Dreams Ltd (23 page)

Jenny realised that the first dialog has come to an end and decided not to push her luck any longer; she turned around and, swaying her hips, and disappeared through the doorway. When the voices and footsteps outside faded away, she leaned against the rough wall, staring at the ceiling. The darkness was shielding her cold eyes, that were a reflection of her fast-working calculating mind, and an unpleasant smile stuck on her lips.

The next three days I remember very vaguely. The work was taking up all of my spare time; people at the ranch were getting up at dawn and going to bed after the sunset. The list of my duties included variety of things: spending time in the kitchen, in the yard, in the house or in utility rooms. I couldn’t occupy my mind with anything and most of the time it was filled with emptiness and apathy, the awareness of my slavery position was killing any desire to bother. By this point I finally realised that I won’t be able to see Linda or Alex or any of my other friends any time soon, and that I will remain on this ranch for a long time, quite possibly forever. There wasn’t any point in trying to create any meaningless hopes that someone will understand or support me; as Jenny has said once “you are always alone here” and she was right.

When Tabitha had a few minutes to spare, we chatted in the kitchen. I also acquired two towels, a soap bar, a clean but worn-out beige t-shirt and two pairs of knickers from her. I tried not to think of whom these belonged to before me - in any case I had no choice what to wear, everything that the Corporation provided me with was left in my apartment on Bell-Oak Park and nobody assisted me in getting it back.

Tabitha also showed me the way to the shower which was located at the back of the corridor, and now, every night before going to bed I could at least wash off a salty crust that would surface on my skin as soon as the merciless sun of Tally rose over the horizon. I still had a problem with my jeans - because of the thick layer of sweat and dirt I was barely able to bend my knees and since I didn’t have another pair I just had to suffer. My shoes were also deteriorating rapidly. Anyhow, I didn’t care about anything anymore – not about how I looked on the outside nor what there was left inside of me.

I didn’t look at the faces of other people and I didn’t listen to their conversations - my hands were doing the work automatically while I was putting every effort into keeping any thoughts away from my mind. It felt like I was on the edge of despair or if I began feeling pity for myself, I’d slip off the edge for good. The only safe place for me was in this unemotional bubble.

Everything that felt so natural to me in the past, like going to “Lorian's” café opposite my house in Klendon City, having afternoon tea with my shop assistants in the store (Linda would never forget to get some chocolate chip biscuits), watching the evening news, listening to a familiar ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece - all of that now dissolved in memory or lost its colour and was coated with dust like a soft toy long forgotten up in a loft. I couldn’t even remember Alex’s laughter or his smile as if someone cold-heartedly brushed it off with a wet sponge, mistaking it for a handful of dust.

There was no more shopping trips, no dreams about my own car or a second branch of my shop, no ice-cream before bedtime. Instead, there was yellowish-red landscape, hot sizzling air, shouting of the guards and sometimes woeful groans of the workers.

I would come back to my room when a tiny star appeared on the dark sky, hang the washed clothes on the only table in the corner, plait my wet hair and go to bed. After that I’d turn to the wall, pressing my forehead against the cold wall and listen to the rare footsteps in the corridor. When I wasn’t able to get rid of these pesky thoughts and stop my eyes from welling up, I would pull on my bristly, after using soap, hair or plucking feathers out of the skinny pillow. Sometimes I would wake up holding a whole bundle of feathers, squeezed in the palm of my hand. If this habit was to remain - I’d risk sleeping without any pillow at all.

Worst of all was that I couldn’t find any positive or even slightly comforting moments in my current situation. Walking across the ranch only intensified my depression; my mood was particularly affected by watching the faces of the field workers, marked by a stamp of submissiveness. Yes, I did understand that all of them were criminals and there were murderers and robbers, and rapists amongst them; however this city has got a strange ability to equate the severity of committed crimes and link people’s hearts with a chain of shared grief. The illusion of free life and the ability to travel outside my tiny prison cell was not helping to keep up with a good mood, but was rather corroding my mind. Everyone who came here, sooner or later would get the moment of realisation that the promised "Big City" with the opportunity to atone for their mistakes by the means of heavy labour, in fact turned out to be a rusty trap that would catch and swallow any foot that would step into it. Sitting in the dock, anyone would think that “Area 33” resembled a luscious birthday cake but in reality it was fly-spotted, dried up and cracked dusty old cake that even a stray cat wouldn’t dare to try. And after such a rude awakening not many of those who came to Tally would have the strength to carry on hoping for a good outcome. Many got so frustrated so they’d began harming themselves or the others, try to commit suicide or would get so deep in a negative points score that they would soon disappear into the oblivion. Some had the will to hold on for years, while others would prefer the death to this king of life after just a couple of hours spent on the streets of Tally.

That is why I no longer looked at the faces - not being able to help myself I couldn’t see how I could help them. Such situation was completely depriving me a life spark which could give me a hope or at least a good mood. I was coming back to my empty room in the evenings and leaving it in the morning with the only thought - to survive another day.

Strangely I was lucky enough not to meet Greg or any other guards that were with him by the kitchen that evening. Greg was the only person I intentionally and carefully avoided - my intuition told me that another meeting with him could end up badly. I also saw Hulk only once since our last conversation in his office and frankly I didn’t miss meeting him again at all. In my opinion it wasn’t “normal” to want to own a place like this, to torment others (criminals but still human beings) and then go to a private club to chat and drink with other mobs like him. Even though Hulk appeared to be a little more astute and fair than I would like him to be, he still was a slave holder and even being called by a nice name “the owner” didn’t make any difference. A person who enjoyed being surrounded by slaves - was a callous person with no heart.

My last encounter with Jenny which took place in a public dining room the day before also deserved to be mentioned separately. It left a really bad residue in my memory, making me feel a taste of sludge brought from the bottom of the swamp each time I thought about it. A stubby one-story dining room was located further away from the white mansion, hidden by some tall plants - the broad path trodden on by many soles, led to it. When I stepped inside for the first time I was struck by the number of dirty sweaty bodies, standing in a queue to a small window, where everyone was handed a plastic tray with a bowl of soup or porridge and couple of slices of bread. On the drinks front there was either tea or pale yellow barely sweet compote, smelling of dried fruits. Standing in the queue behind someone’s back dressed in a wrinkled red t-shirt I was leisurely looking around the room, when I suddenly felt somebody’s heavy stare on me. I turned around and saw a strange woman, whose eyes screaming with contempt. I was surprised but as I couldn’t see what I’d done wrong, I turned away and continued looking at the red t-shirt. But as soon as I got my tray and walked over to one of the dirty tables, I caught a few more heavy looks from the strangers, mostly women. Some of them were looking at me with disgust, some with aggression and others were just shaking their heads. I began to feel uncomfortable and nauseous as if they were the nuns who accepted me - a homeless beggar - to stay over for a night in the shrine and instead of being grateful, I scribbled on the walls on their monastery some raunchy words, or shat on top of the priest’s altar. I tried to remember if I’d crossed someone’s road or was involved in any tiffs but my conscience was calm as a surface of a lake in the most tranquil conditions - nothing came to mind.

As I just about finished up my piece of stale bread, I carried the tray with the leftovers to a large table by the wall which already had a pile of trays like mine on it and that’s when I ran straight into Jenny. She was dressed in a white long shirt, and wide, even for her curvaceous figure, trousers. When our eyes met, I caught a wave of genuine anger and almost staggered. Another woman promptly touched Jenny’s arm and whispered loudly "Is that her?" and as soon as my ex-friend nodded, the same expression appeared in the eyes of her companion – an expression of disgust as if I wasn’t a human but a rubbish bin with loads of green flies hovering over it. Seconds later, I broke up my stupor and ran past this couple onto the street.

The shock I’d just experienced in the dining room was still hanging over me even when I was already in bed, pressing my head against the wall and pulling the feathers out of the pillow.

I couldn’t work out what caused such an attitude in the dining room and because of that I wasn’t able to fall asleep for a long while that night.

A few days later a new duty was added to the existing list. Tabitha had just finished filling up a large aluminium barrel, standing by the stove, with some fresh soup from a huge bubbling pot. When she added the last ladleful into the barrel, she waved her hand and two men plunged it onto a wooden cart with a long handle. The cart was taken out from the kitchen to the driveway and left there standing on warm cobbles.

“It’s certainly not light, so don’t rush. Guys with the stone-pit never come into the public dining room, it’s way too far for them.”

We stood at the kitchen’s entrance; Tabitha was wiping her hands on the apron, the sun filtering through the crown of oaks was adding a glare on her dark sweaty skin.

“I also put a loaf of bread in the sack; they have plates and spoons over there. Do you remember where to go?”

I nodded.

“Good.” she looked at me affectionately, “when you come back, come into the kitchen. I baked a berry cake today and left a piece for you.”

I gave her a grateful smile and I could see how it reflected in Tabitha’s black eyes, as though somewhere in that darkness a few golden sparks flashed for a split second.

“Go.”

“Sure. And thank you.”

I picked up the wooden handle from the ground, pulled it and started walking along the stone path - the cart, creaked heavily and reluctantly followed behind me.

It was a long way to the stone-pit. My trainers were raising lots of dust from the ground, my shoulders were aching from straining but I was faithfully pulling the cart, throwing the rough wooden handle from one hand over to another. The sun had already crossed the highest point in the sky and thankfully the day hasn’t been too hot. A gentle breeze was tugging the stems of the plants growing along the road and spreading a spicy and slightly tart flavour of inflorescences.

The barrel’s lid was not closed tight enough and it would rattle every time the wooden wheels hit another bump; the sack with bread was trying to slide sideways and get lost somewhere by the roadside. After another attempt to catch the slipping linen sack, I tied it up around one of the wooden planks.

When the stone-pit finally appeared in the distance, my arms were aching from exhaustion and my legs were stumbling even on the straight and narrow surface; the only comforting thought was that on the way back my cart will be much lighter. As soon as I saw an old wooden house with a saggy roof, stretched along the perimeter, I headed towards it. The fence around the house didn’t look much better - the wood it was made of was heavily affected by time and weather; the long boards were no longer attached to the poles and lying on the ground, looking like pencils nibbled on by some lazy students.

When men noticed me and the cart, they started gathering up. Some threw their picks and walked from a rocky spur; some left the pushcarts filled with boulders and almost ran down the path to the house, some came out of the building.

Suddenly I felt nervous - it’s one thing when you look at tiny figures from the distance and another when you approach them closer and closer until they become a crowd of hefty strange and very real men, who I’d never met before. Who knows what to expect from the convicts, especially in such an isolated place?

No guards could be seen nearby. Well, I hoped that the men will treat me as a cart “driver” and not as a woman who needs special attention.

But my fears turned out to be unfounded - despite the fact that the faces around looked sullen and unfriendly, even the “owners” from “Polo-Grand” could learn some good manners from the quarry workers because as soon as the cart was in the driveway, it was straight away taken off me by two men. Gesticulating and talking, they pulled it closer to a wooden table in the middle of the yard, lifted the barrel and placed it on top of it. Then they carefully stepped to a side.