One Heartbeat

Maybe I don’t understand what “aide” means in Shiji parlance, but when I took this job, I thought I would be doing more than going through archival documents. Maybe booking events, navigating hotel logistics for travel to other regions—because that’s what most people do. Thankfully, I have something private that I can rant to without jeopardizing my career with rants about work, or I don’t know what I would do. Everything seemed clear two months ago: land a job with a political group in Galasu, work my way up the ranks, run for a major position by the time I reach thirty.                                                                                                                 political                                                                                                                                                               give                                                                                         trust                                                                                                                                       quit                                     Now, though, I feel somewhat shaky. If I want to look out for Narahji issues on the national level, staying in Menarka may have been the wiser choice.

As I rode to the office this morning, Akah Kara gave me an audio message: “Get off the skyrail at Blossom Street on the district line. Turn right when you exit the terminal and go six blocks to 322 Keptomi Street. Knock and wait at the entrance for me to get you.”

322 Keptomi Street has a low-hanging roof and rain shades pulled over all of the windows. The apartment building next door makes it look small and unimportant, but the incense wafting from the sanctuary across the street has blessed its stones for centuries.                                                                                                                                                   My boss told me that he hosts three people: a grand-niece who goes to Blossom Central because it has a good biotechnology program; his first cousin once removed, who works for the regional senate seven skyrail stops away; and an unmarried son, a DJ at the Topiso Square Club. Without them, the state would not let him occupy such a large house.

We addressed each other in the informal when he greeted me—mësah instead of mësahelepui, ni negation rather than ni/hëi construction. (Two awkward points: I am writing this journal in Tveshi because my family speaks Narahjmogda Menarkol, and my school taught everything in that Narahji dialect in blatant rebellion against the national language standard. I have difficulties speaking in informal Tveshi because I rarely needed it; Narahji doesn’t use formal/informal construction. Secondly, Shiji people seem to use the informal even with acquaintances outside the traditional workplace, which is different from the Tveshi used in Itur and Menarka, the two other major cities I know. The journal gives me practice.) He complimented the geometric designs on my forehead and gave me a cup of iced nonu with sliced fruit.

Akah Kara needed me to go through some of the files in his attic. Before 1841, the Progressive Movement operated out of its major party members’ houses; after 1841, they moved to the headquarters we use now. The organization refuses to have the remainder of his stuff moved into the official archives section until someone documents what he has. As we have no Head Archivist, I must survey the situation and give orders to the overworked assistant archivist, who will come over in several days.

Perhaps my disdain for history and love for current events motivated me to take this job. Giving me tasks that put me in touch with history, then, is a form of breaking me in for the future work. I must admit that organizing these papers is not as bad as I thought because Akah Kara has given me a dust mask. I walked to Topiso Square for lunch and ate fried noodles and vegetables from a paper cup. The Tveshi Cultural Coalition—another political party—approached me with pamphlets decrying something my organization has done. I took one to give to Akah Kara.

Letters. Audio and video recordings. Boxes filled with pamphlets. Data drives. An old computer. Everything seems in order, but I will go back tomorrow afternoon with a computer to check the digital files. And … I found something else after Akah Kara left for the evening temple service: a box addressed to Adviser Sari.

The box is wrapped in circle-patterned blue paper. It weighs about 6 kepiu, and something jingles inside when I shake it. The card insert reads:

For the earthbound traveler Adviser Sari from your glorious, most fervent admirer in honor of the time we spent together in that exhilirating Mau Taji Quarter kuaičo. May you find ultimate peace and akačehennyi.
Sincerely,
Thani

Message reproduced as written. Now, what would Adviser Sari want with a woman in a kuaičo and why did that box end up in Akah Kara’s attic?