—Me…. What will you do?
—I will support you as best I can, of course. I also need to find old air.
—Old what?
—Air. I require air from the past. I need air from centuries ago, as far back as possible. I need… old air.
—That sounds fun. Do I dare ask why?
—No, Mia. You do not. I am too tired for science this evening. Tonight, you and I are carving.
—We are?
—We are performing the Maqlû.
—What’s the Maqlû?
—It is an ancient ritual.
—I figured that part, Mother.
—My mother and I did it together, before you were born. We would sit on her bed. It was rare for her to let me inside her bedroom. We would light a candle on each of the nightstands, barely enough light to see what was in front of us. In the winter, the draft of cold air from the window would make the flame waver. I tensed with every flicker. I think my mother enjoyed scaring me.
—What does it do?
—It was meant to protect against witchcraft, evil sorcerers.
—Don’t tell me you believe in all that.
—I did at the beginning. Perhaps not, but I wanted to believe. I was much younger than you are now. There was a sense of danger to the ritual. It had the allure of the forbidden. Now I find it quite soothing. But enough talking. I will get what we need for the Maqlû. You get us some iced tea from the refrigerator.
—Fine.
—With some ice, please.
—I know!…
—… Thank you, Mia. Now take this block of wood and start carving.
—Carve it into what?
—The evil sorcerer. Anyone who wishes to harm you. I would suggest the Tracker.
—I don’t know what he looks like.
—It is a piece of wood, Mia. A human shape will suffice. When we are done, we will drown it in ink, then crush it while we recite the incantations.
—We’re making voodoo dolls. How exciting.
—Do not make fun of your mother. As I said, it is… soothing. You’ll see.
—…
—Mia?
—…
—Mia! What are you doing? Stop staring at your tea and start carving.
—Look.
—No, Mia. I will not look at your tea.
—Not the tea, Mother, the ice.
—I have seen ice before. Now can we please—
—Closer, Mother! Bubbles!
Where is she going with this?
—I see there are small air b—
Air bubbles.
—Yes! Unless I’m mistaken, that’s air that was trapped when the ice formed, air from whenever you made the ice. Yesterday, or last week.
—Old air. This… is…
—I know, Mother. Now all you need is to find old ice. Somewhere with lots of snow—Antarctica, maybe Greenland… If there is melting in the summer season…
—It would create a fresh layer of ice each year. Count the layers to date the ice. Like the—
—Like the rings on a tree…. Can I have my drink back now? I thought we had voodoo dolls to make.
—I’m sorry, Mia. This is just—
—I know, Mother. I know.
20
My Mama Don’t Allow Me
I don’t know how it’s possible but my uniform is getting itchier with time. What do they make them with? Asbestos? These Komsomol meetings are a complete waste. I’m supposed to make rockets, not to reminisce about the great sacrifices placed on the altar of the Motherland in the name of freedom and independence. Seriously, who comes up with this nonsense?
Still, I have no idea how I’m supposed to speed up a rocket program that doesn’t exist. I mean, there are a handful of Soviets working on different things, but none of them are where we need them to be if we’re going against von Braun. Mother is right. We’ll need some Germans to help, but which ones? Even if I knew, they’ll need to work for someone, somewhere. I can probably get German scientists to build a German rocket, in Germany. That I can do—
—Nina?
But if we want the Soviets to race, we’ll need some Soviets. We need a Soviet something to approve a Soviet program, a Soviet chief designer, Soviet money. I don’t know how—
—You’re Nina, aren’t you?
Shit. I keep forgetting Nina’s my name in this hellhole. Who wants to know? Oh, behind me. Another Komsomol. She’s…
—I… Yes. I’m Nina.
—You’re not from around here, are you?
She can talk. She stands out like… well, like a black girl in Moscow. Come to think of it, she’s the only black person I’ve seen here. She’s also taller than me. No one’s ever taller than me. Where am I supposed to be from again? Oh yes.
—We’re from Uzbekistan.
I have no idea if we look Uzbek or not. I’ve never met an Uzbek before but, apparently, neither have most people.
—Neat! Come with me. Quick!
What? Come with her where?
—Where are we going?
—Through here, behind the building. Hurry! We don’t have much time.
She’s… skipping along. I don’t even know why I’m following her. This feels like a couple of ten-year-olds hiding from their parents. Are we hiding? Oh, she’s stopping now. She’s digging through her bag. A cigarette. She’s lighting a cigarette.
—Isn’t that against Komsomol principles?
Smoking, drinking, modern dancing. The marks of hooliganism and decadent fascism.
—I think we’re allowed one vice. Just one.
She’s handing me her cigarette.
I… I took it. What’s wrong with me? I just took it from her hand. I couldn’t say no. The tip is still wet from her lips. This feels… intimate, someh—WHOA! Head rush. Holy cow, that’s rough. I’m doing my best not to—
*cough* *cough*
I feel… dizzy. She’s smiling. Is she making fun of me? She hasn’t stopped smiling since we got here. It’s a beautiful smile. Childlike, careless. Now I’m self-conscious about everything. Is my face all red? How does her uniform fit her so well? I look like a fool in mine. Another drag.
…
So this is what smoking feels like. Light-headed and super awkward.
Why does she keep looking at me? She stares while she smiles. Few people can do that, look someone in the eyes for more than a second or two. Those who can do it with intent. They want submission. Not her. She just stares, with… insouciant abandon. I find it impossible not to look back, but I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m fidgeting. Why am I fucking fidgeting?
—I have to go. See you next week?
What? No, don’t leave. She’s putting out her cigarette, skipping back the way we came.
—Wait! You never told me your name!
—I’m Billie! Bye, Nina!
Billie? I have so many questions. She’s gone now. I wanted more. More of… something. Oh shit, I think I’m going to be sick.
21
Che Puro Ciel
—What was it like, Mother?
—What was what like?
—Hiroshima.
—… I don’t know.
How could I? No one saw it. Those who did are dead or dying. The Americans did not televise the murder of countless civilians. Newspapers used words like “terror” and “devastation,” but even a thousand words are not worth one picture. The only way Mia and I can experience the event is through science. We can do the math.
Come.
—Where are we going?
—Come with me!
—Outside? But it’s raining!
—You will survive. Here. Look at the sky and choose a point about two thousand feet above your head. That’s where it would have happened, where the bomb exploded.