Throne (4 page)

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 direction 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.

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.

Hands were being shaken, and Maribel stepped forward, said her goodbyes, said empty wishes of good will. Everybody turned, began to troop out of the yard. Nobody had noticed the little girl. Maribel had but seconds to take her picture. Holding the camera casually by her side, she had taken a picture as best she could as she walked by, taking the shot without looking so as to not alarm the girl. Desperately hoping that angle was right.

Antonio had always insisted she transition to digital as soon as possible, but she had resisted. So she had had to wait until her return to Barcelona one week later to have her pictures developed. When the photographs were delivered, she had opened them up, each the size of a page, and flicked through them, ignoring all her shots, searching for the one that had stayed with her through all the dinners, banquets, receptions and further excursions into the city.