One Heartbeat

Memories age like wine. People look back because, as time carries us forward, the sweetness of our lost loves’ lips overpowers what happened when we lost them. Like the nuamë nuaf iča, we steal immortality from the untouchable figures who leave us behind in the dust to pine and mourn, hands stained with blood and betrayal. We can no more bring them back than we can catch wind in a jar. I can never bring Sehutannyi back.

Public executions don’t happen often, but every few years, the blacksmiths on Màra Street receive a call from the palace to sharpen the national guillotine. They scrape rust from its steel frame and assemble the killing machine deep in the Reclaimed Zone. Here, the sun sizzles on the pavement and the sky never quite loses a look of steeliness. People who desire to see death cloak themselves in red and pass through the steel picket fence that marks off the square. No vendors come, and everything is eerily quiet. On the day she died, television crews were granted broadcast permission.

A screen against the forlorn-looking prison projected her heartbeat as she ascended the narrow steps, her mouth bound with red fabric. Her heart beat steadily, like a metronome. I remembered those moments in my bed when I had pressed my ear against her torso to hear it. If she feared death, she did not allow her face to show it.

I like to think that she saw me in the crowd.

As they lowered her head into position, the deathwatch priestess began to chant from the Shushei Enaharipui in Old Tveshi, clapping blocks together at each line break. Akhya yatæ’ìpetis Teveshënoi, tsa geakkŗia tsas pihuio. Akhya niḥaniyyë, tsa ḥoriŗia ayyeat Ameisaḥ. Helea tashia’ë, tsa tsualia kuŗena-tsahi kuŗekhi virehuio nnyovesh tsa khearat eio. While I don’t understand Old Tveshi, I can translate the modern Narahji into legible Tveshi quite easily: In undermining the State, you sacrifice yourself to the State. Through sacrilege, you make the world sacred. By dying, you give your heartbeats to the ones whom you have wronged.

I watched the blade decapitate her; my eyes fixated on her deadening heart. After a few moments, I slipped from the square so no one would watch me cry.

When I mourn, I seek out rushing water. Most people who know anything about me understand that. In Narahja, this means waterfalls and fast-moving streams. Galasu has neither, so I followed the gently-sloping skyrail to the water jets at Nitàrva Square.

Children and adults, some nude, some in bathing suits, played and relaxed in the arcing water. I wanted to join them, but the thought of uncovering my body filled me with shame. Instead, I leaned against the bronze fence and watched.

The clock on Breeze Hotel chimed three times before I felt fingers poke through the fence to touch the nape of my neck. I stiffened, thinking for a moment that Sehutannyi’s ghost had come from the grave to torment me, but the fingertips felt warm. I smelled perfume.

Reaching behind me, I grabbed a feminine hand and turned around.

Suka put her left hand over her mouth and smiled; her knotted gyena stopped just above her small breasts. I opened and closed my mouth, but no sound came.

Makhsu Salus. She cleared her throat and switched to Tveshi. Have you forgotten your own language? Really, Salus, how can you represent us if you don’t know næghèsol from naghèsol?

As I let go of her hand, my brain started to work again. I tried to think of something—anything—to say that didn’t involve quoting Akah Gysabalar. Ìm ghetssa, I murmured. I suffer.

Yosa. Her tone reminded me of hard stops in plays. Come with me. I know someone whom you should meet.

I smiled and looked down. We walked along the fence. Once united by the open gate, she pulled me into the square and kissed me on both cheeks. I embraced her.

Suka made many offerings to Tsemanok as a child; as such, she is discrete and sly.

In the deep shade against the fence, she introduced me to a man who kept his hands behind his back. His messy hair fell into his purple-tinged gray eyes. I saw many people in him—Karatau Meiyenesi, the nuamë nuaf iča, the nuamë at the testing center—but he most resembled Suka because they had the same inquisitive eyes and smile-worn cheeks.

Salus, this is Likua tal Bisum, my cousin.

I nodded and raised my hand for him to kiss. His lips lingered too long on my fingertips. For the first time, I pitied him. I am wind; no man can hold me. A pleasure to meet you … may I call you Li? I had always wanted to ask that question, but until now, no one had given me the opportunity.

Likua smiled and clicked his tongue twice. I curled my fingers around the bronze fencepost and waited. If you like, he said.

Tell me about yourself, Li.

I’m a hacker. He looked past me at Suka, leaving his lips slightly parted. Is this necessary, his expression said. And … I sometimes work with Equilibrium Nexus.

Suka rested her hand on my shoulder. I raised my hands to check my stubby nails for dirt. Anything else?

I’m a nuamë.

I reached forward and pulled him close to me, kissing him on both cheeks. Unlike Karatau Meiyenesi and the nuamë nuaf iča, Likua and I wouldn’t take decades to resolve our differences. Would you like to join me in Nitàrva Square?

He looked through the fence at the smiling, preoccupied people. Yes.

———————————————————————————

It is now 2 Poràkhin of Khinekol 1869. My journal ended three years, two months, and thirty-three days ago, just before Tenes Sari saved my life. The narrative finishes here.

Sometimes when I walk down Kisera Street, I think I see her rushing towards the Progressive Movement’s headquarters, but only when it rains, and only when the trees are in bloom. My heart beats faster when she turns towards me. I follow her arms’ soft musculature to her sloping breasts. I save the face for last.

It is always some other Shiji girl with hennaed arms and silken hair.