by Bina Shah
Julien’s eye was caught by a tornado of several hundred black kites swirling around in a funnel cloud that went right up to the sky. Behind the birds, a backdrop of towering orange clouds moved in swiftly from the east. A storm was predicted for tomorrow evening; was it coming already? In answer, the wind began to whip up, sending dusty gusts barreling through the spaces between the high-rises. A canopy of sickly yellow wavered overhead, instead of the bright blue sky that always hung over Green City like an unremembered dream.
“Sandstorm,” said Bouthain.
“What!” said Julien. Summer sandstorms could be deadly, the northern winds sending debris and detritus flying through the air, blinding motorists, causing the giant digital billboards downtown to fall down and crush or decapitate passersby. The storms appeared several times a year without warning; nobody in the Environment Agency had discovered how to control or prevent them, and the death toll from the worst ones could be high. With no announcement yet, at least fifteen or twenty minutes still remained before Shifana Hospital would go into high alert in order to deal with the casualties.
Bouthain murmured, “Let us proceed, Dr. Asfour.”
Julien stared at Bouthain. “Now?”
“Everyone will be too busy to notice,” said Bouthain mildly. “Do you want to wait until Faro arrives here to escort you to the Agency himself?”
The growing sandstorm, the orange cloud approaching from the coast, was casting a baleful shadow on the cityscape. Bouthain was right: it had to be now. Reuben would be stuck in the Agency, the roads would be closed to all traffic but emergency vehicles and ambulances. Bouthain was already out the door.
Julien chased after him down the emergency staircase. He cursed himself for having become flabby and unfit, for eating terribly, for not taking care of himself, but doctors weren’t supposed to be athletes. How the hell did Bouthain manage to move so quickly? Was he dosing himself with youth-preserving drugs that he’d designed for himself in his laboratory?
Bouthain muttered terse instructions through clenched teeth as they rushed down the stairs. “Call your man. Tell him to get an ambulance ready. Tell him to have two stretchers ready at the service elevator in fifteen minutes. He’s going to have to drive a long way, so tell him to make sure he’s got his pass. It’s a Virus death, so quarantine rules apply: I want two sets of full gowns, masks.”
“Two sets?”
“What, did you think I’d let you do this on your own? Really, Dr. Asfour, after everything I’ve taught you. You do surprise me.”
Sabine
I lift my gown to look at my stomach, fascinated by the neat red incision that bisects the length of my stomach from navel to groin. The line is less angry than yesterday, and where I run my fingers up and down it, more firm, too, a zipper-like texture where my skin’s already joining together. The pain of the surgery is already receding.
Hidden away in my hospital room high above Green City, the hum of traffic and the glare of the sun are both blocked out by the thick, tinted glass windows. I’m meant to feel nothing but restful calm. The climatized air ruffles my hair as if I’m at a lakeside somewhere in a cooler country, far away from Green City. But I’m not calm: over and over in an endless loop runs the thought that Julien has left me and he isn’t coming back.
As the sun begins its climb across the early morning sky, my heart hurts so much that I imagine my ribcage bursting open and hundreds of black birds flying out of me, darkening the air and blinding me with their flapping wings, their desperate bodies beating against whatever light remains in my head.
When I rise to go to the toilet, I feel steadier on my feet. Julien said I should try to move my bowels, the most important sign of a good recovery. By all accounts, I’m recovering well.
I lie back down and close my eyes. How I miss my bed, my room, the chatter of the other girls, the stale food we cook, and the perfume of the Charbagh’s flowers. I long for it all so powerfully that I have to raise myself from the bed to rock back and forth like an abandoned child. I miss Lin’s smile that always starts from the corners of her mouth, and then spreads across her face. Her eyes light up last, like morning stars in a dawn sky. How I wish she could take me by the hand to lead me back where I belong.
Other thoughts intrude: the memory of Julien’s body against mine, his hand twisted back on itself, pressed under his body as he slept. I straightened it carefully, trying not to wake him. And then I couldn’t resist slipping my fingers between his, entwining our hands. His hand was firm, his fingers long and finely shaped, the hair on the back of his hand soft, instead of the wiry threads I’d imagined. His nails were neatly trimmed, the nail beds slightly blue. I caressed each finger one by one and ran my thumb over his palm, feeling his lines with my fingertips.
I told him things I’ve never shared with anyone, not even Lin. Even though I’d already told him my mother killed herself, I confessed that I actually feared the authorities had killed her for revolt. That’s a secret thought I’ve always guarded from everyone, even Lin. But with Julien, it slid out of me as easily as blood from my veins. He pulled me to him in a long, silent hug. I didn’t push him away. I simply collapsed there, limp, empty at last.
Neither of us were the same people we’d been at the beginning of the night. Julien’s eyes changed; there was a tenderness to them when he glanced at me that I realize actually reflected the softness he saw in me.
In the dark of that sleeping-not-sleeping, for the first time in my life I took comfort from a man’s presence, instead of being the one to provide it to him. Our presence together wasn’t a transaction to fill the Panah’s coffers or fulfill a Client’s ego. Nor was I tossing and turning in my bed alone at the Panah. To have someone keep vigil with me in those long hours, to spend the night in Julien’s embrace, defined the physical boundaries of my body and the edges of my soul. At last I had weight and heft. I was real and I mattered to someone other than myself. The comfort of his body, his closed eyes and sleeping breath, lulled me into a state of calm that was as close to real, natural sleep as I’d ever experienced.
Through the window I see a demarcation between the clearer parts of the atmosphere, miles away out to sea, and a thicker, more pallid set of clouds racing in over the shoreline. The sky’s grown blurry and orange, as if the entire City is reeling from some kind of sickness that’s corroded it down to its bones. Birds are flying in confused circles just ahead of the storm, because that’s what it is, I suddenly realize—a huge sandstorm that’s traveled over the sea and come to bear down on Green City. They are terrifying enough to live through when we’re all safe in the Panah, with the wind howling and things banging and crashing above our heads. I’m ill prepared for its naked fury above ground.
A huge gust of wind spatters what seems like barrels of sand at the window. I gasp and draw back, terrified the wind is strong enough to shatter the window and bring the storm straight into the room. The tightly fitted panes don’t rattle, but they can’t fully block out the high-pitched and angry howl of the wind as it rounds the corners of the hospital, seeking out any weakness in the walls. Below, the cars on the street have put on their high-vis beams and are moving slowly; the few people still outside scurry for cover in the buildings that line the street; they appear to sway like trees. I wonder if I should run to the door: maybe I can find cover deeper within the hospital building, in a windowless stairwell.
The door to my room unlocks with a soft hiss, and three men enter: Julien first, followed by a white-haired man I’ve never seen before, and then a small, lithe nurse, wearing a gown over his hospital uniform, gloves, and a surgical mask on his face that reveals only dark, almond-shaped eyes. The third man wheels in two hospital gurneys, one after the other. I back up against the wall, my fingernails scraping against the electrical board where the displays and other machines are plugged in.
“We have to leave, Sabine,” says Julien, looking panicked. I haven’t seen
him like this before.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“Reuben Faro is coming after us.” He sees my blank look, and starts to explain. “He’s in the Agency. He knows about you, somehow. And the Panah. I think he’s coming to arrest you. And me. He was here, he threatened me in the elevator.”
I begin to tremble and my breath becomes locked in my body.
“Hurry, hurry,” says the older man, throwing a glance at me that sizes me up in an instant. I shrink from his gaze, unsure whether he’s there to prepare me for another operation or to arrest me and take me away.
“Oh, sorry, Sabine, I’m sorry,” says Julien, stretching out a reassuring hand to me. “Sabine, this is Dr. Bouthain, my supervisor. He knows everything. And this is Mañalac. Don’t worry, they’re both on our side. They’re going to help us.” I look down at his hand, which trembles slightly. Waves of nervous energy radiate from him; his lips are clamped together in concentration, his face drawn.
“Help us with what?”
Julien doesn’t answer me. He turns to Bouthain and says, “You’re sure it won’t augment the effects of the first dose? We don’t even know how much it was.”
“It’s out of her system by now. It should be all right,” says Bouthain, in a tone that brooks no argument.
“What are you talking about?”
Bouthain and Julien glance at each other. “She doesn’t know?” says Bouthain.
“I haven’t had the chance to tell her yet.” Julien looks into my eyes and speaks in a low voice. “We think you were given a sedative. One that made you forget what happened to you while you were asleep.” His voice cracks on the last word.
I unpeel myself from the wall and step forward, forcing my voice to remain steady, not to shake or rise in pitch. He can’t bring himself to say it; I know I have to. “Someone gave me that drug on purpose. Without telling me.” My cheeks burn with indignity, but I stare defiantly at them, from one to the other. “So that I wouldn’t remember being raped.”
Only Bouthain meets my eyes directly, displaying no discomfiture at my confession. “I believe you, my dear,” he says, in that rasping voice of his. “Did you ever notice yourself feeling ill, groggy, off balance?”
“All the time. And my thinking was slowed down a lot of the time. As if my head was filled with mud. I thought it was because I couldn’t sleep,” I tell Bouthain.
Julien and Mañalac are fidgeting by the door, the sandstorm battering the windows outside, but Bouthain pulls me aside to the bed and makes me sit down on it. His body shields me from the other two men in the room.
“My dear, did you notice any signs of trauma on your body? Soreness? Bleeding? Bruises?”
“I thought I noticed some pain … sometimes. But I’m not always regular, and I thought …” I’m too embarrassed to continue.
“I understand,” says Bouthain, his gaze never wavering. “Don’t be embarrassed. There’s nothing I haven’t seen. And I’m older than him,” he gestures to Julien, who’s turned his back to us to give us more privacy. “Doctors these days, they don’t know the first thing about women.” He smiles conspiratorially; a little answering grin comes to my own lips.
His demeanor grows serious again. “Chances are, my dear, we may never know who did this to you, but I believe that it happened as you say. And tell me, how have you felt since your surgery? Any problems, any pain? The incision’s healing well?”
I nod. “But why can’t I remember it? Have I gone crazy?”
Bouthain meets my fearful glance with calm reassurance. “This is common in people who have suffered trauma. You may not ever remember, or it may not happen until you feel safe enough to remember. And it may take years. But you are not crazy, my dear. Don’t even think that for a second.”
This gentle man makes me feel as though I could tell him anything without shame or remorse. I wish I could talk to him more; we’ve only been conversing a few minutes, but Julien can’t contain himself any longer. He stands in front of us like a skittish horse, hopping from one foot to the other.
“Sorry, but we have to move. I don’t think there’s any more time left.”
Bouthain says, “You’re right. But first, we have to explain to her what we intend to do.” He speaks more quickly now. “Our objective is to get you out of the hospital. Without detection. And Julien will have to leave with you. You’re both in great danger.”
“But how?” I ask. “In the middle of this storm? Won’t there be a curfew?” The sandstorm isn’t even hitting the hospital with full force yet, but the windows are shuddering in the gusts of wind that announce its tangled, swirling path.
“Yes. For everyone. Except for medical emergencies. And we are going to disguise both of you as an emergency.”
My hands and feet grow cold as Bouthain describes the plan to me: he’ll inject me and Julien with something to make us look as if we’re dead, and this man and Mañalac will drive us to the crematorium, where we’ll eventually wake up and escape to some place across the border that I’ve never heard of.
“This is mad,” I breathe, saying the words to Bouthain but meaning them for Julien.
“That’s what I thought, too, at first,” says Julien. “But what choice do we have?“
I instinctively look at Bouthain, who confirms this statement with a grave nod of assent.
Julien goes on: “So that’s why you—and I—must take the drug. Mañalac will put us in the ambulance disguised as victims of the Virus. And then he’ll drive us to the border.”
“And you’re really doing this, too?”
Julien nods. “I have to. Faro will certainly come after me. If I don’t disappear with you, I think he’ll kill me, too. We have to do this. We have to go now.”
“Go? Go where?” I say, clutching at the sheets on my bed. “I don’t want to go. I want to go back to the Panah.”
With a clatter, Mañalac pushes down the rails of one of the gurneys. That’s when I notice the body bags laid flat on both stretchers. The monitor at my wrist starts to sing, and Julien holds my arm so he can peel it off. He whispers to me while he’s bent over my wrist. “Listen, Sabine. Faro knows everything. About you, about the Panah. He’s the one who found you on the street and brought you here. He won’t let you go back there. He’s scared the Agency will make an example out of him, if he doesn’t take you straight to them.”
“But why? He can just pretend it never happened, look the other way …”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Julien says. “Once you’ve stepped across the lines they’ve drawn, the only thing they can do is punish you. Or kill you.” Julien holds on to my wrist as he talks. “You never spent any time with him, did you? He was never your Client?” He sends a quick, deep look into my eyes, before his own dart away again. I would have called it jealousy, in another time.
“No. I never did.”
“But at least you knew of his existence. He mentioned Lin. Did she ever tell you about him?”
“Not by name. I knew there was someone important who helped us get food and medicines, but she didn’t tell us anything about him.”
“She was protecting you by not telling you. And after meeting him, I can see why. He’s dangerous and power-
hungry. Lin was risking all your lives getting involved with him.”
“How do you know he wasn’t the one that drugged me?” I say. “Maybe I just don’t remember it. Maybe that’s why he wants to eliminate me.”
Julien says, “That doesn’t make any sense. He brought you here, remember? He wouldn’t have done that if he’d hurt you.” He pauses, thinks hard. “I think there’s something going on between him and Lin. Maybe they both decided you should be turned in, now that you’re out of the Panah, to protect the rest of them.”
I yank my arm away from his grasp, shaking my head no, no, no. “Lin would never do that. And I’m not do
ing this. Any of it. Let me go.”
Julien grasps me firmly by the shoulders. He pulls me up from the bed and walks me over to the window, where he presses his face close to mine. “This might be the only way you can save your life. Please listen to me. You can’t go back to the Panah now.”
Bouthain is waiting patiently. Behind him, Mañalac stands beside the gurneys. The body bags, black and with a dull sheen, are unzipped and spread out on the flat beds, ready to be occupied. I stop struggling. A strange sort of stillness comes over me, the way they say human life is sometimes blessed with calm and resolution before it abruptly ends. Squaring my shoulders and raising my wrists, I turn to Bouthain. “All right.”
Bouthain motions to Julien. “You, too. On the gurney, Julien.”
I lift myself up onto the gurney and lower myself inside as Mañalac holds open the sides of the bag like a gaping wound. My stomach twists with the effort, and I break into a sweat from the pain.
Inches away, Julien is doing the same. I’m aware of every whisper of the body bag as he moves into it, shrugging and squirming as if trying to get comfortable in a too-short bed. His legs are so long that I’m worried he won’t fit. How will we breathe once the bags are closed? They’re a bioplastic of some sort, thin and nearly translucent. My mother was buried in one of these, inside her funeral pod—they’re both biodegradable, the bag and the pod. Then I notice there’s a white cotton sheet inside the bag as well. Mañalac is now pulling it out around me, preparing to wrap me in it, like a mummy.
“If you were really a Virus victim,” he tells me as he works, “we’d use the Category 3 bags. But we don’t want you to suffocate. So I use Category 1 only, but I code you as Category 3. The bags look identical. Hopefully we will fool everyone.” His eyes crinkle above the surgical mask.
