by Tina Shaw
“Why not?” says Ma, as if to herself. She straightens her spine and turns her body in my direction. “Any friend of Leho’s is a friend of mine,” she says firmly.
Emee grins and it’s like the sun has come out. “Thank you!”
Ma reaches out for Emee and clasps her wrist. “Come back soon, Emee, and we’ll get started. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired …”
As we make our way out of the building, Emee is silent, deep in thought. I’m skittish as a rabbit, wanting her to say something, anything, so I can hear what she’s thinking, afraid she’ll not want to see me again now she’s found out what we’re like. It’s not until we’re at the street door that Emee turns to say goodbye and looks at me properly.
“You’re lucky to have a mother,” she says softly.
Then she’s heading off in her usual abrupt way, yet I don’t want to let her go so soon.
“Wait up,” I call, and jog to fall into step beside her. “Let me show you around while you’re here.”
She raises her pale eyebrows at me. “I should really get back.”
“Come on, another hour won’t hurt.”
Her face breaks into a smile and I take her hand. “I’ll show you where I like to go fishing, and maybe we’ll go and visit my friend Bit, and there’s a place we can get some honey cakes …” I’ve got a couple of coins jangling in my pocket and the world’s mine for the taking.
“Let’s get honey cakes.” She laughs. “I’m not so keen on fishing.”
We head to Market Square, and I’m proud to be walking hand in hand with a Travester girl, though we get a few odd looks, including from my friend Pippa who gives me the evil eye as she swishes past us going in the opposite direction.
There’s a huddle of Cerels under an awning in one corner of the square. With a sinking feeling, I can tell it’s the puppet show. They move around the Cerel district, putting on shows for us. You never know when they’ll pop up next, keeping one step ahead of the authorities, and it’s not something I want Emee to see. The stories are too political, too charged, and I don’t like hanging round where there might be trouble. It’s the kind of thing Jorzy would get involved in, if he didn’t have such a strong feeling for self-preservation. The puppeteers have a reckless kind of energy that draws bad luck.
But it’s too late. “What’s that?” Emee asks inquisitively. She drops my hand and starts walking in that direction.
“It’s nothing really,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” she retorts. “Oh, Leho, puppets!”
There’s a makeshift booth hung with sacking. People are standing around with silly grins on their faces, so I’m guessing a story has just finished.
I tug at Emee’s sleeve. “The honey cakes are over here.”
“Hush,” she tells me, her gaze focused on the little stage of the booth where two puppets have appeared.
Despite my misgivings, I can’t help wanting to see what the story’s about. The last time I saw them, there was a Fonecian pirate with a hooked nose and a serving wench who beat him with a spoon. It was hilarious. Now there’s a man puppet in a suit waving a little sword, and an old woman puppet cringing at his feet.
“Please, good sir, don’t hurt me,” cries the old woman in a falsetto voice. “I was only gathering these acorns for my dinner!”
“Dinner?” roars the man puppet. “How dare you eat dinner!”
Laughter runs through the small crowd that’s growing as more people come to see what’s happening, and with dismay I see Marta Gayer frowning at the edge of the crowd. There could be trouble if she runs off to report the puppet show.
“How dare you eat acorns!” shouts the man puppet. “They’re my acorns!”
The old woman puppet cringes even lower. “Sorry! So sorry, good sir! I’m just a simple Cerel, trying to feed my family–”
“That’s no excuse,” shouts the man puppet, looming over the old woman. “Here, take that!” And he whacks her with the small wooden sword.
“Ow!” cries the old woman, wringing her puppet hands. “Ow, ow, ow!”
“And take that!” He keeps hitting her with the sword and people are laughing their heads off all around us. I don’t understand how they can find it funny. Emee, too, isn’t laughing. She’s frowning at the puppets. Then she looks at me and I can see understanding appear in her eyes. With tight lips, she turns swiftly on her heel and starts to march off. There’s no sign of Marta. I follow quickly after Emee.
“Wait!” People who are trying to watch the show jostle me out of the way and I lose a few seconds. I see she’s heading resolutely for one of the exits. “Emee!” I cry, but she doesn’t turn around.
Then there’s a sound that chills my heart. Boots running on cobbles: Black Marks. How did they get here so fast?
I slide under a table of vegetables and go into a huddle, hoping I’ll be invisible.
Three Black Marks wielding batons are wading into the crowd. I cringe as a heavy baton connects with a head and somebody goes down. People are scattering like terrified birds. A Black Mark slams his truncheon down on the makeshift stage, breaking the flimsy thing in two. The puppeteer is crouched behind screams – an unearthly sound. The Black Mark lays into him, the puppets still on his hands. He tries to shield his face from the blows and it looks like the two puppets are fighting in front of him.
In the far corner of the square, a figure catches my eye: it’s Marta watching the action as if it’s a puppet show she now approves of, and I get a sick feeling in my gut. But Emee, has she got away safely? Peering around the stall in the direction she went, I see she’s standing stock still, eyes wide, a look of disbelief on her face, and I know she’s never seen anything like this before.
Move! I silently plead.
With a shiver, as if she’s heard me, she turns and runs.
18
In the Director’s garden we harvest the pumpkins and Boss lifts open the cellar doors, showing me where to put them. Using the barrow, I pile up the heavy grey-skinned pumpkins and wheel them over to the cellar. Down the five concrete steps, carrying two or three pumpkins at a time, to the wooden shelf where I line them up like troll heads. It’s been a good crop and should take the household right through the winter.
Boss has kept one back for himself, which he plans to make into soup. He’s already sliced open the pumpkin, exposing the orange interior, and scooped out seeds to dry and store away for next season. He chops and wraps up a piece of pumpkin for me to take home.
After stowing the pumpkins, we work together at the bench. Light from the window falls softly on our hands, across the potting soil and boxes of seeds.
“What d’you plan to do during winter?” Boss asks suddenly.
I get a cold feeling in my throat, even though my plans don’t involve working here for much longer. “Winter?”
Boss is intent on the kohlrabi seeds, patting the sieved soil gently into the wooden seed box with the palm of his hand. “There’s only enough work here for one over the winter,” he says, deliberately not looking at me.
Working on my own seed box, I carefully press beet seeds into battalion formations. I take a handful of soil from the bucket between us and sprinkle it over the seeds. It’s like putting them to bed. The seeds will sleep for a while, then wake up, pushing green stems towards the light. It never fails to please me. One of my jobs is to keep the trays damp, and I’ll miss tending to the seeds.
“I won’t need you again till the end of winter,” Boss explains.
Is there regret in his voice? I like to think so. For myself, I don’t know what to say, but am already starting to harden my heart. What does it matter? I’ve been here for a purpose. If I kill the Director I’d hardly be able to keep this nice job in the garden after that!
“We’ll want to get some seedlings underway before the frosts start.”
“All right.”
So there isn’t much time. The nights and mornings are beginning to get cooler. It
won’t be long before the first frosts come.
I walk home along the towpath in the gloom of early evening, feeling the cloth bundle of coins in my pocket. Maybe out of guilt, Boss has given me an extra coin.
A splash comes from the river on my left. Pity I don’t have my rod.
Hands in pockets, I walk on in a dream, forgetting about the river. If only I had a pistol. But I’ll have to make do with my knife. I’ll wait until the Director is walking in the garden. I’ll go straight over to him and stick the blade in his heart. It is a simple plan. I just have to do it. Then the Black Marks will come and beat me senseless: this I know for a fact. That’s the one serious drawback about my plan.
A man goes past, though I’m so deep in thought I barely notice him. When I reach the street where I leave the towpath and go back into the city, back towards my district, I try to think if there’s another way of killing the Director. A secretive, less obvious way.
Maybe if I could get inside the house … I might come up with a better plan.
There are bottles of poison in the shed. Boss sometimes leaves out poison for rats. There is poison for insects as well, which Boss dilutes with water to make a spray. But whether I use poison or a knife, I’ll have only the one chance. It has to be done right.
When I get to the boarded-up Cerel history museum, I stop to look up at the two stone statues on the roof of the building. Black Marks ransacked the interior long ago, but the statues are still intact. On one corner a woman in a long gown holds a set of scales. The other, also a woman, holds a sword. The two sides of justice, I reckon: the weighing of the verdict and the punishment.
Yep, it’s as simple as that. Carrying on, whistling a sad tune, I decide to find a way to get inside the Director’s house.
* * *
Very soon, the chance actually presents itself. I’d arrived at the garden to find Boss hunched over and squinting into the fragment of mirror on the wall, combing his wavy-thick hair. He straightens upon seeing me.
“Congratulate me, boy, it’s my birthday.”
“How old are you, Boss?”
The man waves his comb at me. “No cheek from you today, thanks.” He checks himself again in the mirror, licking a finger across one eyebrow. “Anyway, I’m off to my sister’s today, so you’ll be on your own.”
He pulls back his shoulders, and the old dark suit he’s wearing practically creaks. The gods know where he’s got it from, and I try not to laugh.
“There’s plenty for you to do,” Boss says, “so I’ll not have you slacking off just because I’m not here.”
I grin. “No, Boss.”
“I’ve made a list, see, of jobs you can get on with.” Boss passes me a grimy piece of paper torn out of a notebook and inscribed with pencil marks. It’s a long list and barely legible. “And remember – keep out of sight when the Director’s in the garden.”
“Yes, Boss.”
The man glances around, distracted, and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t leave you on your own,” he mutters, “but my sister makes a big fuss of me every year – I can’t not go. Besides, she’ll be making her famous lard dumplings and if I’m lucky there’ll be a piece of roast pork to go with it.” He brings his attention back to me. “She’s on the other side of the city, so I’ll be away for most of the day. Remember: I’ll be able to see plain enough what you’ve been doing when I get back, so no slacking.”
“You’ve told me that already.” I’m still grinning to see Boss in such a state.
“All right then,” he says, picking up a small sack that looks like it might contain potatoes.
Watching from the shed, I see Boss go out of the side gate, his dark head appearing and disappearing from behind the honeysuckle.
Then I take down the hoe and walk between the beds seeking out weeds. A bird sings three pure notes in the trees down by the river, and I turn my head towards the sound thinking that it’s a sign for me to get a move on. So I stick the hoe into the soft soil and walk back to the shed.
It’s a good feeling having it to myself.
I sit down in Boss’s armchair and steeple my fingers together. “I’ll not have you slacking off just because I’m not here,” I say in Boss’s deep voice. I’ll have to make the most of this rare day, for there probably won’t be another chance again like it. Enjoying myself, I fix a pot of chicory for later and set up two empty seed trays. I’ll get some salad seeds going for the glasshouse.
But the whole time I’m thinking about the big house, and can’t settle to anything.
In the end, I take the flat basket and pick beans, add some tomatoes, a few onions and fork up a potato plant, shaking the grub-like potatoes out of the dark soil. Then I take the basket and the scrap bucket and head across the lawn towards the side of the house.
It’s earlier than Boss usually goes over. With a dry mouth, I approach the side door and peer inside. One stone step, and you’re in a long airy kitchen. Except for a plump woman at the far end of the room, kneading something in a large ceramic bowl and singing monotonously to herself, the kitchen is empty. I’ve always imagined it as the busy hub of the house, people coming and going, lots of servants. The smell of roasting meat makes my mouth water. I put the basket and the bucket outside the door. It’s now or never, I tell myself, and slip off my boots, then step quietly inside. The fat woman still has her back to me, her chapped elbows working.
Across the kitchen to the right is an open doorway. Stealthily, I move around the big central table to reach it. There is a dim corridor with several closed doors leading off it. To my right, at the far end of the hallway, a staircase leads up to the floor above.
Glancing back over my shoulder – the woman is still kneading and humming – I step into the corridor, heading for the stairs.
The distant sound of music makes me pause. I press my ear against one of the painted doors, and hear the sound of the music swell. Somebody is playing what I think might be a piano, and I long to hang around and listen.
Carrying on reluctantly, I find a keyhole and take a peek. A rumble of voices. Figures are moving in a long, light room. It must be near the front of the house. I scurry up the stairs, keeping to the sides where the buffed wood is less likely to creak, then pause at the top. Another corridor, more doors. Whistling is coming from one of the rooms. I creep to the open doorway and peer in. A woman is making a bed.
Mouse-like, I hurry past.
So many rooms! There’s a room that contains only a huge white porcelain bath held up by metal lions’ paws, and a white wooden chair against the wall. Then, at the end of the corridor, I find a large room with tall windows that overlook the lawn and the river.
I creep inside, hardly breathing, terrified at my own boldness. A dark jacket is folded neatly over the back of a wooden chair. A small, exquisite desk stands in front of the windows. A spicy scent of cologne. This is the Director’s room, I’m sure of it, though I mustn’t stay long.
Papers on the desk. A pad covered in scribbled writing that means nothing to me. The statuette of a bear.
But this is where I could kill the Director. This is a place private enough for an assassination. It’s now or never! I look around quickly for somewhere to hide and wait for him. There’s a polished wooden wardrobe with an oval mirror in its door. A metal trunk at the end of the bed. The bed itself with a white cover, as if ironed.
One second, one breath is all it takes, and I’ve sneaked underneath the bed.
Just in time. I hear the maid’s footsteps as she goes down the stairs. The sound of doors opening and closing below. A woman’s laughter, rising on a high note. I lever the knife out of my trouser pocket, and flick open the blade.
Then comes the toot of an automobile horn and wheels crunching on gravel. Footsteps. Voices. Doors opening and shutting.
Suddenly somebody is coming up the stairs two at a time. A pair of black polished shoes walk into the room, and I hold my breath. It’s him. Here’s my chance. Count to ten, then I’ll slide out and rush
the Director. One … two …
He sits on the bed and levers off one of his shoes, lifting the socked foot out of sight. The foot reappears, naked. He takes the sock off his other foot. His feet are very pale, like the underbelly of a fish. Four … five … The Director stands up and pads over to the wardrobe. Every sound is sharp as breaking glass and I can barely breathe. The Director comes back to the bed. He’s opening something. A brown paper bag falls to the floor. Seven … eight … New socks. One at a time he lifts his feet and puts on the socks. Then he replaces the shoes.
The Director stands up and pauses, like he’s stretching his toes inside the new socks. Nine …
“The humane solution,” he murmurs under his breath, and I stop counting, listening like my life depends on it. Is he talking about the Caucasas?
The Director rocks on the balls of his feet then lifts his heels. If he cared to look down at his highly polished shoes, he might see the tiny image of my pale face reflected there.
“It’s the best solution,” the Director murmurs again, as if satisfied.
Then he is gone.
* * *
Call me naive, but I expected Jorzy to be really impressed.
“What were you thinking?” my brother says harshly, eyes blazing. We’re in the pub, yet he doesn’t hold back just because we’re in public, and his voice is muted though angry. “What would I have told Nanna if you’d been shot for being in the Director’s bedroom? It would have broken our mother. You don’t realise how fragile she is. And it would have put all of us in danger – they would have come for us. How could you be so reckless?”
Crestfallen, I let my brother’s barrage flow over me and try not to let it get me down. All of those things also apply to him – once he and his friends act – except he doesn’t seem to be taking that into account.
Then he relents, takes a breath. “How did you get out, anyway?”
Sullen, I don’t feel like saying now. Mostly it was luck. Hugging the wall as the maid went past; my cunning exit out of the tall glass doors while the visitors were out the front of the house. But I’m not going to tell Jorzy anything else now.
