is for the helping of Talids, and she to him gives money. Though he is the servant of her, she is to him always bringing food and drink. Bidaan says it is a custom of many foreigners and it does not mean insult.
Of Bidaan I understand that the husband of Callie is called Rika Murai. Bidaan says that Callie is with his child but not married with him, but I know this cannot be of truth. To the men who tend Callie’s bushes and trees, Bidaan has talked and from them he has learned that there was a wife called Disiri. It is her who is the photos of these rooms. She has of a strange sickness died.
A rumour of these men is that Rika has been taken by Hilm Hivaa. For Callie I hope that is not of truth. And that he will not be too cross for finding that she has into his home brought an igmaki.
Today in the yellow room we sit with breads and juices brought by Callie, and Bidaan starts with asking what are
any questions I have. This is a happy chance to me. I ask what are the chores I must do. Callie is upward looking and through Bidaan she says I must ask a different question. So I ask her what is the question I must ask. At that Callie is laughter and fingers through her hair.
Between Callie and Bidaan there is discussion. I am told I must not think as a servant. And there are important beliefs of her that I should know. One is that a Talid is not ever lower than a Runai. And a white person is not ever higher than a person of Masalay. Between all people of the world there is equalness. And God is okay but it is into myself I should look for knowing right and wrong.