Phoenix Extravagant, page 2
When the two pancakes were done, the seller tucked them into a paper packet and handed them over. Jebi amused themself trying to figure out where the paper came from. Outdated examination papers were the usual source, but sometimes people used unclassified documents. This packet appeared to have been cut from a shrill essay on the encroachment of Western styles in pottery. Jebi had no strong feelings about the subject, but it made for entertaining reading, to the extent that reading was possible while weaving between the passers-by.
By the time Jebi arrived at their sister’s apartment across town, they had devoured the first of the pancakes and were seriously considering eating the second as well. They wouldn’t, of course. The whole point of having a sister was to share, and that included sharing your fried pancakes even if one was very hungry after a tense day of sitting exams.
In this part of town, people lived in family houses that had been converted to rental units. These particular houses had been confiscated from people who had put up a fight when the Razanei administration was consolidating its hold on the city. Jebi and Bongsunga had had a screaming argument before they moved into the apartment. Bongsunga had wanted to stay in their mother’s old rental, even if the roof leaked and it had been broken into twice and they couldn’t afford to replace the iron grilles over the windows, since the landlord refused to do it. (The price of metal had gone up precipitously since the Razanei commandeered the output of the famed Hwagugin mines both for their automata and their war engines, from tanks to battleships.) Jebi had pointed out that they’d be less miserable moving into a less dilapidated place, and Bongsunga had finally given in.
This particular rental was one of the nicer ones, not that you could tell from the outside. Bongsunga, who never did anything by halves, had insisted on seeing all the available units and haggling down the price. Now, to hear her talk, the whole thing had been her idea in the first place. Jebi didn’t mind. They liked keeping their sister happy.
Jebi unlocked the door and entered, calling out, “Are you home, Bongsunga?” They spoke in Hwamal; there was no need for pretenses here. They slipped off their shoes and added, “I brought you a—”
“Sit down,” Bongsunga said coldly. “We need to talk.”
Bewildered, Jebi set the remaining fried pancake on a table and began taking off their coat. “What’s the—?”
“Sit down.”
Bongsunga was already sitting cross-legged on a cushion in the middle of the floor, a folder in her hands, next to the baduk set. The game in progress, with its black and white stones, changed every few days even though Jebi never met Bongsunga’s opponents. Perhaps she was playing herself, or working strategy puzzles.
Her hair remained cropped short the way it had been ever since her wife Jia died in the war with Razan six years ago. Bongsunga had never grown it out once the mourning period passed, even though Jebi chafed at having to cut it every time it strayed far from its current severe bob. Bongsunga had taught Jebi to cut her hair when they were small, to save money, even before their mother died. Looking at it now, Jebi wished that their sister would get over Jia’s death—it had been six years, after all—then winced inwardly at their own insensitivity.
Jebi let their coat fall in a crumpled heap, which would ordinarily have occasioned a lecture. They retrieved a floor cushion of their own from the stack by the wall, then arranged themself on the floor, also cross-legged. A sudden wild panic seized them: “The landlord didn’t jack up the rent, did they?”
Or worse, what if Bongsunga knew about Jebi’s debt?
Bongsunga’s scowl faltered. “You think this is about something as petty as rent?”
That was when Jebi knew how badly they’d fucked up. In the ordinary course of things, Bongsunga took money very seriously. “Then what?”
Bongsunga opened the folder with tight, controlled motions, like she was close to ripping it in half. “I found this in your room,” she said, and held up a sheet of paper.
The first thing that surged through Jebi was irritation. They weren’t ten anymore; their sister, even an older sister who liked being the responsible one, shouldn’t be going through their room. And never mind that the two of them could afford two separate rooms, which allowed Jebi plenty of space for splashing ink about and storing art supplies, instead of sharing like so many of their neighbors did.
The second thing—
“Where did you find that?” Jebi blurted out, which was stupid, their sister had just told them. The red stamp of the Citizens’ Bureau faced outward, clearly visible to them.
In answer, Bongsunga’s eyes narrowed. “‘Tesserao Tsennan,’” she read, although she stumbled over the pronunciation; the sound ts didn’t occur in Hwamal words. Unlike Jebi, Bongsunga had only learned the bare minimum of Razanei words—what she called ‘Rassanmal,’ the Hwamal term for the language—necessary to survive. “Whose idea was this?”
As if they’d been conned into getting a name certificate by some feckless friend over drinks. “It was my idea,” they said loudly.
Bongsunga tugged at a lock of her hair, white-lipped. She closed her eyes, breathed in and out. Opened them.
“If that’s all—” Jebi said, daring to hope that they could get this argument over with and slip off to the kitchen for a proper dinner. Maybe Bongsunga didn’t realize what a name certificate cost. After all, she considered the whole business distasteful; might not have paid attention to the bureaucracy involved.
“I’m not finished,” Bongsunga said. She put the certificate back in the folder. “You could have gotten into—this could get you into trouble with patriots. I’ll burn this, and we’ll have no more of this nonsense.”
Jebi’s temper flared. “What do you mean, ‘burn this’? I spent good money on—”
They realized the admission was a mistake the moment the words left their mouth.
“Money,” Bongsunga repeated slowly. “What money?”
Jebi gritted their teeth. There was no way Bongsunga would understand taking out a loan for something like this, so they had to lie to her. “I took odd jobs. Painting posters, the endless pictures of tigers to sell in the markets, you know. Believe it or not, people will pay something for good art. And I’m good at what I do.”
“Then why do you need this—this—?” Bongsunga indicated the offending document.
“Listen,” Jebi said, “could we at least discuss this after dinner? Because I’m famished after—” They clamped their mouth shut. Stupid. They’d meant to tell Bongsunga—after. Only after they’d passed the exams and it was a done deal.
Bongsunga’s voice took on what Jebi always thought of as her Mom But Not Mom Voice. “After what?” she asked with deceptive calm.
In Jebi’s earliest memories, their mother had yelled occasionally—not malice, just an uncertain temper after the tribulations of raising two children with her husband dead. Of course, she hadn’t lived long. Bongsunga had sworn once that she would never yell. And for the most part she succeeded. Jebi often wished she would, because yelling—even throwing chopsticks—would have been more endurable than this deadly coldness.
“Let’s talk about this after dinner,” Jebi repeated, and looked down. Their hands were shaking.
“I told you that you should have had more breakfast,” Bongsunga said, as if that mattered right now.
Jebi loved their older sister, even when she was mad, but sometimes she acted like she was still the only grown person and Jebi was still a teenager. “Never mind,” they said, “I’m not hungry after all.” They got up to go to their room—hide in their room, if the truth be told, until this blew over, and maybe they were acting like a teenager after all. Unfortunately, their stomach betrayed them by growling loudly. At any other time, it would have been funny.
Bongsunga rose as well, leaving the folder next to her cushion on the floor. She caught Jebi’s arm. “Listen to me.”
Jebi froze.
“Whatever it is you did that you think is so clever”—she said the word with no particular inflection—“you might as well share it now. We’ll get through it together. We always have.”
Jebi’s heart ached, because they didn’t think together was what their sister would be feeling once they admitted where they’d been all day. “It’s not trouble,” they said, trying to buy time. “I haven’t gone down to the gambling parlors and lost the month’s rent, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.” The moneylender had given them until the end of the month to come up with the money. And the Razanei paid on time. The problem was going to go away.
Bongsunga’s brow furrowed. Whoops; bad joke, bad time, and even when she was in a good mood, Bongsunga had no sense of humor when it came to money. “If it isn’t trouble,” she said, “why are you avoiding telling me?”
An excellent question, and one whose answer would only infuriate her. Fine, then; better to get the explosion over with so the two of them could resume an ordinary existence. Besides, Bongsunga would come around once Jebi started bringing in more money. After all, she’d wanted to replace the floor cushions with nicer ones. Their current set was starting to look threadbare. Jebi liked how their sister’s face glowed when she was able to afford things without worrying about money, especially since they were painfully aware how tightly she budgeted so that Jebi could have the art supplies they needed. Bongsunga spent all day out of the house, hustling at tasks she refused to talk to Jebi about, and worked half the night on top of it. Jebi wanted her to be able to lead an easier life.
Jebi squared their shoulders and bowed slightly, as though presenting a petition to someone close to their age. “I took the Ministry of Art examination today,” they said. “I did well. It’ll be a steady job. I’ll bring in more money than the scribal stuff and cheap pictures I’ve been doing.”
Bongsunga let go of their arm, and for a moment Jebi thought she wasn’t mad anymore. “What name,” she said, “did you register under?”
“I don’t see why that’s—”
“Exactly. You don’t see.” Bongsunga’s mouth crimped. “Answer the question.”
Jebi lifted their head and looked their sister directly in the eye, which caused her eyes to narrow. After all, Jebi was the younger. They might push her, they might defy her, but open disrespect from a younger sibling was another matter.
On the other hand, at this point, etiquette was the least of Jebi’s problems.
“I registered as Tesserao Tsennan,” they said into Bongsunga’s hostile silence. They couldn’t help themself: they made a point of pronouncing the foreign name perfectly, as they had practiced so carefully in the markets and at the downtown districts when Bongsunga wasn’t around to overhear. The words spilled out of them in a tumble. “You know what it’s like for Hwagugin these days. The Rassanin”—they used the Hwamal term for Razan’s people with the ease of long practice—“give preference to their own when they hire.”
Whoops. They’d revealed more than they’d meant to.
“It’s bad enough,” Bongsunga said flatly, “that you think it’s necessary to bow to the conquerors—”
Jebi made a frantic shushing motion; there were things you didn’t say, even within your own apartment.
But Bongsunga didn’t care about that. She continued, “—and even worse that you’re impersonating them.”
“It’s not impersonating, really,” Jebi protested, “I’m just letting them make whatever assumptions they want to—”
“You know perfectly well that Rassanin don’t live in this part of town. Even the lower-ranked ones have no trouble turning decent people out of their houses so they can loll about in luxury. The truth about your heritage will come out eventually, and then where will you be?”
“I just thought—”
Jebi might as well have been trying to argue with a monsoon. Bongsunga’s voice rose just slightly, like a string tuned too taut. “You know how Jia died!”
They did, although Bongsunga rarely spoke of it. Her wife had gone to war against the Razanei; had been cut down by a Razanei duelist wearing flamboyant Hwagugin red and blue—except the witnesses had seen the Sun in Glory armband, and she’d wielded a curved Razanei sword. If it hadn’t been the duelist, it would have been artillery shells or bullets, anyway. Hwaguk’s old-fashioned military, wielding swords and spears, had been no match for the Razanei with their tanks and modern rifles, technology reputedly stolen from the Westerners. Jebi still remembered the awful day when the messenger from the Hwagugin army had brought the news and recounted the whole thing in detail, and how Bongsunga hadn’t spoken for a week afterward.
I should have anticipated this, Jebi thought, fighting to keep their face from crumpling. They’d wanted Bongsunga to be happy. If only she hadn’t found the name certificate, everything would have worked out all right. Why had their luck charms failed them so badly?
Bongsunga was shaking. “Jia would have been appalled—appalled—” Then, to Jebi’s horror, their sister began to cry.
Jebi reached out instinctively. “Bongsunga, I—”
“Get out,” Bongsunga snapped. “Since you’re so keen on working for the conquerors, you might as well rely on them for your housing too. I’m not going to share my roof with a collaborator.” She thrust the name certificate at Jebi.
They stared at her. “You can’t mean that.” But they snatched the precious certificate anyway.
Bongsunga’s chilly stare was answer enough.
Numbly, Jebi walked to their room, all the while aware of Bongsunga watching, and packed their money, clothes, and most essential art supplies as quickly as they could. They didn’t want to linger one second longer than necessary. Not with their sister in this mood.
It wasn’t until they were out the door that they realized that they had left behind the fried pancake.
TWO
JEBI PULLED THEIR coat more tightly around themself as they walked away from their sister’s apartment. She’ll cool down, they thought miserably as the evening’s chilly wind skirled up their sleeves and cut past their scarf. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll have breakfast, and everything will be all right.
They had the sinking feeling that reconciliation was the last thing on Bongsunga’s mind. She rarely mentioned Jia by name; that she had done so was a testament to how upset she was.
Jebi could think of several friends they could stay with for a few nights, but not a long-term solution. Money was going to be a problem until the end of the month, unless they took out another loan, which they didn’t want to do. They shivered, sinking further into misery, and to top things off, they were really hungry.
They walked the half-hour to Hak’s place. Hak worked as a low-level clerk for the Citizens’ Bureau, on account of her beautiful calligraphy, in addition to brokering art sales on the side. In an earlier era, she would have been a poet, renowned for her graceful turns of phrase and ability to quote from the Huang-Guan classics. As it stood, she entertained herself in her off hours translating Razanei poetry into Hwamal. There was an underground market for the stuff, and Hak was a practical woman.
Most collaborators were less obvious about it, but Hak was a gumiho, a shapeshifting fox spirit. The Hwagugin didn’t want to cross her. The gumiho were known for seducing travelers and eating their livers. The general sentiment was that Hak was welcome to hang around the Razanei and eat their livers, if they were so foolish as to offend her. The one time Jebi had asked about the topic, Hak had laughed and said that she was a modern gumiho, not a traditionalist, with better ways of obtaining food.
Getting the name certificate had been Hak’s suggestion, so Jebi could count on her sympathy. Just as importantly, Hak had a generous spirit and wouldn’t mind hosting a down-on-their-luck artist for a couple nights. Jebi hated to inconvenience her, but of their friends, Hak was the best prospect.
I’ll make it up to her later, Jebi thought as they passed beneath the street lights. A lone automaton was igniting the lanterns one by one, although the sun was still a red-orange disc on the horizon. Jebi had no doubt that, by sundown, all the lights would be on, and timed perfectly, too.
That was one thing they liked about Razanei rule, although they’d never have admitted it to their sister. The Razanei had cleaned up the streets, hired street-sweepers, wired the central portion of Administrative City Fourteen for electricity. No electricity out here, of course—the street lights were ordinary lanterns—but they sometimes caught themself wishing for it in their home district. The streets felt safer with good lighting, even if violent crime was a rarity in most parts of the city thanks to the automata patrols. After all, automata didn’t care about day or night, or need to sleep at all.
While they were daydreaming, they wouldn’t mind electric lamps in a spacious art studio. Bongsunga—as much as it hurt to think about her—had originally given Jebi the larger room, not just so they could have the space for their supplies, but because it had a wonderful north-facing window. The other room was in the shade most of the time, thanks to a profligate wisteria that attracted hornets in the summertime. Being able to work whatever hours they pleased with good light, instead of being bound by the rising and setting of the sun, sounded like an impossible luxury.
Perhaps the best way to proceed would be to—and Jebi sighed—bring a small gift. It was the polite thing to do, even if they had to hoard their money carefully until the job came through. Still, the best way to ask for a favor was to do a favor, wasn’t that how the world worked?
With that in mind, Jebi detoured to a book-seller’s stall. There were always book-sellers, many of them trading in old Hwamal books and the occasional import from the great land of Huang-Guan to the north of Hwaguk’s peninsula. Increasingly they sold books in Razanei, too. The Razanei government attempted to regulate the trade in books, but so far their efforts had been half-hearted and not terribly successful, unless the book-seller was stupid enough to pass around openly seditious literature.
This one-armed book-seller sat on a stool that had seen better days, hunched over a ledger as they cataloged their stock. The two of them exchanged nods of recognition: they both wore their hair in asymmetrical haircuts, like geu-ae currently did in the capital. The Razanei seemed baffled by geu-ae, people who chose to live not as men or women at all, or who sometimes dressed and spoke as one and sometimes as the other. But they left them alone, for which Jebi was grateful.
