Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  “Has he got children?”

  Emee twines her ponytail around her fingers and I watch the soft blonde hair, so different to that of the Cerel girls I know, and I’m fascinated all over again. The little dog has flopped onto the stone step next to her, and is watching the street.

  “No, he doesn’t have any children. He’s not married,” she says simply.

  “Why not?” I ask. “He must be rich.”

  Emee rolls her eyes. “Not everybody marries for money, you know.”

  No, I know that, thinking about my parents.

  “He hasn’t found the right one yet,” Emee murmurs, eyes lowered, as if she’s back talking to her secret admirer.

  “Or maybe he has,” I point out with a grin, “but she’s not interested.”

  “Oh, she’d be interested,” she says firmly, as if she’s spent some time thinking about this too.

  I glance at her curiously. Maybe she’s talking about herself? I can imagine this lonely girl with her romantic imagination being in love with the mighty Director. Bored, I try a new tack. “Where does he live, the Director?”

  Emee stands up then, putting an end to my speculation. Her face averted, she tidies her skirt and picks up the dog. “I have to go inside now. My aunt will be wondering where I am.”

  As she waits on the kerb for a handcart, pushed by a Cerel, to go past, she throws me a glance over her shoulder. It’s an odd expression I can’t decipher. Confusion, puzzlement or something else? I’ve asked too many questions about the Director, that’s for sure. She could betray me to her aunt and uncle, just for asking about him. The Travesters are always alert to a possible uprising, especially since the time a group of Cerels from a district in the western part of Ursa stormed the House of Law and took some Travesters hostage.

  I’ve been too nosy, too obvious. I could kick myself. She’ll betray me and I’ll get taken away – in that moment I’m certain of it. And yet, when she reaches the door of her building, she turns and gives me a little wave before ducking inside.

  She’s lonely, I reckon, in her house of adults. She wants a friend, even if it’s a Cerel friend, and that makes me feel better. Not safer – because I’m never really safe – but a little easier.

  8

  Back at the house, Marta Gayer is sitting at the table with Nanna, both of them hunched over a teacup. Marta’s plump face, rosy with emotion, looks up a little guiltily when I come barging in. Who knows what stories Nanna has been pulling out of thin air to impress her so-called friend. I don’t believe there’s anything in tea-leaves except tea. Nanna shoots me a look: make yourself scarce. I don’t need telling. The Travester woman might be kind to us – when she could just as well turn her back – but she still makes me feel uncomfortable. Was it a neighbour like her who betrayed my mother all those years ago?

  “You might as well know, there’s a change coming,” whispers Marta now, handing the cup over to Nanna, and I know she’s not talking about the tea-leaves.

  “What kind of change?” asks Nanna, quietly.

  “I’m not allowed to say,” Marta says smugly, “just something I’ve heard on the grapevine, but it might be positive for your people.” She likes to have secrets over Nanna, I think in disgust.

  There’s a basket of apples on the bench that Marta must have brought, and my hand creeps towards them. Nanna, however, has eyes in the back of her head, and a certain way of communicating her wishes. The way she draws back her shoulders tells me to leave the apples alone. Besides, she will already have counted them. If I’m lucky, I might get a quarter tonight after our dinner.

  I slouch out of the room and crawl into my cubbyhole. Linking my hands behind my head, I glare at the low ceiling. I hate the doling out of food. I hate being always hungry, the hunger chewing away at my insides like an insect. The Director won’t be hungry, that’s for sure. He’ll have the best of everything to eat, whenever he feels like it. He will have servants to cook him delicious meals, and an orchard full of apple trees. Other fruits, too; fruits Nanna has told us about, from the old days.

  “Peach,” I murmur under my breath, testing out the word on my tongue. “Ap-ri-cot … Gorgeous.”

  Footsteps. I close my eyes, breathing lightly.

  “Leho,” says Marina, “you silly boy, I know you’re not asleep.” I open my eyes.

  She’s on her knees and peering in at me with a crooked smile. “Look at you in your funny cave.” Her old outdoor hat, woven raffia trimmed with faded red velvet, is pinned onto her dark hair. I bet Emee wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something like that, yet it suits Marina.

  “Leho, will you come with me to the House of Law?”

  I give a fake yawn, though I’m actually feeling quite sleepy despite pretending. “What are you going there for?”

  Marina crawls into my little space and lies along the mattress beside me, propping herself up on her elbow to gaze down at me, her dark eyes pensive, her skin paler than it ought to be. She’s wearing her outdoor coat – a thin, dark-blue coat fraying at the ends of the sleeves.

  “I need to ask for a special dispensation.”

  That wakes me up. Her expression is completely open. There is nothing hidden or secret about Marina: she always tells the truth. Though she doesn’t always tell the full story. My curiosity is roused, but it’ll be pointless to ask why she needs or wants a dispensation. She will either offer the information freely, or avoid telling me anything at all. The House of Law?

  “Are you sure you want to go there?” I ask carefully.

  “Yes, or I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me.” Marina looks at me with a teasing half-smile on her lips. “You do want to go, don’t you?”

  Of course, and my wily sister knows that. I’m as clear as a bucket of water to her. I’ve been itching to get up close to the House of Law for ages. Only Cerels wanting a special dispensation dare go near the place. I’ve seen it from a distance, of course – who hasn’t? Its glass and metal dome can be seen for miles away. It shines sharply outlined in the morning light, or flashes in the afternoon sun, a code of light. At night the dome glows orange like a lantern. All kinds of people are constantly coming and going; I’ve watched them, this steady traffic that sets my curiosity on fire. The Travesters’ House of Law never sleeps.

  So we make our way through Market Square. Passing a stall of wizened pears – windfall – and my fingers twitch to grab one. But the stallholder’s tough gaze follows me as if he can read my mind and doesn’t like what he sees. I flip him the finger once we’re at a safe distance.

  Marina pauses at a stall of fabrics, fingering a bolt of pale blue cotton. The Travester stallholder watches us without expression. I elbow Marina, wanting her to move on; it’s making me nervous hanging about like this. She gives a grin and walks off, quickening her pace.

  “You might as well know,” she confides once we’re clear of the market, “I’m asking for a special dispensation to go and stay with our aunt and uncle in the country.”

  It takes me a few seconds to absorb this information. “Oh.”

  A Travester tutor wearing the trademark blue beret of learning is bearing down on us, and I duck to one side to make way for him, eyes averted. When we’re walking along together again, I glance at Marina’s face to try to read her expression. We’re the same height, since I’ve shot up over the spring. I can still remember an earlier time when she held my hand when we walked to the market, and I had to look up to see her expression, to catch her laughter. Her profile is blank now, though amiable as always, gaze fixed forwards. The river is easier to read than my sister.

  “We don’t have an aunt and uncle in the country,” I murmur into her shoulder, aware of the flapping ears of people passing on either side of us, Cerels and Travesters alike.

  Marina gives me a dazzling smile, as if we’re talking about something else altogether. “I know,” she says, giving a few rapid blinks, “isn’t that amazing?”

  Frustrated, I shove my hands into my jacket pocke
ts, oblivious to the street. She’s like two sides of a coin, the head and the picture. In my confusion, I accidentally bump into a Travester merchant carrying a mug of hot chicory. A little of the drink spills onto the ground.

  “See what you’ve done!” the man growls, raising his fist.

  I cower away, expecting a blow.

  But Marina is already hurrying me away by the elbow: “Sorry! Sorry!” she cries as we put distance between us and the Travester, who stands glaring angrily after us.

  “Leho,” she scolds, “you must be more careful.” We’re about to turn into Via Parada, and Marina is still holding my elbow and hurrying me along as if afraid the Travester might be following.

  Sulking, I shake her off. “Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

  A look of sadness flashes across her face, quickly replaced by her usual calm smile: the two sides of the coin. “Ah, Leho.” She sighs. “If only I could.”

  “But why can’t you?” I flash back, fists bunching in my pockets.

  Marina’s footsteps sound quick and light along the pavement. She glances up nervously at the apartment buildings that face each other across the street, as if we might be overheard.

  “It’s difficult,” she murmurs. Her neck is flushed, and her eyes are an empty slate. I haven’t seen my sister like this before and a worm of fear wriggles in my belly. “We have a story, you see … Nanna and I cooked it up. I’ve been ill. It’s probably the TB,” she gives me a sly look, “which is why I shall be coughing so much at the House of Law.”

  Now we’re on Via Parada, where the Cerel ladies and gents once took their evening stroll by the river, according to Nanna. The smooth dark water glints in the sunlight. Despite my concern for Marina, I automatically check for any fish below the surface of the water.

  Marina sucks in a breath and continues her explanation, or briefing, more like. “I’m asking for a special dispensation so I can recuperate in the country, where, as everybody knows, the air is much better than in the city. I shall get to eat fresh farm vegetables, and of course, last but not least, not infect any poor Travester I should happen to meet.” My sister smiles and lowers her voice. “They’re terrified of the TB,” she says, sounding like Nanna.

  At the bridge, instead of crossing the river, we turn left into Merchant’s Way. The famous glass dome of the House of Law is just visible between roofs to our right. This is a street of small specialty shops – handmade chocolates, intricate wooden toys and contraptions, dainty shoes. There’s a tiny cake shop, its front composed of thick glass bricks put together like a jigsaw. The tantalising aroma of roasting chicory drifts out into the street and I half expect to see Emee and her birdcage aunt coming out of the shop, carrying boxed cakes.

  “It doesn’t matter what the real story is,” I mutter, padding along beside this mysterious woman, my sister, “you don’t need to tell me!” It’s annoying not being told the truth, though I’ll find out soon enough. I suppose she’s trying to protect me. As we all protect each other, in one way or another. It isn’t a matter of lying, or of being secretive – too much information can get you hurt. Sometimes I think of my family as a hive of bees, where each bee has its own task, its own specific knowledge; together, you make up a whole.

  “The Haretts have already kicked me out,” she sniffs, peering at the window of a haberdashery as we walk past. “Poor things,” she sighs ironically, and flips me a look. “They’ve probably disinfected the whole house.” Then she gives a girlish giggle.

  Her humour is infectious, like the TB, and I grin: the joke is on the Travesters in the end.

  Glancing up, I see we’re approaching the corner of Law Parada, at the end of which is the House of Law, and I make my face go blank. It isn’t wise to be seen smiling and giggling along this street. We keep to one side of the pavement and hurry along beneath the linden trees, trying to look insignificant, not worthy of attention.

  Law Parada is a wide avenue lined with cafes, restaurants, luxurious shops and law firms. Travester lawyers, in their black capes, sweep past like crows. Senior Black Marks are everywhere. There are women showing off the latest fashions of outrageous hair and ridiculous hat concoctions. It reminds me again of Emee’s aunt, and I keep an eye out for them. I’m aware of Marina’s darting glances at these women. Compared to these gleaming women, my sister must feel like a scruffy little owl, and I can sense her physically shrinking beside me, as if she’d like to sink into the ground. One woman – I can’t help staring – wears peacock feathers in a plume sticking out of an iridescent metal skullcap. Her hair, which flows over her shoulders and down her back, is dyed the deep purple hue of a bruise.

  My attention is soon diverted from these strutting ladies. Up ahead, in the middle of a huge stone-paved square, rises the glass and metal structure that is the House of Law. Inside, it is said, an enormous spiral staircase goes right up to the top of the dome. Visitors are able to stand on platforms to watch and listen to the debates taking place down below.

  We arrive at the outer gates with the bear insignia, where without a word a guard directs us to the right.

  Marina’s lips are white. Whatever it is that has forced her to come here today with her made-up story must be urgent enough to overcome her fear, and the enormous risk she is taking. Now I really don’t want to know what it is.

  We enter a walled, covered passageway that runs along one side of the square. The walls are designed to keep the queue of applicants out of sight, like a passage beside a construction site; or perhaps to prevent us from staring at the magnificent building. But there are occasional gaps, through which I can see black automobiles crossing the square, and Travesters on foot hurrying to and from the building. There are even a few Fonecian men in their distinctive red felt vests. I imagine they’re allowed access because of the goods they trade.

  On the far side of the square an airship is tethered to a high scaffolding tower with steps zigzagging up inside to a platform at the top. How I’d love to climb that flight of steps and board an airship! They sail as far as the Outer Islands, I’ve heard, maybe even further, to places I can’t even begin to imagine.

  Me and Marina reach the tail of the queue. A Cerel man glances back at us and nods, before facing forwards again. It looks like the queue ends around the back of the building. Although I can’t see anything much in this covered walkway, the House of Law must be looming above us now. Shafts of sunlight shine through the wooden planks of the roof, but I can’t make out anything else.

  Marina pulls out a grubby square of cotton and gives a few tentative coughs. She makes a face at me, as if to say, I’m not very good at play-acting. The man in front of us takes a step forwards. Behind us, an older couple joins the queue. Marina, recognising the woman, exchanges a few words. They ask no questions of each other, and soon lapse into silence. The atmosphere in the passageway seems to stifle small talk. The queue inches slowly forwards.

  I become aware of a change in tempo outside in the square. I find a gap in the boards where I can get a glimpse of what’s happening. A sleek black automobile is gliding slowly across the square. People are standing back respectfully. Men who are wearing hats take them off.

  Marina tugs at my sleeve. “Keep moving,” she whispers.

  I hurry forwards to find another gap. There are people in dark suits standing around the parked automobile. A man is climbing out of the back of the vehicle now. This thickset man stands and looks around. His gaze sweeps the square, though he doesn’t turn towards the Cerel passageway. What is the expression on his face – pride? Self-satisfaction? The familiar-looking man slides his hand over his shiny, immaculate hair. His face is pale in the sunlight, the nose curved and the brow smooth. He seems like a man who is used to giving orders. A man who sleeps in a comfortable bed. A man used to luxury. He emanates a supreme self-confidence. But then, maybe these are things I just expect to see in him.

  A woman in a flowing black dress is hurrying towards the man, both hands outstretched. But he
is already turning away, turning his attention towards the House of Law.

  Then Marina grabs a handful of my jacket and hauls me along. With a sigh, I rejoin the queue, having seen enough.

  It is the Director.

  9

  So now Marina is unemployed and, without a reference, unlikely to get another job. We’ll feel the pinch now, without the handful of coins she earns each week. During tonight’s meal, Nanna explains to Jorzy that Marina has been replaced by a Travester girl at the Haretts’. Ma blinks in surprise, though says nothing. The lie bothers me. Whatever the problem, they should tell Jorzy – he’s the head of the family now, and needs to know, instead of us harbouring these secrets. But what can I say? Like it or not, Marina has sworn me to secrecy.

  Tonight we have eaten our fill. Nanna bought a bag of potatoes from the market, wheeling it home in her old trolley. She roasted a large dish of them, cut into pieces, in the goose fat Marina had “borrowed” from the Haretts before she left.

  “D’you intend to give it back when you’ve finished with it?” teases Jorzy.

  Babet chokes on a potato and Marina smiles, though she is obviously tired. We queued for hours at the House of Law. “They won’t miss it,” she says dismissively.

  Nanna fetches the board and her knife and four apples, and starts to divide them up at her end of the table. The other apples, I notice, have been hidden away somewhere. I’ve yet to find Nanna’s secret cubbyhole, not for want of trying.

  “Tell us a story, Jorzy,” says Babet.

  Marina, leaning her cheek on her palm, sighs. “Yes, a story.”

  Nanna frowns at my sister, and I know the old woman is thinking about the dispensation and Marina’s trouble – whatever it is. I’m also longing for some distraction. There’s a heaviness in my chest that feels like sadness. Later, I’ll go out into the city and search for a gift for Marina to make up for today: the humiliating interview with the official sitting behind his desk, smug in his tailored black jacket lined with silver trim. Later still, I’ll go and visit Ma, and maybe I’ll curl up on her bed like Bit’s dog.