“Psssh.” Rushil waves my words away. “You can get a cheap one from any of the junk dealers down by the station.”
I start to protest, but Rushil holds up his hands. “I’m not trying to buy anything else for you. I’m just telling you where you can get one if you want it.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“But if you want some scrap metal . . .”
I groan. “Rushil!”
“What?” He grins.
“Stop being so nice to me!” I’m only half joking.
“Okay.” Rushil lays a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to be a total gandu from now on.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, and playfully punch him in the arm. “Come on. I owe you a curry for this afternoon. You can be a . . . a gandu while we eat.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER .26
I step off the train at Sion station in the early evening, coins from my day at Powell-Gupta jingling in my pocket. I’m getting better at being a chai wallah. I can make the tea nearly as fast as Doya can, and I’ve learned everyone’s name on the twenty-seventh floor—floor, not tier—as well as their particular tastes. Sweet pickles for Mr. Darzi, cigarette gum for Miss Sharma, who Rushil has taken to calling Miss Shirty on account of her being so impatient, and caffine pills for Ms. Chaudhri, who has two smallones at home. I’m even starting not to care when Ajit shouts at me. And best of all, now I have enough to buy Miyole a metal burner.
Dozens of street vendors sit outside the row of shops and tapris across from the station, their wares spread out around them on blankets. I pass booths selling glasses some like Rushil’s, what seem to be the fashion in parts of Mumbai, jewelry in cheap, candy-bright plastic, printed fabric rolled up in bolts, and finally, what I’ve come for, tubs full of used crows, power cells, and other parts.
“Looking for anything in particular?” The vendor, a girl a few turns older than me with neon bangles clacking up and down her arms, wanders over to inspect the bin with me. “Those are all fifteen rupaye apiece. You won’t find a better price.”
I push a clump of stick-on LED lights aside and spot what I’m looking for. It’s mostly bust and sports a bigger, clunkier grip than Miyole’s old burner, but Miyole’s hand will grow into it, and I’m certain I can find whatever fix it needs. It will set me back a small bit in the way of repaying Rushil, but more than I need even ground with him, I need Miyole well.
A voice catches my ear. “On me and my wives, our thanks.”
The words pierce the friendly market buzz and strike me still. It can’t be. I make myself look up from the bins.
A group of bleached-pale men stands a half dozen strides down the street, talking to a Mumbaikar in a gray suit with an orange pocket handkercheif. On first glance, they all look like the same man—the same long, straight white hair under their broad-brimmed sunshield hats, the same rubber-padded white suits standing out stark against the street’s gingery dirt, the same chalk-pale gloves hiding their hands. The protective shadow cast by their headgear hides their faces, but I know them. The Nau. Here, in Mumbai, in the Salt. What are the Nau doing here?
“You like it?” The girl nods at the burner I hold clutched to my chest. “It’s a good one. Only needs a little shine and it’ll work again.”
“R-right.” I glance at the burner and then back to the crewe. I should be answering the vendor, haggling down the price, but they’re so near. I can’t breathe. Will they know me on sight? If they do, they’ll tell my father and brother where I am, certain sure, and then I’ll have to run again. Except how far will we get without the sloop?
The head Nau—the captain, most like—delivers a curt bow to the gray-suited man and motions the others to follow him up the street. They’re coming my way. I duck my head and pretend to examine the bin’s contents again.
“Kumaari?” The vendor touches my arm. “Are you all right?”
I come aware of my own breathing—loud, harsh gasps—and try to swallow it down.
“Fine.” I wave her concern away. They won’t know me. I look some different than I did when I left my crewe. They’d be looking for an ash-faced, red-haired girl. But my heart won’t listen to reason. The Nau move closer, strolling, examining the vendors’ wares. Every few feet they stop, point, and mutter to themselves.
My head goes light and gray spots fizzle through my vision.
They stop at the blanket next to me, the nearest man’s feet a handsbreadth from where I kneel alongside the parts bin. They whisper among themselves. Then one, a tall, skinny Nau with his voice barely breaking into manhood, steps forward.
“My father asks, how much?” He points to the bolts of cloth propped up against the wall behind the vendors.
“Which one?” The man tending the cloth reaches a hand back and pats the bolts. “Different weights, different prices.”
“The gold one.” The boy points to a thick roll of fabric embroidered with flying cranes.
For a bridal gown, I realize. My modries all said the Nau dress their daughters in the color of the sun when they marry. What will the girl who wears it think of the birds? Will she know what they are, or will she trace their stitched wings in wonder? Does she yearn for something of the vastness beyond her ship’s hull?
I grip the metal burner. That girl’s fate is no longer mine. I may be cast off, but I am also free. I am my own, and I mean to stay that way.
The Nau boy turns my way. My limbs lock, ready to fight, ready to flee. For a brief moment, his eyes meet mine.
Run, my body screams.
But then his eyes slide away and come to rest on something behind me. I follow his gaze—a horse tethered outside a hair cutter’s shop. I am no one to them. I am merely another repeating shape in the tapestry’s pattern—a soiled groundways girl, like all the others in the market. And I am glad of it. I watch the Nau pay for their fabric and continue down the street.
I shove fifteen rupaye into the vendor’s hand, too shaken to bargain with her, and hurry for home, stopping only to pick up a bag of rice for Rushil along the way. The late afternoon sun catches the dust stirred up by passing feet and trains, dissolving the sky in an orange fog. When did it turn so late?
Inside the shipyard, the lights burn in Rushil’s trailer windows, but our own sloop is dark. I peer into the berth.
“Miyole?”
I climb up into the ship and blink until my eyes adjust. There. She’s still curled beside the wall, as usual.
I crouch beside her. “Miyole?” Impatience and helplessness rise in the back of my throat. “Miyole, wake up. You can’t sleep all the time.”
She stirs and blinks up at me.
I make myself smile. “I’ve got something for you. A surprise.”
Miyole stares at the burner, dead eyed.
“It’s not working right now, but I’m sure I’ve got the fix for it.” I hold it out to her, smile still firmly in place. “You could start making your creatures again.”
She takes the burner from me, turns it over in her hands, and then rolls over to the wall again.
“Miyole!” I shake her shoulder. “Don’t you want to take a look at that metal Rushil said you could have?”
She shoots me a tired glare, then pushes herself to her feet and walks mechanically from the ship.
“Miyole . . .” I follow her to the lip of the hold.
She doesn’t look back, only walks deeper into the lot in the falling dusk.
I’m only trying to help, I want to say. But she’s too far gone to hear. I watch her disappear into the maze of docked ships and shadows.
I sink down on the loading ramp. I was so certain it would work. I was so certain I would see some spark of her old self again once she caught sight of the burner. I heave up the bag of rice and balance it across my shoulder. Most like it’ll come back to us cooked and served up in round pewter d
ishes, but I’m too tired to fight Rushil about debts tonight. I knock on the thin trailer door. The lights are still on, but he doesn’t answer.
Streetlights tick on along the side of the lot facing the street. I should find Miyole, make sure she’s okay. I should try to talk to her again, explain I didn’t mean to yell, that I was only worried. I drop the bag of rice on the steps and turn to go.
“Shoulda gone with me, chikni,” Shruti calls down from a ship top in the neighboring lot. The red-gold ember of a cigarette lights his face. It’s a bigger ship he’s perched on this time. Eight engines stacked in rows, with gleaming white shield tiles. He sucks in, then lets out a breath of smoke into the sky.
“Let me alone, Shruti.”
“Just saying, I would’ve put you up for favors alone.” Shruti taps the cigarette ash over the side of the ship. “I wouldn’t have tried to squeeze rice out of you, too.”
“It’s not like that.” I cross my arms over my chest. “He isn’t—”
“Maybe not yet,” Shruti interrupts. “But you can bet it’s coming anytime. He’s a hard one, Rushil Vaish. You seen his ink? The tiger? That’s for the Marathi Wailers. They make their new blood cut a man before they give that mark.”
All the breath goes out of me. “Come how?”
“The Wailers.” Shruti points to Rushil’s trailer. “He’s one of them. Didn’t you figure that out yet?”
Pankaj. That’s how Rushil knew about him. What he said about the straight and narrow . . . And the tiger. I knew I had seen it somewhere besides Pankaj’s gate. It’s one of the marks on Rushil’s arm. An ache throbs to life behind my eyes. Rushil’s been wearing his sleeves rolled down ever since we went to get my tag, hiding his arms. He didn’t want me to see. He didn’t want me to put it all together.
“I hear they’re always on the lookout for girls to fill their brothel beds,” Shruti goes on. “Maybe that’s why he hasn’t made his move yet. He wants to recruit you. Maybe Miyole, too, for later.”
“Stop,” I say, but my voice shakes. Not Miyole. Never Miyole. The world has gone dark around the edges. How could I have missed all the signs? How could I have been so stupid, so blind?
“Whatever.” Shruti tosses the butt of his cigarette over the fence into Rushil’s lot. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I—”
The trailer door swings open, and Rushil leans out. He smiles at me. “Hey, sorry. Were you knocking?” Then he sees the look on my face and shoots a dark glare up at Shruti. “Is he bothering you again?”
Shruti makes his eyes wide and innocent as he shakes another cigarette out of its pack and fits it between his lips. Could he be right? The debt, the favors, the kindness—is it all to draw me into trusting Rushil? Is it all some kind of trap?
“No. No, he’s . . . he’s not.”
Rushil sends Shruti a warning look. He starts to step out of the trailer but notices the cloth bag slumped against the bottom step. “Is that rice?”
“Right so.” The darkness only grows, as if I’m watching everything through a blood-stained veil.
“Excellent. Thanks.” He scoops it up and holds the door open for me. “You want to come in?”
“I . . .” I try to think past the roaring in my ears, the anger and fear spiking my blood—run, fight, run, fight.
Rushil smiles on with his funny, lopsided mouth. Is Shruti lying about him? When Rushil looks at me like that, I can’t fathom him doing any harm. But the tiger. And he knew Pankaj. And he knew about the Wailers. But if he’s one of them, why hasn’t he sprung his trap yet? Why didn’t he give me over to Pankaj when we were inside his gate?
I don’t know, but if I run, I’ll never find out.
“Course.” I send a deliberate glare Shruti’s way and step up into the trailer.
“I, um . . .” Rushil starts to say, but then I see what he’s been doing, why he didn’t answer the door straightaway.
The trailer is clean. Or not clean, but ordered some. The bed is made, cups washed and hung on hooks above the stove, and all the scraps of paper and metal junk stacked in bins. He’s even wiped the table of all its sticky spots. I frown. How this figures into a plot to turn me and Miyole over to the Wailers, I don’t see.
“I didn’t have people in here much before.” He looks down at the thin carpet. Crumbs and grit still dust it, but now I can make out a pattern of faded blue elephants linked nose to tail around its border.
“It’s . . . it’s nice,” I say, turning in place.
Rushil lets out a sigh of relief. “You like it?”
“Right so.” I walk into the kitchen. Grease still gums the stove, but he’s cleared off the counters enough so he can use them.
“You hungry?” Rushil holds up the bag of rice. “I was going to make dinner.”
“So.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Excellent.” Rushil pulls down a jug, dumps water into a pot, and snaps on the stove, oblivious to the chill in my tone. “Where’s Miyole? Did you find her a burner?”
I tense, and then nod. What does it mean, this talking on Miyole? More playing nice? More feigned concern? Lulling me into feeling safe? I wish I had never shown him her metalwork.
“I wish I could make things like she can,” Rushil says, stirring rice into the pot. “I can only put things other people’ve made back together again.”
I watch Rushil’s muscles flex beneath his wash-worn plaid shirt. The tiger’s tail curves around the back of his arm, peeking out beneath his sleeve as he stirs the pot. It’s there, clear as empty. Maybe Shruti is right. Isn’t all of this—the cooking, his help with the ship, the work permit—isn’t it too good to be true? I grip the counter behind me. No one would do this for me, not for nothing.
“You think she would make one for me?” Rushil asks. “I mean, I could pay, of course. . . .”
“Why’re you being so kind?” The words burst out of me. “Why’re you doing all this for me and Miyole?”
Rushil looks up. “I . . .” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “What do you mean?”
“You must want something. Shruti said you did.”
“Shruti.” He clangs the top down over the pot.
“Is he right?”
“Ava . . .”
“Is he?”
He stands only a step from me in the small kitchen. “I don’t want something,” he says. “I want you.”
My heart picks up again. Run, fight, run, fight. Shruti was right. All that kindness and understanding, that was all for show.
He sees the look on my face. “But it’s not . . . I mean, only . . . Chaila . . .” He looks away and hits the counter so hard the cups rattle on their hooks.
“What about that?” I nod to his right arm. “The mark you’re trying to hide from me. Shruti told me what it means.”
Rushil’s hand flies to cover the tattoo. “This?”
“Right so.” I fold my arms. “Did you think I couldn’t figure it out? Did you think you could hide it from me forever?”
His face has gone gray. “It was a long time ago, Ava.”
“So you’re not denying it anymore?”
“I wasn’t denying it,” Rushil protests. “You never asked!”
“I asked how you knew Pankaj!” I shoot back.
Rushil doesn’t answer. He stares at the floor between us.
I shake my head. “You lied to me, Rushil.”
“Because I knew you’d hate me if you found out.” His voice rises until it breaks. He clears his throat and starts again, softer. “I thought if you had some time to get to know me first . . . I haven’t been with them for years.”
I soften, if only a slip. “If you’d told me from the start . . .”
He runs a hand over his face and looks away. “I’m sorry.” His throat works as if he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he braces his arms against the counter and bows his head.
The pot begins to simmer.
“I understand if you want to go.�
� He speaks to the small bottles of cooking oil and spices lined up beside the stove. “You don’t owe me anything. You probably have enough to dock somewhere nicer now, anyway.”
I watch him, wary. If I were him, would I have tried to keep it secret? I haven’t told him about Luck, about my own shame. And if he’s canceling my debt, easy as that, then Shruti’s wrong about his plans for me. Are we always our mistakes? Does anything we do heal them? I reach out, hand trembling, and lay it over his shoulder.
“Rushil . . .”
He turns. Before I have time to draw breath, his mouth is on mine, and the counter edge digs into my back as he presses his body against me. For a moment, my mouth works without me, giving to his kiss as I would have given to Luck’s. His rough hand brushes my cheek. And then I remember where I am, who I’m with, what he is.
“Rushil,” I try to say. Our teeth scrape together.
“Rushil.” I twist my head away. “Rushil, stop.”
He backs away. We face each other, breathing hard.
“Ava, I’m sorry. I thought . . .”
But I don’t give him time to finish. I stumble out of the trailer into the hot, dark night. Stupid. Girlish and stupid. Trusting Rushil, thinking he didn’t want anything from me . . . I storm past the sloop, kicking dust, and disappear between the silent ships and piles of salvage. That’s all any of them want. A thought comes to me. What about Luck? Was that all he was after, too? Am I so simple and easy to fool? Did he ever even love me?
I run. Past yachts docked for the day and gutted ferries leaning in the shadows. The perimeter lights disappear behind me. I dodge a pallet of shield tiles and a small pyramid of barrels. Faster. I narrowly miss a jumble of rebar and jog left to jump a pile of rubber scraps. I come down uneasy. My foot catches on a stray pneumatic arm. I pitch forward and go down. The packed dirt knocks the air out of me.
I lie sprawled in the dust until my breath comes back. After a moment, I sit up. A wet, dark scrape covers my knee, but otherwise, I’m unhurt. The perimeter fence shows its stark pattern under a buzzing orange light. A steady trickle of running water gushes under its electric hum. I must be near the western end of the lot, where one of the city’s many rivers cuts through the Salt.
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