by Phil Tucker
“Here then, forty-four dollars,” she said, and placed two twenties and four singles in her hand.
“Forty-four? But I’ve been here since ten! I should have ninety!”
Chang stepped up behind Mrs. Peng, whose smile had only grown wider, “Chang say he catch you not working many times today. You not work, you not get paid. Very simple.”
Maya shot a furious look up at where Chang beamed down at her, and forced the words that came tumbling up her throat back into the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t argue. For every Maya working in a restaurant there were another ten standing outside in the cold, looking to get in. And then what would she tell Senora Mercedes?
Mrs. Peng watched her with a knowing smile. The moment passed, and with a nod she turned to Meimei and handed over her wages. Chang was already drifting back to the kitchen, a smirk on his face, leaving Maya alone by the cash register. Fatigue pressed down on her slender shoulders like a heavy hand, trying to make her knees buckle, to bow her head, to push her down to the ground. The cooks’ laughter from the kitchen, the lilting strains of Chinese music from the tinny speakers, the distant call of another siren, all combined to form a web of sound that held her trapped, immobile, the dollar bills still held in her outstretched hand as if she were a prayer statue.
Fine. She would work harder. She wouldn’t let them provoke her into making trouble. It was just what Chang wanted. A real reason to lay into her. Sometimes when she caught him staring, following her as she moved around the restaurant with her eyes, she couldn’t tell if he was picturing her naked or picturing her on the floor as he kicked her. The smile was the same.
Shivering, she curled her fist around the money and shoved it into her pocket. Normally she skimmed some off the top of what she made for her private fund, but not today. Reaching down into the same cash register, she pulled out her most prized possession, a massive pair of black sunglasses, gold banded thickly over the bridge of the nose and medallioned over the temple, and slipped them on. They covered half her face, and she pulled on her sneer. There. Reaching back, she undid the knot in her hair, and let it fall down her shoulders like black and copper snakes. There. Better. With the world held back a step, she grabbed her bag, and made her way down the same narrow corridor to get her coat and step outside.
Chang was opening the service door, behind which were stacked all the mops and buckets and cleaning liquids and shelves of supplies. He turned as she strode toward him, a smile across his face. Lifting her chin Maya tried to brush past him, but he stuck out his arm and blocked the hall, leaning in and down so as to shove his face into hers.
“You know, you treat me nicer, I treat you nicer,” he said. “Is reasonable, no?”
“Get out of my way,” she said, voice vibrating like a violin string.
“See, now you angry because I catch you not working. It not my fault, is your fault, no?”
“Chang,” she said, refusing to step back, to let him intimidate her. “Get out of my way.” His breath reeked of garlic.
Something shifted in the way he held himself, and he was no longer leaning against the wall but lounging. Reaching out with his hand, he touched a lock of her hair where it lay on her shoulder, made to rub it between his fingers. Without thinking she slapped him away and darted back. With a laugh he stood up, gestured for her to pass.
“So angry! So little, so young, but so angry! Like little snake!”
Not trusting herself to answer, Maya stepped quickly forward, but just as she passed Chang fell back across the passageway, his arms trapping her in on either side, face pressing into hers. Reflex made her half turn and press her back against the wall, trying to get away from him, but there was no room. Turning her head, she saw Meimei enter the hall, pause, freeze for what seemed like forever, and then quietly step back out of sight.
“Now come on, shh, be nice to Chang, Chang be nice to you…” he said, and his smell was everywhere, his bland sweat that smelled of his chubbiness, the garlic rolling in endless waves across her face. Moving his face to one side, he went to press it into her neck.
Something inside of Maya clicked. She was slender, small, but she still could swing her knee up into Chang’s crotch like a field hockey stick. Illegal sticking, she thought as Chang let out a cry and crumpled before her like a beach ball that’s been pierced, and with a shove she was free, snatching her coat from its peg and out the door, the cold a welcome slap on her face.
Maya paused, swept her jacket on, threaded her arms through the worn sleeves, cinched it tight about her waist. It was black with gold thread and sequins about the shoulders and upper arms, ratty and bright and it barely kept her warm. But she liked it. She took a deep breath, could hear Chang beginning to bellow behind her, but still she didn’t run. Somehow, for some reason, it was important not to. Reaching up, she adjusted her sunglasses, and then, trying not to cry, stepped down into the interior courtyard and walked quickly away into the city.
Maya walked blindly at first, striking out through the streets of Chinatown without a fixed destination in mind, taking refuge in flight, in movement, in putting distance between herself and the restaurant. Even as she fled she berated herself, her voice the scolding chatter of Senora Mercedes, the words furious and familiar:
Meu deus, Maya, grow up, stop crying! You are not a little girl anymore, so stop acting like a child. What did you expect? What did you think was going to happen? If not with Chang, then with another. And there will be another. Men in this world, they just want one thing, and we women have to learn to make them pay for it. There is our power, so stop crying already!
Digging her fingers under her sunglasses, she squeezed the tears away, rubbed her eyes angrily, kept striding along the pavement, crossed the street with a sparse crowd of students on some kind of bar crawl, and then turned left for no reason other than that the avenue was well lit.
Think, she told herself, think. What to do? Chang would ensure that Mrs. Peng fired her. No more job at the restaurant meant that there was no more daily income. Would Senora Mercedes find another job for her? Not guaranteed. And what would happen if she couldn’t find work? What would her value be then? Would Senora Mercedes finally make good on her threat to call Immigration?
Each time she passed the open door of a bar she walked through a cloud of music. All-night restaurants were brilliantly lit with sterile white light that bleached the pavement, large photographs of the dishes served within posted in the windows. Neon signs advertised electronic boutiques, fashion stores, shrines and parlors. Everywhere people were moving, eyes focused straight ahead, slicing past each other like knives thrown through the dark. Maya finally could take it no more, and stepped into a doorway and sank down to hug her knees.
Her numbness had thawed past fear and shock into disgust. Disgust at herself, at how her hands still trembled, at how tight her stomach was, how dry her mouth. Was this how a city girl reacted when a guy tried to kiss her? Paula, her only other friend from Brazil, had told her that on her fifth night in the city she had been forced to make out with five guys at a party in one of their bedrooms, and had barely managed to escape before they had pushed it even further. Another friend, Cynthia, older and lean and bitter with hooded eyes like a cobra, had told her about life growing up in foster homes, and the men who were charged with ‘taking care of her’.
The cold was seeping through her rage. Fatigue was making it hard to think straight. This was the moment when a brilliant idea was supposed to hit her, solve all her problems—but none did. All she could think of was how she would now have to pay Senora Mercedes from her private store of money while she looked for another job, but the thought of giving away the few hundred dollars she had fought so hard to save up made her want to start crying all over again.
Despair and fury forced her to her feet once more, grimacing in pain, and she began to walk again. She felt stiff now, the cold having leached into her bones. Looking around, she saw that she was on the northern border of Chinatown; the wrong di
rection from everything. Close, actually, to where Paula worked. With no better place to go and suddenly needing—hoping—for advice, warmth from a friend, she headed towards her bar.
A staircase led down from the street to the Blue Note’s entrance. She nodded nervously to the bouncer, but the man was busy laughing at some comment his friend had just made and simply waved her in. Stepping inside, Maya felt the warmth wash over her, the air thick with candle incense and the dusty smell of the red velvet drapes that hung over the walls. A guy was playing piano in the back, but it was a slow night. It was dark, nearly too dark to see, but Paula was visible behind the bar, adding up a bunch of receipts by the register. She was tall, dark, beautiful in a way that made men go crazy, her hair done back in cornrows and falling in slender braids to her narrow shoulders.
Maya swung herself up onto the barstool, suddenly nervous at showing up at Paula’s place of work. Paula looked over, a casual check, and then her eyes widened before they narrowed. Paula was sharp, razor sharp. The fact that Maya was here and not at work would tell her everything. Reaching up, Maya took off her shades and gave Paula a shaky smile.
“Hey girl. What’s up with you?” asked Paula, stepping over.
“I got in trouble at the restaurant,” said Maya, not knowing quite how to phrase it. “Chang—one of the guys who works there—he made a move on me.”
Paula raised her eyebrows for a moment. “And what did you do?”
“I kicked him in the nuts.” For a moment Maya had no idea what Paula’s reaction would be—anything from accusing her of being stupid to reaching over the bar to give her a hug. Instead, Paula just nodded her head.
“Good for you, girl, but now what? You can’t be going back there, can you?”
“No,” said Maya. She took a breath. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what I’ll tell Mrs. Mercedes.”
Paula made a clucking sound of annoyance, “Girl, you’d better go to Mrs. Mercedes with a better job lined up. Aunt or no, she’s going to whoop your ass so hard you’ll be knocked right out of your cheap-ass shoes.”
Maya felt her eyes begin to burn again. Furious with herself, aware of Paula’s hard gaze, she straightened and rubbed her wrist hard against her lashes. “I know. I just need to figure something out. I just need to—I’m just scared she’ll call Immigration on me.”
Paula laughed then, and it was a cold sound. Her eyes were flat and dull and contemptuous. “Maya, she ain’t never going to call Immigration. That’s a lie to keep you close. She says that to all the girls. She’s going to keep you tied to her apron strings till you’re ready for your real job.”
Maya paused. “My real job?”
“Girl, you for real? You think Mercedes needs those fifty bucks you make a day? Hell no. Soon as she can, she’s gonna force you to work at Gold Rush as a waitress or something. And that’ll be just for starters.” Maya just stared at her. Paula laughed again, “Wake up. Why you think Mercedes gives a damn about your ass? Gives you a place to sleep, pretends she cares? It’s that pretty face of yours. You’re, what, sixteen? This is probably just the chance she’s been waiting for. A hundred bucks says she’s gonna force you to get started tonight.”
Maya suddenly felt wooden, exhausted, dull. Two years, thinking she was so smart, so sharp. Outwitting Senora Mercedes with her little stash of cash, promising herself she’d run. Suddenly it was all clear.
Paula saw the look on her face, and her own expression softened. She set a beveled glass before Maya and poured her a double shot of whiskey.
“Look, querida.” She paused, looking for the right words. “It’s not so bad. Actually, it can pay real good. A year, you’ll have enough money to do what you like. Find those parents of yours. Get the best damn lawyer in town. All you have to do is keep your head above water, don’t get involved in no trouble, and sooner or later you’re out. But for now? Best thing you can do is have that drink and hope for comfortable dancing shoes.”
Maya took the glass. She didn’t like alcohol, but she sipped anyway, almost choked, and then fury welled up inside her and she downed it all, throat burning.
“Good girl,” said Paula, “Now get out of here. Manny’s going to be back in a few minutes and he’ll take my hide if he catches me serving minors.” She smiled then, and it was the smile that broke Maya’s heart. Worse than Meimei’s backing away, it was Paula’s smile that made it all too real. It was an old smile, and in its own way, a kind one. As if Paula were saying Welcome to the real world, chica, it’s a bitch but you’ll do just fine.
Nodding her thanks, stomach burning, Maya slipped off the barstool, and took up her shades. Walked out the door, up the stairs, and back into the cold. Past the bouncer, out onto the broad, ice slicked pavement, and pushed her hair back, put her shades on. She’d have to run. Take her money and go. No more Mercedes, no more lies, no more of this life. Buy a bus ticket to somewhere, anywhere, and hope that she’d catch a lucky break.
And it was then that she saw him, the man in green with eyes of fire, smiling at her from across the street as if the Carnival were about to begin.
Chapter 3
The day she had been released from the hospital, half mad with pain and grief, she had wandered into the first real estate agency she’d seen and asked to speak to a realtor. Maribel had but a dim recollection of the man, his expensive suit, his receding hairline, his expansive gestures. He had spoken for what seemed like hours, only then, finally, asking what she needed. A studio apartment, she had said. Large windows. Lots of light. Wooden floors. Nothing else.
Money slipped from her hands like blood from a wound, precious only to those who yet intended to live. A car ride down in his Mercedes, the feel of the leather beneath her fingertips, the hum of the car, the drone of his voice. Finally their street, a narrow lane lined with trees, kinked into an angle midway between the two avenues. Brick fronts, stoops leading up to doors, each a different color, different personality. Hers had been a dark azure, a gold knocker in the center.
Maribel had told the agent to wait in his car. He had been displeased, protested, but she had simply stared at him. His mouth closed, and he handed her the keys, his eyes displaying a sudden doleful expression of a man used to victimization. She had not cared, had ascended by herself, and entered the studio alone.
Light. She stepped forward, eyes closing, breathing deep as if she could pull the white luminescence into her lungs. Three large windows looked out over the narrow street, and through them came a pellucid light that immolated her. She stood still, barely noticing the white walls, the caramel colored floor, the small kitchen tucked into the corner. Time slipped from her, and then, finally drawn back by the exigencies of the world, she returned downstairs. That afternoon she had the key, signed papers, and a new home.
On her third day she discovered a small park next to a church on Hudson Avenue. Square, private and small, the snow and cold kept others from it, from the icy gray benches, from lingering beneath the skeletal canopy of the few trees that stood sentry over the central space where one might sit. Pulling her thick coat around her, Maribel slowed at the entrance, one gloved hand reaching out to touch the black rail spikes that erupted like fierce thistles in a phalanx along the park’s edge. Gazed at the pristine solitude within, and stepped forward.
Almost magically the sounds of traffic and the city receded. She walked along the oblique path to the tiny park’s center, and brushed a corner of a bench clear of snow. Sat, back straight, and gazed at the warped and slender bough of the tree that arose like a yawning old woman from the central patch of dirt. Silence. Maribel closed her eyes. She felt like a tuning fork that was about to be struck.
She had been with Antonio in 2007 when the UN had been assisting Timor with its reorganization. Had flown in, only twenty eight and newly married, the whirl of photographs and fashion displays left behind in Barcelona for the desolation of the this tiny country. Antonio had taken her under his wing, and they had punctuated their love making and
time together with excursions into the towns. It had been then that she had seen things that had registered in her mind like aftershocks on the inside of her eyelids, images that had seared themselves into her brain and refused to fade.
Maribel and Antonio, along with an entourage of others, had stopped at one house. The building had been rough, rude, a single large room contained by four walls, the roof a plaited brush of reeds. The floor both inside and out had been made of the same compacted dirt, and a fine dust had coated everything. Three dogs, ticks as big as grapes on the napes of their necks, embedded in the ruff of their fur. A woman and man who had trotted out their three kids, smiling and bobbing their heads as Antonio chatted with them easily via translator.
Maribel had stood still, smile fixed to her face like a butterfly pinned on display. She had slowly, by gradual degrees, become sickened by the memory of lavish breakfast from hours earlier, and then cross with herself for being so self-indulgent with her pity. A motion had caught her eye. A small girl was sitting behind the raised lip of the main door, perhaps a year old, beautiful, with eyes so dark and liquid they were barely human. Maribel had gazed at her, entranced. Such a beautiful little girl, seated in the shadows, watching the group of strangers outside. Such grave curiosity on her small, soft face.
Smiling, trying to crack her fixed smile with something real, Maribel had raised her camera. The little girl saw her, sensed the movement, and ducked out of sight. Maribel paused, lowered the camera. Slowly, by degrees, the girl’s face had peered back around the edge of the door, careful, cautious. Caught sight of Maribel’s gaze, and once again disappeared.
The conversation was dying down. Maribel pretended to pay attention, looked at the sloop shouldered man, his gap toothed smile, the servile manner in which he agreed with Antonio even before the translator could affect communication, and hated him for his servility, Antonio for his lordly manner in dealing with him. Glanced out of the corner of her eye, saw that the little girl had appeared once more.
