The Girl from Everywhere

by Heidi Heilig

  He looked at me then, with one eyebrow up, and said something under his breath in what sounded like Farsi.

  “I didn’t understand that.”

  “You weren’t meant to.”

  His expression—a peculiar half smile—embarrassed me, so I turned toward the shops on the other side of the street and pretended to be interested in the hats in a window. They were fantastically styled, with swooping brims and showy feathers.

  “You don’t want those,” Kashmir said. “They’ve used albatross.”

  “Ugh, really?”

  “To a landsman, they’re very fashionable.”

  “How did you learn so much about clothes, anyway?”

  “Necessity. Clothes have always told most of my lies for me.”

  “Ah.” We were both quiet for a moment, staring at the window. I could see his shadowy reflection outlined in the glass. “This isn’t what you usually do on shore leave.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I can’t deny it.”

  “So what do you actually do for fun?”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “I told you before.”

  “Dens of iniquity?”

  “Drinking, brawling, gambling. Think carefully, amira. You may regret it.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  From the milliners, I followed Kash to Fid Street, where we fortified ourselves with a dinner of potpies and watery beer at the koa-wood bar of the Anchor Saloon. When the cheering started next door, he drained his glass and stood. “Hurry up and get your drinking done, or we’ll miss the brawling.”

  The Commissioner’s Saloon advertised boxing matches between sailors, only a nickel to watch. Kashmir elbowed me. “What do you think, amira? If we fight, we get in free.”

  I dug out ten pennies, but only after pretending to give it careful consideration.

  The next match was between a massive harpooner and a scrappy coalman. We placed our bets, Kashmir for the one, and I for the other, and I looked to be winning until the coalman ducked a swing and the harpooner hit a cook in the crowd. Kashmir pulled me outside and we watched through the window as the ensuing brawl broke two tables, five chairs, and half a dozen noses.

  “That’s more than a nickel’s worth,” I said, a bit breathless.

  “Only the best for you!”

  We found a more genteel atmosphere at the Royal Saloon, where the laughter spilling into the street was hearty but not raucous. We split another pint—the beer here was dark and strong—and sat at a tiny table in a dark corner, catching our breath and listening to a fat man tell a bawdy joke.

  He roared at his own punch line, and so did the cadre of men around him. The bartender delivered another beer; the big man drained the rest of his glass and made a sizable dent on the next, wiping the foam from his thick mustache on the sleeve of his jacket. It was a fine jacket, with gold braid and epaulets on the shoulder above the thick black mourning band . . . an awful lot of epaulets.

  Suddenly thrilled, I grabbed Kash’s wrist. “Kashmir—”

  “I know. They say he comes here almost every night.”

  We watched the last King of Hawaii drink with his people. The jokes and the beer kept flowing, and about an hour in, Kalakaua bought a round for the entire bar in honor of his cousin, the late Princess Pauahi. Under the merriment was something familiar in his deep brown eyes as he stared into his fourth empty glass, and my thrill faded like an old photo.

  “He dies of it,” I said under my breath. “The addiction.” I sighed. “Do you know . . . most people think his last words were ‘Tell my people I tried,’ but that was a novelist’s invention.”

  “What were they really?”

  “‘I’m a very sick man.’” I pushed aside my own mug, no longer thirsty. “We should get back to the ship.”

  A shadow crossed our table. Kashmir sighed. “I wish you’d said that ten minutes ago.”

  I looked up into a pair of angry, blackened eyes. The sailor looming over us wasn’t tall, but he was broad; his shoulders were twice the width of my own, and they moved under his shirt like a python constricting. The man was a stranger to me, but apparently not to Kashmir. “Where’s my money, darkie?”

  I choked, but Kashmir barely raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”

  “You got rich off my match last night at Commissioner’s.”

  “Oh, was that you? I didn’t recognize you without blood all over your face.”

  The man ran his tongue over his split lip. “That was me,” he said, speaking with the deliberate precision of a drunkard. “You bet against me. I threw the match.” The sailor leaned heavily on the table with his fists; his knuckles were raw. “I get a cut, that’s the deal.”

  “We never made a deal.”

  “Just give him the money, Kash.”

  “Your mulatto’s talking sense.” He was nose to nose with Kashmir, and his breath was brandy fumes.

  “It’s not his, amira.”

  “It’s not worth a broken jaw,” I said through my teeth.

  “No, but it was worth the dresses I spent it on this morning.” Kash placed his hands primly on the edge of the table. “Look, sir, I’m sure we can settle this like gentlemen—” Without changing his expression, Kashmir lifted our side of the table. The sailor went down, smacking his forehead against the wooden tabletop. He collapsed in a heap, covered in beer, and we leaped over him; Kash didn’t tell me not to run this time.

  We had half a minute’s lead before the sailor stumbled out of the bar and into the muddy street, screaming obscenities, blood pouring from his nose. Kashmir looked back over his shoulder and laughed. “Now I recognize you!”

  Another thirty seconds, and patrons came tearing out after the sailor, including two members of the Honolulu police force, hastily shoving their red caps onto their heads. Kashmir and I splashed down a crooked alley, cut through the yard behind a laundry, and finally hid down a basement stairwell across from the Royal Hawaiian Opera House. We pressed into the shadows against a thick wooden door, trying to hear footsteps over the sound of our pounding hearts. Something wet started wicking up my skirt, and I hoped it was only water.

  It had been quiet for a good five minutes before my shoulders started shaking.

  “Amira . . . are you laughing or crying?”

  “Both?”

  He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close, my back against his chest. “Shh, shh, shh. Negaran nabash, cher. Negaran nabash. Shh.”

  Whatever he said, I knew what he meant, and his tone was soothing. I took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped my nose on my sleeve. “I don’t know how you stay so calm.”

  “I did warn you, amira,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief. “But I’ve seen much worse.”

  I dabbed my eyes with the square of silk and tried to steady my voice. “I didn’t realize how seriously you took your shore leave.”

  “This was years ago. Before I came to the ship. Our friend back there wasn’t half as menacing as the Sofoor. The Street Cleaners.”

  “Street Cleaners?” I refolded the handkerchief; it was monogrammed B. L. I traced the initials and wondered whose they were. “Not the type with brooms, then?”

  “They swept you up like trash. If they caught you sleeping, you’d wake up in the refuse pits outside the city, with the dead dogs and the dung and all the other waste.” His chest rose and fell against my back. “We used to argue about it—what we would do if it happened to us. You could live a very long time down there. There was plenty to eat.”

  For a while I had no words. In the silence, the incongruous sound of laughter floated from a nearby bar. “That’s . . . horrifying.”

  “There were many who praised the shah,” he said softly. “Indeed, the city had never been cleaner.” He shrugged. “See? It could always be worse. For example, we
could have been facing the winner of the fight.”

  The mirth stole back into his voice, but I couldn’t let go of the images of the pits, the waste of it all. I shuddered. “I’m glad you’re with us now.”

  He laughed a little, then rested his chin on my shoulder. “Me too, amira. For many reasons.” His breath was warm on my neck, and I shivered again, but not from fear. For a moment, all I wanted in the world was to turn around, like Lot’s wife, like Eurydice, to see what was in his eyes, but before I could gather the courage, he gave me another squeeze and dropped his arms. I sighed with regret, and with relief. “Let me take a look. Count to sixty. If I don’t swear and start running, you can come out.”

  “And if you do swear and start running?”

  He flashed me his teeth. “Then wait ten seconds and start running in the opposite direction.”

  He didn’t swear, and neither of us ran. We returned to the ship as dawn was breaking, and as we passed under a thick banyan tree, I learned that on land, the first sign of a new day is not sunlight but birdsong.

  I climbed the gangplank with my eyes half closed, but I stopped dead at the top. The captain was sitting stooped on my hammock. Suddenly I was wide awake.

  His hands were wrapped around a mug of his vile instant brew, and his eyes were so hollow as to seem blackened. They cut from me, to Kashmir, then back, taking in my flushed face and my dirty dress. “You smell like beer.”

  “And you look like hell.”

  Something—a shrug or a laugh, I couldn’t tell which—made the hammock swing. “Where have you been?”

  “Exploring paradise.”

  Slate raised an eyebrow, and Kashmir drew himself up. “We went to a pub for dinner, captain.”

  “And stayed for breakfast?”

  Kashmir grinned easily. “The food was good.”

  “Hmm.” Slate tasted his coffee and made a face. Then he jerked his chin toward the hatch. “Better get some rest.”

  “Aye.” But Kashmir hesitated; I shook my head just a fraction of an inch, and he left. Slate stared after him for a long time. At last he spoke.

  “You and him?”

  “What? No.” I kept my voice casual, but he narrowed his eyes and searched my face.

  “Best not to get too attached,” he said finally, hunching his shoulders over his coffee and staring at the water.

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. I shifted my weight on tired feet, but he only sat there, blowing air over his coffee. He always brewed it hot to make it bitter, but he never drank it till it was cold.

  “What do you want, Slate?” I said finally, my voice loud in the night air.

  He looked up at me suddenly, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Tell me about the man who came yesterday.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything!”

  “Didn’t Bee tell you?”

  “She didn’t say much.”

  “Neither did he,” I said. “But he knew.”

  Slate didn’t need to ask me what I meant. He stood and started pacing. “So he could ask for anything. Literally anything.”

  “Maybe he’s just an opium smuggler,” I said, wanting it to be true. “Joss sent him, after all.”

  He stopped in his tracks, then swiveled on his heel. “He said that?”

  I bit my lip. “Not exactly. I—I met her yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “In her apothecary! Christ. What are you afraid of? She might expose me to opium?” I ran my fingers through my hair; they stuck in the tangles. Exasperated, I dropped my hands to my sides. “Don’t meet with him, then. When he comes back, we’ll send him away.”

  Slate stared at me. “You know I need that map, Nixie.”

  “You haven’t even seen it. What if it’s another dead ender?”

  “If it’s good, I’ll need it.”

  I just shook my head; it was starting to throb. “Can I go to sleep now?”

  He chewed his lower lip, staring at the lightening sky. “Fine, but only a couple of hours. He’ll be back soon.”

  “So?”

  “So I need you at the meeting to figure out how to get him what he wants. Don’t look at me like that, Nixie. You know I can’t plan a route without you.”

  I crossed my arms. “If you want me there, teach me to Navigate.”

  The desperate smile faded. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’m not asking, Nixie.”

  “Good,” I said, light-headed with exhaustion and beer and this new feeling, rebellion. “Because I’m not either. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  “I am your father,” he said; I only laughed. “I am your captain!” His shout echoed in the harbor.

  “So what are you going to do?” I jutted out my chin; victory was within my grasp. “Keelhaul me? Hang me from the yardarm? Leave me in the next port?”

  “No!” Slate threw down the pewter mug. It bounced and tumbled to the bulwark; coffee splashed across the deck. Somewhere on shore, a dog started barking. “No,” he said again, quietly this time, and the coldness in his voice froze the laugh in my throat. “Not you.”

  “Who then?” I asked, but his eyes flickered to the hatch where Kashmir had just gone, and I gasped.

  He folded his arms and stared at me. “I warned you not to get too close.”

  “No.” It was barely a whisper; I don’t even know if he heard.

  “I told you he might not be around forever.”

  “You’re disgusting.” For a moment, I couldn’t move, turned to stone by the ugliness of the implication. I pushed my way past—I couldn’t get away from him fast enough—but he grabbed my arm.

  “Now you understand,” he said, his eyes bright. “The pain of losing someone you love.”

  My mouth twisted. “Oh, I’ve understood for a while, Captain,” I said, spitting the words out like broken teeth. “But you always come back when you want something. Maybe one day I’ll lose you for good.”

  He released my arm, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Finally he dropped his eyes, ashamed, but not enough. “I’m going to try to catch some sleep,” he said, picking up the coffee mug. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  For once, I went to my cabin. Wide awake, I dug out my map from my trunk and traced the lines of Carthage: the scoop of the bay, the wide main street leading up from the harbor, the market where I would make my fortune and buy my own ship and cast off this anchor dragging me down.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  After my argument with Slate, there was no chance of sleep—and no chance I would miss the meeting—so by the time the sun was fully risen, I was waiting on deck for the man to arrive.

  I had even tidied up the captain’s cabin, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. I’d had to work around Slate, and more than once, I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye, though neither of us dared speak.

  Around ten, the man called up from the pier, and I showed him aboard with a thin veneer of civility. He gave Slate a self-assured nod as he entered the captain’s quarters and took the chair I offered. Then he smoothed the lapels of his frock coat. “Captain Slate. At last. And your daughter, is she Miss Slate, or Miss Song?”

  Any pretense of cordiality fell away from Slate’s face. “If you know her mother’s name, I’m sure you know we never had the chance to marry. What do I call you?”

  The man’s smile only widened; perhaps he had noticed, as I had, that the captain had not asked his name. “You may call me Mr. D.”

  Slate wasted no more time. “Miss Song tells me you have a business proposition for us.”

  “Ah, yes.” Mr. D folded his hands neatly and waited. After a few moments of silence, he shifted slightly. “It is for your ears only.”

  “I never hide anyth
ing from her,” Slate lied.

  “Unusual,” Mr. D said. “Although perhaps the unusual should not be unexpected. As it is vital to the gentlemen I represent that everything be done in utmost confidence, let me impress upon the both of you the importance of confidentiality, by showing what’s at stake.”

  He took a thick square of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it with excruciating slowness. “This is a copy of a map of Honolulu, showing the downtown area and the harbor.”

  “A copy?” Slate said.

  “I did not think it wise to take the original out into the world. What if I had been waylaid? By brigands?” Mr. D was smiling, but I caught his meaning. “On it are marked several locations of note,” he continued. “Including the more interesting, ah . . .” His eyes flickered up to me, then back down. “The more interesting bars, brothels, and opium dens. It was inked in November of 1868.”

  “Let me see it.” And there it was, the energy of the strummed string, the coiling of the great cat before the spring. Slate remained in his chair, but barely.

  “Of course.” Mr. D laid the paper on the desk between them, smoothing it with a graceful motion.

  The captain stood, stooping over the desk, exploring the page. “It’s not dated,” he said immediately.

  “I can assure you it’s authentic.”

  Without lifting his head, Slate glanced up at him, letting his smile show.

  “The date can be inferred from the depiction of the city. You’ll note that a popular place for tourists and locals alike had, very temporarily, a change of name. Joss’s Shop had become . . .” He placed one delicate finger down on a point on the map; Slate’s eyes followed, and his breath caught in his throat.

  “Hapai Hale?”

  “Apparently there was a woman working there whose condition was quite the talk among the regulars.” By the look on Slate’s face, Mr. D must have been talking about my mother. “You know how the locals are, always jabbering. Shortly after, tourists started calling it the Happy House, not knowing the meaning of the word hapai. It’s quaint, but the natives are charming about such things.”