One Heartbeat

The man came shortly after rosy-fingered dawn breathed color into the western horizon. Unable to sleep, I stood out on the balcony watching the birds dive at prey in the small park behind the apartment. The specific bird—a blue-crested species with six pebbly wings in a line—seemed the most successful, going up farther than the others and taking most of the prey, but the small birds outnumbered him. Two kept stealing the small obelisk rodents from his claws as the others threatened to poke at his wings. Punctured wings don’t lend themselves well to flying.

I remember seeing the man from the balcony because he traveled through the park with a large bag on his back. The large bird had just caught something else; the others had begun their fun. All of them scattered as he walked among them except the large bird, who grabbed the obelisk rodent with his tentacle-like tongue and darted into the tree by my window. I remember breathing a sigh of relief when I saw that it wouldn’t go hungry and the horror I felt as I watched it disembowel the carapace-backed thing. Downy stomach feathers fell from the tree to the sidewalk and red blood sprayed everywhere. The man watched it, too, before he looked at me standing on the balcony. He tipped his traveler’s hat. I nodded and continued to watch.

He rang from the front door as I finished reheating a pot of nonu on the stove. I turned off the heat and went to my room for a gyena and a house robe so I wouldn’t feel so exposed before I went down the three flights to check the door. Seeing him startled us both. Good morning, Akah Nitannyi, he said in Narajhi, I have something for you.

He caved his shoulders; the backpack slid down his arms and he caught it in his right hand, twisting it towards me. Once open, he threw aside some clothes and dug out a large, newspaper-wrapped parcel that felt like it contained paper and maybe a data disk or two. I searched his dark sunglasses for explanation and found nothing. Who is it from?

Likua tal Bisum, he said. Would you mind if I stopped in for a drink?

Not at all, I replied. We walked up the apartment stairs and I unlocked my door for him. While I still don’t know who he is—Likua didn’t respond to my text message—he knew the proper protocols. After removing his shoes and bag at the door, he approached our shrine to the household gods and lit the oil burner, spooning water into the bowl at the top before he added the oil. Almost immediately, the apartment smelled like fresh nuts.

While he drank water, I fried kifu grain in a pan with sugar and spices, waiting until the end to mix in the puréed fruits and nuts. He thanked me when I set some down in front of him. I have never seen someone eat so voraciously in my life, but when we had both finished, I poured nonu into two glasses and we talked about current events in Menarka. The metalworkers are striking (like they always do during monsoon season; I wonder if the constant rain makes them more depressed than everyone else), but the Narahji Separatist Movement provoked a more general strike. Most of the participants only want more national representation—at least as many representatives in the Senate as Iturja has—and I can’t say that I argue with what they want. Besides, if anything come of it, they will need people to fill the new seats and I can run for the Senate Youth Contingent.

He left before Nurannyi awoke, but she smelled the offering oil and knew someone had come. We didn’t talk about it, but she says that she likes my food and wishes that I would cook more often. It’s like going to a Menarki restaurant without having to use eating-out credits, she told me. Now I want your opinion on something. You like theater, right?

She showed me a folder with some costume designs for a production of Kissing the Nine, a production set in a Shiji household in Menarka. I told her about fashion in the city and corrected some of the dress styles for her while she took notes, and I also gave her the number of a good fabric store I know that can set her up with more authentic material. (My mother and grandmother shopped there when they commissioned my as-of-yet unused wedding aniku. We spent seven hours in that store, so I have a fairly good idea what it has and does not have.) She sounded surprised when I told her that the Menahji—our word for Shiji people who live in Menarka—have adopted a form of the gyena and some of the local customs, but she seemed more understanding when I told her that most of them wear the gyena like a shawl or let it hang loose beneath simple headdresses like married woman at temples. I unhooked my computer tablet and showed her photos from one of the Shiji religious services to prove that they had picked up local iconography and showed her some examples of Shiji gyena.

When I finally had time to sit down with the package after work, I was exhausted. My brain worked like molasses or cold syrup as I glanced through the documents. Once I get some sleep, I can spend more time looking at them. However, the documents … the hacking procedure details look very elaborate and I’m not sure that I understand all of the terminology … but at first glance, all of the other conspiracies look thorough and well-organized. No mixed-up text messages. No conversations—well, probably some, but no sloppily-done conversations—in front of other people. No images from the train.

This raises more questions than I can answer. The verbal assault, my tears, hiding in the corner—was I just incredibly lucky to stumble across them? Is the Galasu conspiracy poorly-organized, or have I just had incredible luck with them? If they have organizational difficulties, why? Wouldn’t Daybreak have put someone competent in charge of something in the most crucial Tveshi city? If I have had incredible luck … why? What deity is responsible for this? That was my last thought before I fell asleep among a sea of papers.

I awoke slightly before dawn and the beginning of a new day, and I am writing this from my position on the balcony. The six-winged bird is out again. The discarded carapace from yesterday’s kill lies broken in the grass.

The bird has no savior now.