Mr. Suo’s assistant was not much older than Zulfira, with sickeningly red lips and eyes that drooped as if he smoked hashish — or was simply bored with everything going on around him.
Suo and his assistant had surprised Hala and her aunt earlier that morning, before daybreak. Hala recognized the electronic beep when Suo’s assistant used his handheld machine to scan the barcode beside Zulfira’s photograph and trustworthiness rating posted beside the front door. Zulfira said the men had to make a record to prove to someone higher than them in the government that they had checked on all the Uyghur homes in their area.
They’d come unannounced six times in as many weeks after Zulfira’s husband was taken, always on some pretense — plastering the barcode on the door or checking the water quality from the kitchen tap — smelling, but not actually tasting it — and finally checking the structure of the house. The water often came out of the tap brown, and there were many cracks in the wall plaster, but Suo and his assistant ignored all those problems. The Bingtuan had condemned Zulfira and her husband’s comfortable old home in an old section of Kashgar and promptly bulldozed it to the ground.
The visits were always a surprise. Each time they’d come, fat Mr. Suo had stood on the front step with his hands behind him and asked if he and his companion could come inside. This morning, the men simply scanned the door code and barged in as if it were their home.
They looked surprised and disappointed that Zulfira and Hala were already out of bed and up working. Fat Suo said he needed to look at the walls again, paying special attention to the bedroom, picking up Zulfira’s blankets and putting them to his nose when he thought no one was looking. The younger man licked his freakish lips and looked oddly at Hala.
Suo turned suddenly, leaving the house without a word. The assistant had made a note in his small book and told Zulfira that he and his boss would return that evening. She would be well advised to have a hot meal prepared. She was, he said, to treat them as family, for that is what they were to be. The young man barked when he spoke, like someone who worked for the person in charge and thought that made him in charge as well. He never introduced himself, but Hala had heard the fat bureaucrat call him by name.
Ren.
Ren the bastard, Zulfira said, though Hala still did not quite know what that meant.
Hala wished she were bigger, stronger, so she could do something to help her aunt.
Zulfira must have read her mind, for she glared at her niece with narrow eyes as she expertly spun and pulled a skein of well-oiled noodles. “You will pretend you are invisible tonight,” she said. “Do not speak with these men. Not a word.”
“They are swine,” Hala said. “I wish I could—”
“Well, you cannot!” Zulfira slammed the noodles against the countertop over and over. “I am not your mother, but your mother has run away and left you in my charge. There is nothing either of us can do about that. We will feed these men and treat them kindly, and I will not hear another word from you about the matter.”
“That is not fair,” Hala said, tears of anger welling in her eyes, her face flushing hot. She chopped harder at her onions, narrowly missing her thumb. “I cannot believe what you are saying. The Bingtuan are the ones who took my uncle. They do not deserve our resp—”
Zulfira slapped her hard across the face, ringing her ear and knocking her off her stool. The cleaver flew from her hand and fell to the floor, where it buried itself into the cheap linoleum like an ax in soft wood.
Zulfira held the skein of oiled noodles in her hand like a club. “And yet,” she said, “respecting them is exactly what you are going to do.” Flour smudged her chin. Her eyes blazed. “Do you understand me, you spoiled little girl? You go away to your fancy gymnastics school with all the rich children and you begin to believe that you are so much smarter than we poor, unlearned Xinjiang Uyghurs who have not seen so much of the world. Well, let me promise you this, your ignorant aunt will break her broom over your back if you do not show these men respect.”
And respect was exactly what Hala showed. It did not matter, even a ten-year-old could see that. The rich odors of Zulfira’s laghman—stir-fried noodles, spiced lamb onions, and peppers — mingled with the smell of black vinegar by the time the men arrived. Dinner dragged on for over an hour, with the bureaucrat demonstrating from his many helpings of laghman why he was so fat.
He tried to make small talk over a sweet pudding of rice, raisins, and shredded carrots, acting as if he had suddenly become head of the household. Hala chewed on her collar, soaking it, chapping the skin around her own neck. She could barely hold her tongue. At length, the bureaucrat excused himself to go to the toilet. Oddly, he carried a small plastic bag with him to the restroom.
As soon as he’d gone, his assistant, Ren, opened his swollen lips to explain why.
“The Xinjiang government has a solemn duty to see to the well-being of all its citizens, especially the poorer, less advanced populations,” Ren said. His voice squealed. Annoying, Hala thought, like a mosquito. “As you may be aware, the Central Committee feels it is beneficial for local officials such as Mr. Suo to become especially familiar with the households under his care. He appreciates the delicious meal and very much looks forward to our stay tomorrow night.”
Zulfira leaned over the table slightly, hands folded in her lap, rocking as if she had a stomachache. Hala had never seen her aunt look so small and frail. She spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Please assure Mr. Suo that we have everything we need in this household. We are happy to provide him with meals, but it would be unseemly for a man to stay in my home with my husband away.”
Ren looked down his nose at Zulfira as if she were a small child and not the woman in charge of her own home. “I can assure you, there is nothing unseemly about it. Mr. Suo has instructed me to spend the night as well, as a chaperone.”
“Mr. Ren,” Zulfira said, head bowed over her own table to show subservience. “Two men will hardly present a more reputable image than one—”
“Phhft.” Ren waved away the notion. “If any of your overly pious neighbors have an issue with the business of the government, they may take the matter up with Mr. Suo’s office, at which time they will be reminded that religious extremism is one of the Three Evils.” Ren now leaned across the table as well, craning his neck like a chicken to get as close to Zulfira as was physically possible without actually touching her. Hala was sure her aunt could smell the man’s horrible breath. “Exactly which of your neighbors do you believe will have a problem with a city official doing his duty? Perhaps this person should attend a few classes.”
Hala and Zulfira both knew “taking a few classes” meant being carted off to a reeducation camp.
“All is good,” Zulfira said, lifting her chin to give Ren a timid smile. “Please excuse an overreaction from a distraught female. Of course Mr. Suo is welcome in our home. I will prepare a pallet on the floor by the stove and he may have my sleeping shelf.”
“Now, Mrs. Azizi,” Ren said, shaking his head. “You are a lone woman with no one to take care of you. Who knows if your husband will even wish to come back here. Most women in your shoes are happy to have the guidance of a strong man in the home, someone to teach them, watch over them, to keep them from feeling so alone. Sometimes, mutual feelings blossom—”
Fat Suo’s voice came from behind them as he emerged from the narrow hall, drying thick fingers on a white handkerchief from his pocket.
“Do not frighten her, Ren,” he chuffed. He smiled broadly, swelling his fat cheeks so they all but eclipsed his eyes. “We are supposed to be helpful to our citizens. The forecast calls for snow. I would not presume to have Mrs. Azizi move from her own bed on a night that is to be so cold.” He placed his hand gently on Zulfira’s shoulder. “I represent not only the local government, but Beijing — the Party, the Motherland. Mrs. Azizi knows she has no reason to mistrust my intentions.”