Ursa

by Tina Shaw

  It was Nanna who came home one day with tight lips and told us about the latest decree. The one about Cerel babies. It was Jorzy who filled me in on the details later. I still remember how my brother was so disgusted he could barely speak, though I was too young to understand the whole picture. What did it matter if women didn’t have any more babies? Who needed squawking babies round the place anyway? It was probably a good idea.

  Jorzy had hit me. Just like that. Slapped me in the face.

  I had reeled back, even though the slap had been light, from the shock of my beloved brother hitting me. “What was that for?” I cried in dismay.

  “Because you have to grow up,” rasped Jorzy.

  There were tears in my brother’s eyes, and that too was confusing.

  I ran to my mother, who took me onto her lap and stroked my hair. Her head turned to the ceiling as she tried to identify and soothe my hurt. “Ah, Leho,” she murmured, “little one.”

  Babet was toddling around at that stage – a lump nestled into our mother’s bed at night, sucking her thumb.

  “We already have babies,” I muttered furiously.

  “Yes, darling,” she sighed into my hair, “but once those babies grow up, then there will be no more.”

  I remember looking at Babet curled up so peacefully, like a grub, and trying to imagine a future with no more Cerel babies. And then some kind of faint realisation came to me, more like a ghost than a true understanding. Yet it was enough. I got off my mother’s lap and smoothed a hand over my hair, raised my chin. Jorzy was right: it was time for me to grow up.

  15

  A night comes when I feel cooped up and antsy, and have to get outside to find some distraction on the city streets. Need to clear my head of everything that’s happening around me. So I trot over to Trabant Street and back to my perch behind the lion.

  The windows of the house opposite are glowing with light. It’s like a display: look at us, look at what we’ve got. It’s both disturbing and fascinating, the way those Travesters show off their wealth. And they’ve got nothing to hide, or to hide away from; nothing to fear. Their lives are so protected. How nice to live like that! I try to imagine what it’d be like to be a rich Travester, living in a warm house with good food every day and a decent job … well, I reckon I’d still want my privacy. I wouldn’t show off like that, or burn electric lights all night, even in rooms that aren’t even being used. No, I’d wear a nice jacket (a smoking jacket, like a real gentleman) and sit in a leather armchair, a glass of something at my elbow, and read a book.

  The sound of steps disturbs my dream. The aunt, in a velvet cloak, the hood over her head, is walking rapidly towards the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen her alone; usually Travesters move in packs, like dogs. It looks as if she has been on some kind of mission.

  I watch as she enters the house, then she appears in a room on the right, slipping the cloak off her shoulders and letting it fall to the ground. The aunt’s golden hair is piled high on top of her head and is strung with pearls. Probably real ones, fetched from the ocean depths by native divers in the Outer Islands. Then a young woman in an apron appears and quickly picks up the cloak. Slinging it over her arm, she follows the aunt out of the room. They go into a second room, and the uncle appears. Words are spoken. The aunt’s hands flutter to her chest. Everything is lit up like a stage.

  A steamtram trundles past, and I miss a few seconds of this domestic scene.

  Now the aunt and uncle are embracing. Maybe they had an argument and are making up. Then the aunt seems to notice for the first time that the window dressings are open so that anybody (like a stray Cerel boy) can stare in and see them. The servant woman hurries to close the dressings, moving from window to window.

  Leaning back against the cold stone, I study the blank house. Is something going on? My mind goes to the Director and my plan; to things that might possibly be happening in the city.

  A light goes on in the small window beneath the eaves, the attic room, and I think of Emee in her bedroom, imagine her framed in the window, peering out romantically, as if pining for her admirer (me, of course!). Up above there’s a crescent moon hanging like a brooch in the black sky. I’m so busy studying the new moon I nearly miss her exiting the alleyway.

  She’s hurrying along the street, oblivious to both passers-by and to a feral boy who shadows her, moving from one street lamp to the next, trying not to be seen. Where is she going? I haven’t seen her out by herself at night before. She’s got something in her hand.

  It’s not far before she stops and faces me. Gah, so I’ve been spotted after all. There goes my reputation. It’s a thick envelope she has in her hand.

  “What do you want?” she cries, exasperated, hand on her hip. “You’re always hanging around. My aunt has warned me about Cerel boys like you – pickpockets.” She struggles with the word.

  “Pickpockets?” I take a step back. “You must be joking, right? Do you really think we’re all just petty thieves?”

  “I don’t know what you are!” There is high colour in her cheeks. “You turn up on my doorstep, like a – like a waif – and I don’t know what you want.” Her face is defiant and she crosses her arms.

  “I suppose your aunt is only looking out for you.”

  “Of course she is,” Emee says bitterly. “But what do you know? I suppose you think I’ve got it easy because I’m in a Travester family.” She wrings her hands in a mock display of poverty. “Oh, I’m a hard-done-by Cerel, so hungry, so put-upon …”

  “I never said I was put-upon,” I protest.

  She reverts to her normal self, turns side-on to me. “If you must know, I’m alone in the world.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, no hint of self-pity. “They put up with me, that’s all, because of being related to my mother. If it wouldn’t seem so bad to all their friends, I’d be out on the street. Every moment of my life is guarded.” Her eyes flash. “I can’t say what I really think, what I really feel, in case I upset them and they get rid of me.”

  My head is swimming with different emotions. It’s the most she has confessed to me, the most honest she has been, and I don’t know how to take it.

  “I’m not put-upon,” I point out again, feeling prickly.

  Emee sends me a swift look, as if she realises she’s said too much, been too open. “No, you’re not,” she says gently, then adds, “most of the time.” She gives an unladylike snort. “At any rate, now you’re here you may as well come with me to the postbox.”

  I fall into step beside her. We reach the corner of Trabant Street and Emee turns smartly to the left. The buildings along this stretch are a little grimier, but just as impressive.

  “Don’t you want me to walk ten paces behind you?” I say archly. “People will see you with a Cerel.”

  Her expression is complicated. “I don’t care what people think right now.”

  “What’s with the letter?”

  She waves the envelope at me. It’s thick, the address written in a large, childlike hand. “My friend who lives in the country has invited me to stay with her.”

  “What’s the attraction with the country?”

  “They’ve got horses.” She gives a crooked grin. “I’m going by airship.”

  I’m so jealous, but I’m not going to let her see that. “It’ll stink. The country’s full of shit and mud. You’ll get your nice shoes dirty.”

  Nothing can spoil her mood. “As if you’d know what the country’s like!”

  “I might have been to the countryside.”

  Another snort. “That’s so not true.”

  My turn to grin. “All right, not true. Though I’ve heard all about it.”

  We’ve reached the tall black box on the street where Travesters post their letters, and Emee pushes hers through the chute. We head back. “What will you do, Leho?”

  “How do you mean?” I ask, swiping hair back off my forehead.

  She eyes me intently. “There are changes coming to the city, hav
en’t you heard?”

  That makes me bristle. I hear everything on the streets, but I’m not about to tell her that. Instead, I pretend not to care. “Sure, I’ve heard … whatever. It’ll all be the same in the end. Ursa won’t ever change.”

  “Really?” Emee gives me an odd look then, like she knows something I don’t, something important, and with her family’s connections to the Director, maybe she does. She sighs. “As long as you know.”

  * * *

  It’s a late summer’s afternoon and the whole city seems to be covered with a fug of soft haze, as if under a spell, and nowhere more so than in the Director’s garden. Bees blunder lazily, drunk on nectar, among the blue borage flowers. Swelling melons rest on beds of straw. The air is filled with the scent of the honeysuckle that grows along the pathway down to the river, and the heat is stifling.

  Hoeing lethargically among the beets, I feel rather than see the Director step onto the lawn. It’s the moment I wait for each day, thinking, anytime now, I’ll make my move. I look through the trellis to the main lawn, keeping my head down and still hoeing, only more quietly, barely moving. If Boss was here, we would have gone into the shed. But Boss is up at the house, fetching our wages and the petty cash he uses for buying seeds and paying the egg man.

  The Director, hands clasped behind his back, walks down the lawn that slopes towards the river. He pauses, looks at the sky, then turns to his right and paces, back and forth across the grass. His pale hair shines like honeyed varnish. The hands behind his back clasp and unclasp as if it helps him to think. I shuffle and hoe into a position that gives me a clearer view through the trellis. I’d give my right hand to know what’s going through the Director’s head. More plans to get rid of Cerels? World domination? He pauses again, as if in mid-thought, frowning, then touches a finger to the sweep of his hair. His lips are moving. Maybe he’s practising a speech; one of the incessant speeches he gives at the House of Law, filled with nationalistic cant, according to Jorzy, who has a spy in the building. The man bows his head, and continues pacing.

  Cautiously I move towards the shed, to see if there are any Black Marks on the terrace. If he’s alone, what an easy target! A man could crouch by the gate over there, hidden until the Director comes closer, wait until he turns his back, then pounce.

  I finger the talisman in my pocket, my closed pocketknife. Will it be big enough to kill a man? Moustache should be here now! Since Moustache walked along the towpath with me that day, I keep expecting something to happen.

  Then I notice there’s a single Black Mark in a corner of the terrace, a senior officer, examining his fingernails.

  Through the tall glass windows, I can see figures moving about inside the house. There have been visitors all morning: I’ve heard the crunch of gravel from the front of the house as automobiles have come and gone. The terrace doors stand open and I spot a long, polished wood table. A woman in an apron appears and puts a tray on the table. She glances down the lawn, as if she’s thinking about calling the Director, then changes her mind and leaves the room. As at Emee’s house, I get the impression that something is taking place; there’s a heightened sense of tension.

  Still the Director paces.

  There doesn’t need to be a man over by that gate. It could be a boy, sprinting across the lawn. A flick of the wrist, the look of surprise and a blade pushed into the heart.

  Of course, Black Marks would rush down the lawn, except it wouldn’t matter – they would be too late. And sure, they would probably kill the boy, or beat him very seriously, or lock him up and throw away the key. But the thing would be done. To the Cerels, at least, the boy would be a hero. It would be …

  A sudden sting of pain. “Oof,” I grunt.

  Boss has grabbed me by the back of the neck and is dragging me towards the shed, then pushes me inside. He shuts the door behind us. “What did I tell you?” Boss growls in a low voice, as if the Director might hear him.

  I rub my neck. “Go inside the shed.”

  “Right,” he says, glowering at me. “You are not to be seen. Neither of us.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  Boss snorts and starts to poke at the stove. “Away with the fairies, I reckon,” he says to the lumps of coal, already getting over it. “Or thinking about girls.” He twists his head to look back up at me. “Have you got a girl, then, Leho?”

  My face goes hot, thinking of Emee. “That’s my business,” I tell him, sulking.

  He isn’t offended. “Fair enough,” he says, striking a match against the side of the stove. We both watch as a small orange flame devours a twist of brown paper. “I had a girl once,” Boss says quietly, as if to himself.

  “Where is she now?” I ask, curious.

  Boss stands up, stretching his back. “Who knows … we lost touch when I came here.” He seems about to say more, but then bows his head to the black pot that already contains water and chicory. With a sharp intake of breath, a movement outside the window catches his eye. “Shit,” he says. It’s the Director, coming across the lawn towards the kitchen garden – and he’s nearly at the trellis.

  Boss hurries to the door, smoothing down his hair and straightening his shirt. He sends a quick glance back at me, finger to his lips, then goes outside, pulling the door behind him.

  “Good afternoon, sir!”

  I creep to the door, barely breathing.

  “Such a fine day,” says the Director. I’d imagined a deep, strident voice. Instead the Director’s voice is soft, introspective. “It is a shame to be inside.”

  The Director is so close, I could reach a hand through the wood and touch his dark, gold-trimmed jacket. Or shove a blade in his back.

  “Indeed, sir. And very good weather for your gherkins.”

  There comes a chuckle. I stare at the door in surprise. “Good to hear it. Let us see these famous gherkins of yours–”

  Applying my eye to the gap above the hinge, I see them start to move away from the shed, Boss pointing out various things as they stroll between the rows. They stop at the patch of sweet corn, ears shivering in the humid air. The Director, in his usual pose, hands behind his back, turns his face up to the sky, and his voice drifts back to me: “I remember days like this from my boyhood. Hot as hell. Some nights it was so hot I slept in the bathtub.”

  Again I’m slapped with surprise and my eyes widen. The Director talking so personally – to a Cerel? It’s shocking. Maybe Boss is shocked too.

  Standing at attention, the older Cerel’s face is blank. “Sir?”

  “The last of the summer days,” says the Director, in a trance. Then he seems to remember Boss. “My childhood summers were spent near the Caucasas region. A big, open country, lightly populated, but quite fertile, I believe. Much of the oil we use in this city comes from that area. Sunflower seed oil. Yet it seems to me that the Caucasas, as a region, is vastly underutilised.” Boss looks relieved when the Director sets off again in the direction of the gherkins. “But tell me, Valerie–” I’ve only just caught the name, and grin. “What would your people think about living in the Caucasas?”

  The Director has stopped again, and this time is scrutinising Boss as if he’s an interesting example of a bean or tomato.

  “Well, sir, I don’t know–”

  “Fresh air, plenty of land, room to spread out,” the Director is saying, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side. “Wouldn’t that sound appealing?”

  “Put that way, sir, yes it does indeed.”

  “And what else do you think your people might find attractive in such a place, Val?”

  “I suppose–” He hesitates, and it’s obvious that Boss is struggling to say the right thing. “Perhaps good houses to live in, and a plentiful supply of food?”

  “Ah, yes,” says the Director, looking pleased,“of course. That’s it exactly. The basic necessities of life, in fact.”

  The two men continue on, although I can’t make out their conversation any more. Boss is talking and waving his hands
around – probably showing off his vegetables. After another few minutes, the Director walks out of the garden and back across the lawn to the terrace of the house.

  It’s not long before Boss is heading back to the shed and I jump away from the door, pretending to tidy the potting trays. He comes in sighing and muttering to himself and mopping his forehead with a grimy handkerchief.

  “Boy!” he exclaims, hurrying over to the stove.

  Neglected, the pot of chicory is boiling over.

  * * *

  “The Caucasas?” Jorzy echoes, frowning. The other two men exchange glances. “Are you sure he meant that region?” We’re in the pub, standing around a wooden barrel this time. It’s not so crowded, and I wonder what the other men are doing tonight. I hope there hasn’t been another cull of the working men. Lanterns hang from the blackened beams, casting a dull light over us all.

  “Yep.” I tip my face towards the full mug of beer and suck up a mouthful. The heat of the pub makes the beer taste especially cool and sweet.

  “Those were his exact words?” my brother persists.

  “Yes, I said so.” Hasn’t he been listening? I’ve repeated the conversation, word for word. Strangely, the men look at each other in dismay. I drink another mouthful of beer, eyeing them carefully. I thought it was useful information, but they don’t seem very impressed.

  “This is very bad,” mutters Moustache, glaring as if it’s my fault.

  “It might not be anything,” says Jorzy, distracted, running a hand through his thick hair. “After all, who will run their stinking factories if we Cerels are sent to the Caucasas?”

  The other man laughs darkly. “Perhaps they want the jobs for their own.”

  Moustache leans in. “I’ve heard that Travesters from other regions want to come here for the work. Country folk could keep the factories going.”