Real Girls Don't Rust

by Jennifer Carson

  Port of Durban, South Africa. The country’s largest port and home to five million people. Although this January has been unusually hot, Elise came here because it was a neutral state with a mild climate suiting her unique physiology.

  The industrial area of the city is humid and stifling year-round. Factories of the Great Revolution of Independence pour steam and smoke into the air, heating up the small valley several degrees Centigrade higher than the surrounding town. Occasionally the ocean winds shift and push the hot air inland, causing severe thunder and lightning storms, but most of the year, the heart of the port city remains hidden under the fires of industry.

  Normally at the end of the day she would wash the bulk of sweat and rust off in the ocean, sponging off the salt in the water closet in her small flat in the Managers’ District. Tonight she stands in a shadowed alley just off Industry Wall—a ten-foot barrier separating the slums housing manual laborers from the higher-paid managers and skilled workers. She is still wearing her dirty coveralls and she resists the urge to scratch. Her short black hair is plastered to her skin with sweat. Down the street to her left, a long line of men, stripped to the waist and their skin black with coal dust, trudge wearily, workers from the mine coming back to their shantytown homes for a brief respite from the black pits they work in.

  Elise is lucky. Even though she is a common shipyard laborer, she has other means of income. Although indoor plumbing, electricity, and compulsory schooling had been put to regular use before she was born, there never seemed to be enough money in government coffers to bring them this far. The only thing more common than the rats of Laborers’ District were the children. Sometimes she wonders if she made the right decision coming here, but she had seen barbarism of another kind, and her doubts were fleeting.

  She briefly considers asking Marco to stay with her instead of having to come home to this. But that’s a complication and attention neither of them need.

  Scanning the street with eyes accustomed to darkness, she clenches and unclenches her fists. She fueled up before coming here. Her body is a spring, coiled and ready to be released.

  Then she sees him. Jaq Lemure. He wears a tattered red double-breasted vest over what may have once been a white shirt. He looks ridiculous in an oversized top hat that looks brand new. His right eye is missing but he doesn’t wear a patch. He thinks it’s more intimidating. He’s right. He is short and skinny, but fast and prone to sudden bursts of violence. Three men walk with him and they stop under a broken gas lamp, watching the crowd, looking for a mark.

  As hard as it is being a female laborer, it’s even harder for Marco. Being half-black, he is seen as only half-human and receives half the pay of any white man, even though he does double the work. Being half-white, the natives view him with suspicion. Tartar is right. Since family inheritances pass from father to son, Marco “inherited” his white rights—but he had to register with the Bureau of Native Affairs and carry his registration card in case someone demands proof of his right to be in the city—and someone always does.

  As if we have any choice who conceives us.

  The day before, she had convinced Marco to get into the pay line and he was surprised to receive his day’s wages from the shaking hands of Tartar. So surprised he didn’t notice how the man stared fearfully at the girl standing at his shoulder. An honest man, Marco was about to say something, but Elise poked him hard in the ribs and moved him along.

  “I need to say something. They’ll fire me if they find out.”

  “Stop worrying. No one will find out.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Do you have something to do with this?”

  “Me?”

  “You didn’t do something stupid like sleep with him, did you?”

  “Oh, oh…ew! How the hell can you ask that? I’d sleep with you before I ever touched that sack of crap.”

  “Really?”

  “Shut up.”

  Feeling good on his way home, he forgot caution. Jaq and his gang marked him. Not because they knew he had money, but because of what he was. The money was just a bonus. Elise had no idea Marco had to work every night to avoid a daily beating. But she found out the next day when he came in with his eye and ear swollen, ribs and arms sore. She had to give it to the young man. He didn’t slow down his work one bit. It took an entire day of nagging to get out of him what had happened.

  Everyone knew about Jaq Lemure. He ran the Blood Dregs, and the slums. They were in his complete control, although there had been rumors in the city that someone had taken control from Jaq. Now the man was a common foot soldier—a wild dog kept on a leash for his useful ruthlessness.

  You shouldn’t be getting involved.

  Elise takes a deep breath and steps out of the shadows, crosses the street at an angle away from the thugs and toward an alley deeper into the night. One of the men nudges Jaq and he shifts his weight off the pole and sways a bit. Steadying himself, he motions with his head for the others to follow.

  “Hey, pretty little girl.”

  Elise appears to hesitate for a moment, casts a fearful look over her shoulder, and then keeps walking.

  “Hey!”

  His men run ahead of her, blocking her way.

  “Hey girly.” Jaq takes his cigarette out of his mouth and throws it into the filth, reaches up and touches her hair, curling a few strands around his finger. “I was talking to you. It’s not polite to walk away like that. You know who I am, girly?”

  “Yes.” Elise smiles sweetly. “I know who you are.”

  She strikes him in the throat. A loud crack echoes down the street. Elise lets the spring inside her unwind. Her foot lashes back into the groin of the man behind her. With her right hand she catches the wrist of the man next to her. A twist, another crack and a scream—his knife falls from his grip. She snatches it with her left hand and slashes the man to her left. Continuing her turn, she plunges it downward, into the back of the neck of the man bent over holding his groin.

  The whimpering man with the broken wrist crouches on his knees sniveling, staring unbelieving at what has just happened. In less than two seconds, all his companions, including the ruthless Jaq Lemure, are dead.

  Elise waves the knife a hair’s breadth away from his eye.

  “Be a good boy. Sit.”

  The man falls back onto his bottom. She lets go of his hand and goes through his pockets. After taking what little money he has, she checks the others. Fifteen crowns, most of it on Jaq. A month’s pay for her. She turns her attention back to the last man. Elise steps behind him, reaches across his neck, and draws the blade from his left ear across his neck to his right. He cries out. The smell of piss, stronger than all the urine-soaked alleys around them, fills her nostrils.

  “You remember I didn’t kill you,” she whispers. “Lay hands on my friends again, and next time I’ll cut deep enough to take your head off.” Elise throws the knife into the darkness and starts to walk away.

  “W-w-w-ho are y-y-your friends?”

  She turns and grins, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Rob the wrong person and you’ll find out.”

  “Why won’t you tell me where you’re staying?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Marco grins at her. They have been off work for a while, but neither felt like going home. Five days have passed since Elise went to the slums. Over that time she has slipped a coin here and there into Marco’s personal belongings, like loose change found under a wealthy landowner’s chair pillows. He had been in good spirits even before he started finding his forgotten treats, and Elise assumed it had something to do with his news that he had moved out of the slums.

  “You’re not some old rich widow’s houseboy, are you?”

  He laughs and bites a peach he bought from a vendor. “Like some old rich widow would disgrace herself with me.”

  The air is cool, refreshing. She wants to swim and bathe in the clear water. She chews on the peach Marco bought her, inhaling the sweet fragrance. Although different, it remind
s her of the cherry blossoms back home. They’d be hibernating now, waiting for spring. But she can see them blooming in her mind.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Hm. You wouldn’t approve.”

  “Oh come on. Why would you say that?”

  “I was thinking about the past.”

  “Shame on you.”

  Elise laughs. “Told you.”

  “You did.” He tosses his pit into the water. “I’m going to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. When are you going to tell me where you’re living?”

  “When it’s ready.”

  She cocks her head, looking at him sideways. “‘Ready?’”

  “You’ll see.” He offers a little wave and keeps walking up the beach. She thinks about following him, shrugs, and heads back to the city. His call stops her.

  “Hey! Forgot to say thanks!”

  “For what?”

  He just holds up another peach he had bought, smiles that perfect white smile, and continues walking.

  The streets in the Managers’ District are well-lit compared to the slums. Every corner has a gas lamp burning. Elise had a good day and is feeling better than she has in a long time. With her mind on a brown-skinned young man with a brilliant smile, she enters her flat. It’s dark, but she knows the layout. Eight steps from the door to the water closet. Small wood-burning stove, sink with a steam-powered water pump and cooler to her left. Five steps to her right, the small, squat-legged armchair sits in the corner; next to it stands a small baobab tree table with an oil lamp resting on it. Along the far wall on the floor lies the thin spring mattress where she sleeps.

  She stands still for a moment waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but before they do she feels hands on her arms. She tries to break free, but a rain of blows from both sides to her kidneys send her into a coughing fit. The hands force her down onto her knees, and a booted foot connects with the side of her face. The room spins. She shakes her head, trying to ward off unconsciousness and clear her mind.

  “Konichiwa, Aki-ko.”

  Elise freezes.

  She hears a match, and light flares from her lamp. She glances left and right. The two men who hold her are dressed like common shipyard workers. A third stands to the side, a small-caliber pistol ready in his hand.

  “A very nice place,” a man sitting in her chair says in Japanese. “Especially for a shipyard worker.”

  “Thank you, William,” Elise answers in English. “I manage. You’re a long way from home.”

  “No ‘Uncle’?”

  When Elise remains silent, he sighs.

  “Haven’t you heard? South Africa is the new place to do business. Up and coming. Those who get in on the ground floor can make a fortune.”

  “Long way to come just to be a slumlord.”

  William slides off the chair and squats in front of her, resting on the balls of his feet; looking her in the eyes, he switches to English. “So that’s how it is, Elise? True and proper English woman until the last? Forgotten your roots? Your native tongue is no longer good enough for you?”

  “Not my roots. It’s a lie. Besides, I was never proper.”

  “No. You weren’t.”

  “What are you doing here, William? You can’t be that mad at me.”

  William stands and smoothes the front of his blue vest. Underneath he wears a black shirt tucked into grey trousers. In one hand he holds a matching grey bowler hat with a dark blue band, in the other a black cane with a pearl handle.

  “You flatter yourself, darling.” He walks to the cooler, opens the door, and takes something from inside. “Why, it’s just coincidence that I happened to come here to start a new life speculating in the cattle market and stock breeding. This is a growing nation, with a lot of hungry people. Finding the creature who betrayed me is just a bonus.”

  “Everyone has a sad story, William.” She laughs a little and says quietly, “It’s only rust.”

  William nods at one of his men and Elise feels a boot connect with her ribs. She coughs, spits up a little blood. He sits down in front of her and sets a plain tin can on the floor. Some of the paper wrapper still clings to some of the glue. He points at the can. “I assume what’s in this is what you stole from the lab. You were smart enough not to hide the money here.”

  “I just wanted my freedom.”

  “You had it.”

  “No.”

  “Father would be most disappointed to hear you say so.”

  William stands up again and puts on his hat.

  “Father is a liar.” Her ribs hurt like hell. “And insane.”

  “Insane?”

  “You’re here to start trouble.”

  William laughs and says in perfect Oxford English, “Now why would we do that? It’s not like we English don’t understand the threat South Africa poses to our North African colonies. Like we don’t know the shipyards of Durban are perfect places to sabotage a fleet, or that the largest granaries in the country are not far from here. Oh, the catastrophe contamination would reap on the people. No, the English don’t need Father’s help to figure that out.” He smiles at her, but there is only sadness in his blue eyes. “No one would be surprised if a few saboteurs for the crown were found a stone’s throw from this very flat. Hell, this whole country is a social powder keg. These are interesting times, Elise.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I’m not going to do anything.” He speaks rapidly in Japanese and the other three men let go of her and start clearing out the cooler. “I remember what we meant—what I thought we meant—to each other. So I’m going to let you live and let nature sort everything out.”

  He follows his men out, pausing at the door.

  “Sayonara, Aki-ko.”

  Marco stands across the street looking up at Elise’s flat. It’s been two days since she’s been to the shipyard. The first day he was surprised and wanted to check on her, but only knew she lived in the Managers’ District. Today he walked off the job early and came directly here. If you want to know anything about a neighborhood, you just ask the children. They see and hear everything. He found a group of six boys loitering outside a candy shop, eyeing the sugary treats through the window. A half-crown and the boys scattered to the four corners of the district before one of them found a girl who knew where the young woman lived.

  Waiting for two coaches to pass, he walks briskly across the cobblestone street and up the wooden stairs to the flat the girl had pointed out to him the day before yesterday. He hopes she was right or this will be more than a little embarrassing. He gently tries the latch. Locked. No doormat. He feels above the frame. Nothing. Reaching up, he feels above the edge of the low hanging roof, but Elise isn’t tall enough to reach there. Holding the door latch down, he presses his shoulder against the door. Home or not, she’s going to be pissed. A swift, hard hit and the frame splinters. He stands still for a few moments, listening. No sound except the jingle of coach bells. Nothing inside. She must not be home.

  He opens the door swiftly, slips inside and starts to close it. His feet fly out from under him and he’s on his back, air rushing from his lungs. Then Elise is there sitting on his chest with a knife to his throat.

  “Marco?”

  “Hello.”

  She pulls back the knife but doesn’t move from her perch. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “It’s true. I am unbeliev—” He stops when he sees one side of her face is swollen and purple. She stands and the knife disappears into the folds of her shirt, but not without a wince of pain, her hand holding her side. “What happened?”

  “It’s not your concern.” She sits down in her corner chair.

  “I’ll decide what concerns me.” He squats on the balls of his feet in front of her. “I’m not going anywhere. So you may as well fess up.”

  “Don’t make me throw yo
u out, Marco.”

  “Not when I can see you coming.” He reaches for her and takes her hands in his. They’re trembling. She tries to pull them away, but he holds firm. “I’m not afraid.”

  “You should be. I sure as hell am.”

  “In the 1850s, the Americans forced Japan at gunpoint to open trade with the rest of the world.” Elise sits curled up on her chair, hugging her arms to her chest. Marco has never seen her look so vulnerable. It makes him want to punch someone. Repeatedly.

  “The government realized isolationism wouldn’t work anymore. Their technology and economic systems were far inferior to North America and Europe. Their traditional ways needed to change or they would become another colony of the West.

  “They sent observers to see how the Western nations had become so powerful. They copied everything. They began to dismantle their feudal system, gave the ruling class prestigious positions in the new centralized government, began massive ironworks projects. They built a powerful, modernized army and navy and began to colonize Korea and China. What they did in decades took Europe five thousand years.”

  “The Meiji Restoration.”

  She blinks at him and he smiles. She wishes he wouldn’t.

  “Father was an educated man, and he insisted his son would be too.”

  “What happened to—” He raises a hand, cutting her off.

  “Later. We’re talking about you now. What does this have to do with you?”

  “Compulsory education taught that the Emperor was descended from Heaven and the Japanese were his children. Divine.” She pauses as if thinking back on some pivotal moment in her life. “They created a fanatical, loyal people. Have you heard of the Janissaries?”