Reza’s
illusory eyes to mask the obvious physical evidence of his heritage. As it was,
he kept his burnous up and his hands covered when he traveled, and spoke only
when he had to. It saved him harassment on the street, but not from his
potential employers.
He spent many months in Amtullah
getting thrown off doorsteps and turned away from tissue mechanic shops. Hunger
made him take up employment as a dishwasher at a Heidian restaurant in one of
the seedier parts of Amtullah, the sort of place he did not like walking around
in at night and liked living in even less. He worked fourteen-hour days, six
days a week, and came back to the buggy room he rented smelling of sour cabbage
and vinegar. The other three days of the week he spent at the local boxing gym
looking for real work—magician’s work—something that made his blood sing.
And every day, six times a day, he
prayed. He submitted all that he was, this life, everything, to God.
He was pinched and spit on at work
and on the street. His overseers were Heidian women, mostly indifferent, but
the patrons were a mixed group, largely Nasheenian, and when he walked among
them uncovered he was jostled and cursed and jeered. Retaliation would have
meant the loss of his job. A few women, it was true, were disinterested—some
were even kind—but the daily indignities of being a Chenjan man in Nasheen
began to wear him down. He spent less time at the boxing gyms looking for work.
He spent most nights with his forehead and palms pressed to the floor,
wondering if his father had cursed him not to death but to hell.
One late night, he decided to walk
home from work down a street that would take him to the local mosque in time
for midnight prayer. The streets were quiet that night, and the air tasted
metallic, like rain. Or blood.
A group of four or five women walked
toward him on the other side of the street. He paid them no attention until
they crossed over to his side of the empty road and called out to him.
“You have the time?” one of them
asked, and as they neared he could smell the liquor on them. They were young
women.
“I’m sorry, I do not,” he said. “It
is near evening prayer.”
“The fuck’s that accent?” one of
them said.
Rhys picked up his pace.
“Hey, man, I said, what’s that
accent?”
The tallest girl pulled at his
burnous. She was stronger than she looked. The tattered clasp of his burnous
snapped, and it pulled his hood free. He staggered.
“Fuck, you’re kidding me!” the tall
one said.
They started to crowd him. Like all
Nasheenian women, they seemed suddenly larger there together, in the dark along
the empty street. And they spoke in loud voices. Always too loud. Overwhelming.
“That’s a fucking Chenjan!”
“Smells like a pisser, though. You a
cabbage-eater, Chenjan man?”
“Look at that face! Not a day at the
fucking front.”
He made to push through them, but
their hands were on him now, and their liquored breaths were in his face. He
raised one arm to call a swarm of wasps. One of the girls grabbed his arm,
twisted it behind him. The pain blinded him.
“Where you going, black man?”
“You know what Chenjans do in the
street after dark?”
“Fucking terrorist.”
He didn’t know which of them threw
the first punch. Despite their belligerence, he hadn’t expected it. He never
expected violence from women, even after all this time in Nasheen.
She caught him on the side of the
head, and a burst of blackness jarred his vision. He stumbled. Someone else hit
him and he was on the ground, curled up like a child while they kicked him.
“Turn him over!”
“Get that off!”
One of them had a knife, and they
cut his clothes from him. They cut a good deal more of him.
The midnight call to prayer sounded
across Amtullah.
Rhys recited the ninety-nine names
of God.
Rhys took what was left of his money
and his ravaged body and shared a bakkie with eight other hard-luck passengers
to Rioja, a northern city,
illusory eyes to mask the obvious physical evidence of his heritage. As it was,
he kept his burnous up and his hands covered when he traveled, and spoke only
when he had to. It saved him harassment on the street, but not from his
potential employers.
He spent many months in Amtullah
getting thrown off doorsteps and turned away from tissue mechanic shops. Hunger
made him take up employment as a dishwasher at a Heidian restaurant in one of
the seedier parts of Amtullah, the sort of place he did not like walking around
in at night and liked living in even less. He worked fourteen-hour days, six
days a week, and came back to the buggy room he rented smelling of sour cabbage
and vinegar. The other three days of the week he spent at the local boxing gym
looking for real work—magician’s work—something that made his blood sing.
And every day, six times a day, he
prayed. He submitted all that he was, this life, everything, to God.
He was pinched and spit on at work
and on the street. His overseers were Heidian women, mostly indifferent, but
the patrons were a mixed group, largely Nasheenian, and when he walked among
them uncovered he was jostled and cursed and jeered. Retaliation would have
meant the loss of his job. A few women, it was true, were disinterested—some
were even kind—but the daily indignities of being a Chenjan man in Nasheen
began to wear him down. He spent less time at the boxing gyms looking for work.
He spent most nights with his forehead and palms pressed to the floor,
wondering if his father had cursed him not to death but to hell.
One late night, he decided to walk
home from work down a street that would take him to the local mosque in time
for midnight prayer. The streets were quiet that night, and the air tasted
metallic, like rain. Or blood.
A group of four or five women walked
toward him on the other side of the street. He paid them no attention until
they crossed over to his side of the empty road and called out to him.
“You have the time?” one of them
asked, and as they neared he could smell the liquor on them. They were young
women.
“I’m sorry, I do not,” he said. “It
is near evening prayer.”
“The fuck’s that accent?” one of
them said.
Rhys picked up his pace.
“Hey, man, I said, what’s that
accent?”
The tallest girl pulled at his
burnous. She was stronger than she looked. The tattered clasp of his burnous
snapped, and it pulled his hood free. He staggered.
“Fuck, you’re kidding me!” the tall
one said.
They started to crowd him. Like all
Nasheenian women, they seemed suddenly larger there together, in the dark along
the empty street. And they spoke in loud voices. Always too loud. Overwhelming.
“That’s a fucking Chenjan!”
“Smells like a pisser, though. You a
cabbage-eater, Chenjan man?”
“Look at that face! Not a day at the
fucking front.”
He made to push through them, but
their hands were on him now, and their liquored breaths were in his face. He
raised one arm to call a swarm of wasps. One of the girls grabbed his arm,
twisted it behind him. The pain blinded him.
“Where you going, black man?”
“You know what Chenjans do in the
street after dark?”
“Fucking terrorist.”
He didn’t know which of them threw
the first punch. Despite their belligerence, he hadn’t expected it. He never
expected violence from women, even after all this time in Nasheen.
She caught him on the side of the
head, and a burst of blackness jarred his vision. He stumbled. Someone else hit
him and he was on the ground, curled up like a child while they kicked him.
“Turn him over!”
“Get that off!”
One of them had a knife, and they
cut his clothes from him. They cut a good deal more of him.
The midnight call to prayer sounded
across Amtullah.
Rhys recited the ninety-nine names
of God.
Rhys took what was left of his money
and his ravaged body and shared a bakkie with eight other hard-luck passengers
to Rioja, a northern city,
Similar Books
