It is a moment before any of the “tribe” moves, not until Adile calls out that we’ll be late for work. We rush to clean our bowls and run down the stairs. Losing pay for being late is something we don’t do. Playing dumb in front of the people who are buying the blue coveralls we’re making is a new test. One I would take pleasure in failing, but I think this is not the showdown to have—if we ever do have one.
“I’ll smile sweetly, Ushi,” I say to a pocket and keep on cutting.
It is nearly time for our late-afternoon energy tea when Big Boss, Ushi, and two men who are not Chinese come onto the factory floor. The men are nicely dressed in business suits and ties. They’re ushered along our cutting tables and stop in front of one of the more comely and quiet Chinese girls who works nearby.
“The men would like to ask you some questions,” Ushi says. The girl seems a bit scared, but she puts down her scissors and folds her hands. Her eyes look straight ahead, not at the men.
One of the men, who speaks in schoolboy Mandarin, asks her to describe her workday. The girl answers in a singsong voice about breakfast, work, lunch, work, then dinner and quiet evenings spent chatting with friends. “Do you ever have to work overtime?” he asks.
“Oh, now and then,” she says.
“Will you have to work late tonight?”
The girl’s eyes flick back and forth, trying to look at Ushi without seeming to. Has Ushi forgotten to ply her with all the possible answers? She finally shakes her head in a halfhearted way as she looks down at the floor.
It’s hard to suppress a laugh. For some reason the whole thing amuses me. I should be plotting to throw rotten potato soup in Ushi’s face when we finally are given something to eat at ten o’clock tonight, or eleven, or whenever they decide.
The men in suits have stopped in front of me. They’re speaking English. I studied English in school and know some of the words. No, I know all the words if I concentrate. They’re surprised that foreigners work here; they want to know more about me. It’s obvious that Big Boss and Ushi don’t understand what the men say in English. The men have just said that I’m pretty, and when I shoot a quick glance at my bosses, they have no reaction, just keep looking ramrod stiff. I’m blushing and I don’t know how to hide it. To stop it.
The men speak Mandarin again. They ask Big Boss what country I come from. Ushi answers. There are a few people like me, a minority people, she says, living in the northwest of China, impoverished, uneducated. They try to hire a few of us to help us out. We send the money we earn back home to our families.
The men nod. I’ve long ago stopped blushing, and think only of rotten potatoes.
I drink my drugged tea when it’s brought around instead of pouring it against the table leg to form a little puddle on the floor as I always do. I hope it will dull my brain. I don’t want to think about my life right now.
There is whispered talk about the visitors as we stand in line for food at ten thirty, so tired our legs barely hold us up. If we had hopes that someone might find out what happens within these factory walls and help us, that fantasy has been crushed. No one will ever be allowed to talk. And if the visitors knew what was happening, would they really care?
I’m restless. I dream—only I am not asleep, so it is not a dream, but thoughts, memories that come to me in the blackness of night. I think of our farm. How we carefully fill irrigation ditches with precious water that brings life to our desert oasis, to our gardens and fruit trees. The apricots should be ready to harvest now, still firm, not yet too soft, just in between and perfect. Maybe there are a few early melons. I can almost see the field—Aygul and I are there picking the first ripe melon from the vine and eating it, the juice dripping down our faces as we chew slice after slice all the way to the rind.
I feel a pull on my arm. I’m sure it’s Mother telling us we’re much too old to make such a mess. Except that the pulling is not gentle but urgent.
I open my eyes and see Mikray. Her finger covers my mouth before words can come out. Then she cups my ear with her hands and whispers.
“I’ll be gone for a few hours.” She speaks quickly and softly—maybe I’m still asleep and dreaming. “I have to do it. Don’t cover for me.” Her voice catches. “If I can’t make it back, I won’t come back—ever. No one else must get in trouble.” She reaches for my hand, squeezes it. “Thank you, Roshen, for being my friend.” And she’s gone.
There’s no sound of footsteps as she leaves. I lean over the edge of my bed. Her bunk is empty. It’s no dream—it’s too real—and I’m scared. I don’t want to be left alone. Mikray was sent to me by Allah to be my teacher and guide. I know that as I picture her stealing away into the darkness. So strong, with wisdom beyond her years.
Is she right to trust the person who is helping her? If she’s caught, she could end up in one of the awful secret prisons and never be seen again. They might kill her and use her heart or kidneys or liver to make some Chinese official healthy. She must know all this. Such an ending is different from being sealed up in this disreputable factory that no one seems to care much about, even the government.
Make it back in time, Mikray! I say in silent prayer. May Allah be with you.
Will I ever be as brave as she is? Do more than stay locked within these walls, hearing the voices of jailed poets in my head, with no voice of my own?
Sixteen
THERE IS A rumor that we’ll soon finish the blue coverall job, be paid, and get a day off. Hawa announces she’ll speak to Ushi, or Big Boss, and insist they let us out of here. She leaves the factory floor the next day with a little boss. There’s a smug look on her face when she returns.
This could be great news. If it’s real. If Mikray leads us to a black café. If Mikray’s friend who told her about the café has not already alerted the police to arrest us when we get there because we’re underage. If the fake accounts Ahmat and I set up are still valid. The government changes rules from day to day, and I’ve been away from home for more than seven weeks.
At lunchtime I slip a note to Mikray. Grateful that she’s still here. I’ve written black café? in small letters on a tiny piece of paper. One of us will end up eating it, so all our messages are short.
She steals a glance. Nods yes. She brings her hand to her mouth, chews for a few seconds, and swallows.
Ushi blocks our door at lunchtime to announce that tomorrow is a day off. “You may leave,” she says, “but no one is to go out alone, and you must declare your plans before you can go.” A special requirement for Uyghurs only. She says nothing about telling the truth.
I find it less unpleasant than usual to return to backbreaking, hand-wrecking work, knowing that at the end of the day we will have our turn with the paymaster, a good night’s sleep, and a day off.
Finally the machines stop, and we line up in front of the humorless man who shows up now and then at Big Boss’s side and is, apparently, our paymaster. He sits in front of a large ledger and piles of yuan notes. A self-protective instinct grips us Uyghurs, and we end up together at the back of the line. Each one of us has been caught speaking Uyghur, and we don’t—yet—know how much each word will cost us.
Adile is the first to reach the pay table and give her name. The paymaster searches the ledger, then looks up. He leans back on his elbows and glares at all of us.
“Why are you here? You really think you can pay for your trip, the food you eat, your uniforms, in a few short weeks? Ha-ha-ha. Real funny,” he says in a voice that has no laughter. “Dreamers, aren’t you.” He taps the ledger a few times with his finger. “Quite a few points here too, on some of you.”
He slams the ledger shut. Picks up what’s left of the yuan notes. And leaves.
We watch the money—our money, money we’ve labored endless, grueling hours for—being carried away.
I press my body against Mikray’s to keep from tearing after him and wiping the look from his face, the look that lets us know we’re the lowest of
low people on earth. I want these people to know I despise them for what they’re doing to us. I feel Mikray’s body tremble, but she doesn’t move. “Keep calm,” she whispers. “He’s only a little boss.” We both stand immobile as we take in the new reality—that it may be many more weeks, months, before we’re paid.
Why weren’t we told we would have to pay back all these expenses before we came? I’d have come anyway. I would never have let Father lose the farm. But Zuwida and Jemile volunteered so they could send money to their families. We’ve worked past midnight and gotten up at five for the last week, and the two of them have talked of nothing but the extra money they were earning. Money they’d send home. A Chinese girl offered to take them to an honest place where someone would help them do this. Then they’d have lunch and tea together at the girl’s favorite place. Maybe that can happen next time.
We walk up the stairs at a funereal pace. The promise of a special meal tonight to mark the completion of another great success for the Hubei Work Wear Company is of no interest.
I go to our room and pull my bag out from under the bunk, open the secret pocket, and count the money I have. Will it buy enough internet time for me to read Ahmat’s messages and say everything I want to? With no knowledge of when we’ll be paid, I must save some of my money in case we’re allowed out again.
I yank the zipper closed. Shove the bag back under the bed and sit with my hands clasped in front of me. Upset that I didn’t take all the money Father offered me. But I didn’t need to take money from the family. I was to be a factory girl and earn my own.
The smell of food invades my nostrils. The garbage they make us pay for is being served. If I had money I’d go hungry now and eat all I want tomorrow, tons of delicious food. Maybe everyone in our room thinks that. There’s no rush to line up. In time, we all go to the end of the food line.
I can’t get rid of the anger that seethes inside me. I glance at the ceiling, at the moldings. We’ve never been sure whether or not the hallway is wired. I still see nothing, but there’s no proof in that. I mumble to myself, then I can’t hold back. “Why didn’t we—why didn’t I demand to see records?” I hiss loud and clear. It’s much more than a whisper. “Aren’t we at least owed an accounting of how much we’ve earned, how much we’re still in debt? It’s our right to know.”
I’ve been heard. Those around me drop their heads or turn away. There’s probably some device that’s recorded my voice, maybe taken my picture. I’m not sure why I took the risk, but I had to.
It’s Zuwida who comes to me. Takes my hand. “We have no rights, Roshen,” she whispers. “No person, no laws on our side.” I squeeze her hand. Once again numb and mute, and wondering if they’ll ever pay us, I move slowly forward, led by the wise child who knows, as I do, that my stupid ranting will not change the way of things.
I hate that I’m standing here, holding out my bowl to accept the stingy ladle of soup they offer. There’s more chicken than usual, actual chunks, most likely added so the girls who visit their families won’t complain so much about the bad food. I give it the sniff test to make certain there’s no pork or pork broth. It’s okay. I won’t have to throw it down the toilet.
No one talks as we sit on our bunks eating. No one wants to speak Mandarin, and it may cost us dearly to even whisper Uyghur.
My eyes are on Zuwida. When she’s finished eating, I go to her. Take her bowl. “I’ll wash it tonight,” I say, leaning close to her ear, choosing still to speak Uyghur, whispering in my softest voice. Zuwida should not have to be burdened with Mandarin today. I stroke her hair, gently kiss her forehead. “Try to get a good night’s sleep. Surely, in time, they’ll pay us.” I have no reason to believe this to be true, but someone has shown kindness to Zuwida. Maybe there will be more goodness coming to her.
She smiles. Then reaches beneath her bunk for the thermos that is always there and takes a few swallows.
When I return from washing our bowls, Zuwida is sleeping, either from exhaustion or from the tea that seems to help restore her body and bring her some kind of peace.
I have no tea, no thought of giving in to exhaustion or letting go of my anger. How can any of us do that? Hawa, for one, seems to be able to. She sits on the floor in front of her mirror, dabbing a brush into a small jar, painting her eyelids purple. Practicing her look for her big day. Nothing, I guess, can spoil her plans. She takes a pencil and outlines her eyes in black, until she looks like an ancient Egyptian, or one of the painted Chinese mannequins I’ve seen in the fancy stores in Hotan. I want to tell her to go wash her face. But how can I, a naïve country mouse, warn Hawa about the risk of walking around like that? Maybe only innocents like Jemile are treated badly, pawed and grabbed by ugly, lecherous men.
I wrap my arms around my body, wanting to erase all thoughts of treachery and think only of Ahmat. I try to remember the feeling of his arm against mine, comforting me, loving me. The thought that I might soon read a message from Ahmat electrifies my body with a heat that has nothing to do with weather.
This is something Ushi cannot take away from me.
Seventeen
MIKRAY AND I line up in front of the sign-out table. Gulnar joins us. I don’t like it, but a sign from Mikray tells me she arranged it. I know nothing about Gulnar, except that she never talks and spends every free moment she has with her head bent over her stitchery. I don’t want her going with us. Nothing must go wrong this morning. It’s enough that I have to depend on Mikray.
Just get out of here, then deal with it, I tell myself.
“Well, look what we’ve got here.” Ushi’s voice erupts in laughter as she calls the group in front of us forward. “Going out on the town, are you, girls?” she says, surveying the quartet approaching her desk. Hawa and her entourage have joined up with a Chinese girl who has overnight acquired pink hair, eye shadow that extends from her cheeks to her eyebrows, and a huge, red splash of color over her lips. Hawa’s face looks almost pale in comparison, but she matches the girl inch for inch in the shortness of her skirt, the high heels of her shoes, and the cleavage revealed by her sleeveless blouse.
“And where are you going, girls?” Ushi asks.
“A café and then an afternoon disco,” the Chinese girl answers, giving what she must think is a French accent to her Mandarin.
“Okay.” Ushi draws out the word. “Sign right here. And remember the curfew.” I’m surprised her voice loses some of its amusement as she says this, considering how much she enjoys giving out points.
Mikray, Gulnar, and I move forward, looking very Uyghur in our long skirts and leggings, blouses that cover our arms and breasts. We wear no makeup.
“Yes? Where are you going?” Ushi has her usual sour face as she looks back and forth between Mikray and me. She seems to take no interest in Gulnar, and that’s probably in our favor.
“We’re going to use the pitiful amount of money we have to buy some decent food, and then we hope to find a park, sit in the rain, and speak Uyghur,” Mikray says in a voice loud enough for all to hear.
Everyone freezes, except Ushi. Her eyes twitch. Her mouth clamps over words I’m sure I’ve never heard before. I think she’s going to explode if her face gets any redder. Then, worse. She starts to smile.
“Maybe,” Ushi says, teeth showing, “I should go with you. I wouldn’t want you all to get lost, or hurt walking around the neighborhood by yourselves. Lots of poor Chinese migrants live there, who might not like you on their streets.”
She stops talking and sits with a fixed grin on her face. Staring at Mikray. Who stares back, a grin on her face too.
After a while Mikray shrugs. “Whatever,” she says. “Can we leave now, or do we have to wait?”
Ushi turns red again as her jaw tightens. She thrusts her arm out, points to a spot along the wall. “You’ll stand there until I’m ready.”
Why, Mikray? Why did you do this to us! I scream silently as I force my legs to carry me the three meters to the side.
&nb
sp; Mikray stands between Gulnar and me, her body rigid. “I’m sorry,” Mikray whispers. “I hate her.” She pauses. “I lost control.” Her body shudders. I feel sorry for her. She has the courage to say what I let fester in my mind—I’m in awe of her for that—but I can’t forgive her for jeopardizing our day off. How much longer must I go before I hear from Ahmat and let him know he’s not forgotten? And that I love him?
I watch as Jemile, Zuwida, and Adile move forward. The Chinese girl is with them in spite of the fact that she will not need to lead them to a bank. There is no money to send home today. Ushi asks no questions, waves them on with barely a glance. I’m glad they’re not wandering about alone.
Patime, Letipe, and Nurbiya stand in front of Ushi now. She looks at them as if she’s never seen them before. “I can’t imagine you’ll cause much trouble. Go,” she barks, her eyes already turning toward us.
Mikray, Gulnar, and I are now the only people in the room with Ushi. She motions for us to come before her.
No plan has been made. I’m surprised when Gulnar steps in front of us. “It’s raining so heavily now, I wonder if you could suggest something for us to do. Something that you would enjoy.” Her voice is smooth, as soothing as her gentle face. “I’m sorry you have to give up your day off on our account, but we’re grateful to you for the offer,” she says.
Ushi, who looks as if she wants to bite our heads off, leans back in her chair and puts one hand on her waist while she holds her chin with her other hand.
“Yeah,” she says. “Why don’t you all go out and play in the rain. I’ll let the neighborhood take care of you. I don’t need to get wet.” She pushes the book toward us. “Here, sign out.”
Factory Girl Page 8
