A good percentage of the time his thing had to do with getting some spy out — or killing one.
Hala Tohti helped load boxes of oiled noodles onto the back of her aunt’s scooter. Her aunt’s normally olive skin was chalky pale. She’d been up at all hours of the night, sewing, cooking, reading, anything but sleeping.
“I can take these to the market,” Hala said, nodding at the noodles.
“I will be fine,” Zulfira said.
A cold wind howled up the dusty street, picking up bits of trash and causing them to dance under the light posts, bristling with security cameras. Zulfira pulled her woolen scarf around her neck and shivered.
“I think you may be ill,” Hala said.
“I said I will be fine.”
The busy Jiefang Night Market was only a few blocks away, but Zulfira swayed in the wind as if she might fall over before making the short trip.
Zulfira climbed aboard the scooter with unsteady legs. “I will drop off the noodles to Rami and return at once,” she said, head bent against the wind. “Chop the meat while I am gone. We must have dinner ready when Mr. Suo arrives.”
Hala’s throat convulsed, making her warble like a frightened child — which made her angry with herself. “What if he comes while you are gone?”
“Ren sent word. Mr. Suo is delayed with meetings. He will be here in two hours. Plenty of time.”
Hala knew better than to argue. She was a guest in her aunt’s home.
Hala watched her aunt’s scooter disappear into the dusk before going back into the house. She was no stranger to work — and there was always plenty of it to do. Her mother had taught her to make savory rice plov, and chop mince and vegetables to fill dough for samsa, by the time she was six. She could joint a chicken with her eyes closed, especially with her uncle’s razor-sharp cleaver.
She stood on a stool while she worked, chicken carcass on a flat board, cleaver in her right hand. Holding a drumstick — yellow foot and claws attached — away from the breast at an angle, she pressed the cleaver against the joint and popped it away, setting aside the neatly separated leg. What else could she do? She saw the way the fat bureaucrat Suo and his secretary, Ren, looked at both her and her aunt. Oh, Fat Suo liked Zulfira, but Hala was old enough to realize men looked at her as well with glazed eyes and sagging jaws. Fat Suo would be back soon, looking at her like she was a sweet. But Zulfira was strong. Zulfira would protect her.
Hala had seen it before, at the dance and gymnastics academy in Nanjing. Coaches sometimes looked at the older girls that way. They took them on walks or to their offices upstairs. None of the girls ever said what happened when they came back to the dormitory, but they cried a lot. Some of them got so sick that they had to leave the school.
Sometimes, early on when she was still only seven years old and she’d just been identified as a gymnastics prodigy and sent away to train for the glory of the Motherland, Hala wished she would get sick so she could go home like the other girls. Later, when she was old enough to understand some of it, she learned the girls hadn’t gone home. They’d left the school in shame, to have babies. Hala had grown up around farm animals and understood the basics, but not the narrow-eyed looks some of the coaches had when they looked at the older girls.
Then she turned ten, and things changed — a lot.
One evening, after practice, Mr. Yun, who trained the boys on the pommel horse and rings, brought her a small piece of cake wrapped in wax paper. Student diets were strictly controlled, but Mr. Yun’s gifts became more and more frequent. Each time he gave her anything, he gave her a funny stare. She thought it made him look like his eyes were crossed. Sometimes he even touched her hand, but she was always so hungry, so she’d taken the sweets and wolfed them down without thinking. Then, Mr. Yun had whispered in her ear during supper that she should meet him in the corner, where they stacked the mats — and not to tell anyone. He’d given her a small piece of white cake, filled with cream that was so deliciously sweet and wonderful that it made her head buzz when she ate it. Mr. Yun rested his hand on her upper arm, squeezing her softly. He promised there were more treats where that came from if he and Hala could become secret friends.
Mr. Yun leaped away when the gym door opened, hands raised, as if Hala was on fire and he did not want to be burned. His wife had just stood there in her white T-shirt and red track pants, blinking at him for what seemed like forever. Mrs. Yun was a strong woman, but she grew smaller and smaller that night. Her entire body began to tremble, her chest heaving enough to rattle the whistle hanging on the lanyard around her neck. She summoned Hala over with a flick of her wrist and walked her to the dormitory without a word.
Hala had always thought Mrs. Yun liked her, or at least respected how hard she trained, but the next day, she called Hala to her office and told her she was worthless as a gymnast. Hala tried to apologize, though she didn’t know what for. Mrs. Yun only became angrier and slapped her across the cheek. The blow had knocked out a tooth, which seemed to surprise Mrs. Yun. She’d cried, still shaking, then chided Hala for chewing the collar of her sweatshirt, and called her a stupid, stupid little girl. There was no longer a spot for her at the school. Hala would be put on a train that very afternoon. She would return home to live with her aunt.
Mrs. Yun and the other coaches were surely angry because Hala was doing so much better than their pretty Chinese students. But no, it wasn’t that. They’d known she was Uyghur when they sent her to the school. Had it been the sweets? Hala had figured it out while she packed her things and said good-bye to her friends. It wasn’t because she’d broken the rules of her diet. Mrs. Yun was angry with her because Mr. Yun had put his hand on her shoulder — and looked at her like she was one of his sweets.
That was the past, Hala thought, and resumed dismembering the chicken. There was nothing she could do about it now—
The handle on the front door shook, sending a gush of fear down her back. She jumped, nearly dropping the cleaver, then dipped her head, teeth searching for, then biting, the collar of her shirt.
The door swung open slowly and Zulfira stepped in.
Hala relaxed a notch. “Did you forget some—”
“He is here,” Zulfira said, chin quivering.
“Suo?”
Zulfira swallowed hard. She nodded, lips set tight, red in the face, like she was holding her breath.
The fat bureaucrat darkened the door behind her, suitcase in hand. Smiling cruelly, he waved at Hala as if he were a welcome relative, there to visit for the holidays. He had every right to stay — according to the law. Some might even call it duty. Provincial bureaucrats in Xinjiang were ordered by Beijing to see to the needs of backward Uyghur families, stopping in to visit at all hours, and spending the night.
Civilizing them in a decidedly uncivilized manner.
Fat Suo dropped his suitcase to the floor and tossed his head at Hala. “Put that in your aunt’s room, child, if you would be so kind. And stop sucking on your shirt!”
Hala let the damp collar fall away. She froze, mouth open, looking at the large case. How long did this fat baboon intend to stay?
Suo’s face began to darken.
“Go ahead,” Zulfira said, before turning to the fat man. “Please sit and make yourself comfortable in my home. Your assistant said that you would be late, so I was going to deliver my noodles to the market before making dinner.”