1968 (Part III)

Ken's second dream of the afternoon was remarkable only for its length. This time as his eyes unfocused behind his eyelids he performed his sure-fire method for destroying trains of thought. He recalled the sound of the ceramic drills which used to keep him up most nights when he was a small boy living in Nanking. That is easily the worst sound known to humankind: he remembered how for long hours in the evenings his mother and he and his grandfather and grandmother would wander around their one small room aimlessly until the shift stopped sometime around 2 a.m. The workmen had some astronomical quota to fulfill apparently. As he thought of this, focusing mainly on the sound and not the pathos, he shuddered inwardly, at some level below awareness, and he tumbled into a dreamless sleep.

Many hours later, he was startled awake by a loud banging at his door. He recoiled and blinked quckly to shake the sleep crud out. Had they come for him? What had he done wrong? He knew it did not really matter. But why would they come for him? Who was he? Just a foreigner. And why had he not heard their slogans from blocks away? He glanced out the window at his narrow street: nothing, just the usual bustle of bicyclists, men in overalls and women lying in the parkette three deep. The red-bandannaed youth provocateur was in her usual spot at the corner, distributing her literature somewhat lackadaisically The pipes from the distillery a block away spewed their waste gases languidly. It was all wrong. He stilled his trembling hands by leaning against his table. This was the time he wished he had found more wisdom in his life. His mother was an educated woman, his grandfather had told him. She had read many great books in her time. But she was always busy; in his mind, his mother never read. He began to tear up, weak from self-pity. What strange things he was thinking about! He decided to do the courageous thing once in his life. He would not cowert. He would just walk out there and let them do what they will. He only wished he belived in God. But that's how these thing go. He opened the door with what he thought must have lookedl ike a grand, solemn gesture. And then he stopped short of his final flourish, suddenly confused again.

It was not a mob. It was one woman. He vaguely recognized her; she might be a neighbour of his. She was dressed in factory overalls and a bandana. Not pretty: her face was rutted and sunken and was probably coated in some residual machine oil. He asked who she was. She was his neighbour, as he suspected. What did she want? She explained it to him in her halting, accented speech (she must have been a recent migrant):

"... they put me on double shifts without asking me. I tried to protest. Who will care for my child? The foreman just avoided me and ignored my question. Oh, he is a cruel man. But that's enough of that. Everyone has complaints, right? Anyway, when S-- told me about your... um... situation, I thought this is the perfect solution." (This next part sounded rehearsed to Ken. He realized later that the woman must have been very self-conscious of her accent.) "Would you like company while you... um... hide here? You can watch my little girl. I'll give you some money for it, of course, and I'll help out. I'll replace what she eats, and maybe I'll add a little more. so, how about it?"

He didn't know why, but he agreed readily.

"Good. You start now. I'm late for my shift."

Ten seconds later, the woman was gone and a little girl--she looked to be about eight--was standing in front of Ken's couch-bed, trying to take up as little space as possible and staring at the ground with a blank expression. Our protagonist was at a loss for action. And now he suddenly felt self-conscious about his space.

TO BE CONT'D

Tomorrow: something on the first nations genocide.

First Nations Proverb: "listen or your tongue will keep you deaf."