Thornbird of the New City

“Annie.” The teacher called my name. With my heart in my throat, I walked up to the teacher’s desk. “Fail.” She coldly tossed my test paper to me, then called, “Lilyan.” Lilyan swept forward like a breeze. The teacher smiled and praised her, “Excellent—full marks.” The handwriting on Lilyan’s paper was clear and elegant, as beautiful as the teacher’s writing on the blackboard. Compared to hers, my characters were crooked and clumsy, the page covered with corrections marked in red. I watched her with admiration, thinking how amazing she was. She always came first in exams, even beating all the boys. Lilyan was a special kind of girl. If other girls were like potatoes, she was a cake. Potatoes differ from one another, yet they’re mostly alike—just cheap everyday food. A cake is different. It’s a delight. Lilyan had beautiful, thick black hair and large azure eyes, fair delicate skin and fine, pretty features. She didn’t shriek or swear like other girls; her voice was soft and pleasant, her every movement graceful and refined. I never dreamed I could become friends with her. I was the youngest girl in class, two years younger than most. No one wanted to play with me. And now, I could walk home holding Lilyan’s hand. It was a pity she didn’t focus much on me. She would chat and laugh with the boys while holding my hand, and I was like a little dog on a leash. She didn’t even have to pay attention to me or speak to me. The boys jostled and roughhoused like a disorderly flock of sheep. Yet as we passed the Jonathan’s Bar, they all fell silent without fail. They tiptoed past that area, as timid as newborn lambs. In New Town, Jonathan was a frightening name. When people spoke of them, they lowered their voices and wore cautious, fearful expressions. Adults even forbade children from mentioning the name Jonathan. It gave everyone the illusion that Jonathan was some terrible monster that would gobble you up if you got too close. But I knew they weren’t monsters. The Jonathan family had twin boys in our class—Bill and Hainé. They were handsome boys with blond hair and blue eyes, always dressed in identical fitted jackets and checkered shorts, even wearing leather boots that most adults couldn’t afford. Though mischievous, they were always polite around Lilyan, speaking to her gently, just like now as they caught up from behind and flanked her on either side. Bill only talked to Lilyan. Hainé did greet me, but before I could respond, his gaze shifted back to Lilyan. When they looked at her, their eyes seemed to glow. Both brothers were tall, slender, and fair, but their personalities differed slightly. Bill was domineering; he never did homework and often bullied classmates. We had shared a classroom for years, yet we’d barely exchanged words. Hainé was the opposite—he got good grades, was polite to everyone, and some girls secretly called him Prince. As usual, I trailed silently behind the three of them, watching them talk and laugh. Suddenly, a series of agonized cries erupted behind us. Outside the entrance of Jonathan’s Bar, several young men wielding clubs were beating a middle-aged man. The man, wearing a filthy shirt and suspenders, curled up on the ground like a ball, protecting his head as the blows rained down. Amid the flying dust, he vomited, thick yellow vomit mixed with streaks of blood. Though his face was smeared with mud, his one-eyed features were quite recognizable. It was Vides, older sister Juliet’s father—a drunkard and a gambler. He lay groaning in pain. One young man, Mike—a Jonathan enforcer—grabbed his hair and forced his head up. “Hey, debts must be paid. That’s only right. So what do we do now?” Mike was young and handsome, muscular, a cruel smirk playing on his lips even as he threatened. His casual expression was as if he were asking about the weather. “Please, just a few more days…” The man knelt on the ground, his bloody mouth gasping for air. He begged and clutched at Mike’s trousers, then crouched like a dog and kissed the other’s shoes. Mike made a disgusted face and kicked the man’s face away. “I just polished these.” Another enforcer kicked the man hard in the stomach. “Spineless bastard! Last time you said you’d send your daughter to the brothel, didn’t you? Heard there’s already a bed waiting for her there. Don’t worry—we’ll visit often, help pay off your family’s debt sooner.” The men strode off, leaving Juliet’s father lying there like a dead dog. The crowd of children dispersed. Lilyan hid behind Bill and Hainé, trembling like a frightened little rabbit. Bill comforted her softly. “Don’t be scared. Brother Mike is a good man; he doesn’t lose his temper for no reason. It’s those deadbeat debtors’ fault.” Lilyan nodded timidly and managed a faint smile. The three of them walked off, chatting and laughing. I didn’t follow. Instead, I tightened my grip on my schoolbag and ran toward older sister Juliet’s house. Juliet lived in a dark, drafty, dilapidated building. She and her mother often did laundry for neighbors to earn a little money. She did our family’s laundry too. Whenever she came to our house, she would smile gently and compliment me on how much I’d grown or how pretty I was becoming. Truth was, she was the one who’d grown tall and beautiful. She was fifteen now, with lovely golden hair and a curvaceous figure. The way men looked at her was different. Besides that, there was something else about her—something hard to put into words. Many women around here had it too. Sometimes it mingled with that gentle smile, turning into a blank, wooden expression. The door to Juliet’s home stood open. She and her mother were doing laundry, surrounded by basins of water. Juliet’s mother was a somewhat frightening, hunchbacked woman. Her face was like coarse bark—dark, rough, and deeply wrinkled. Her hair was streaked gray and patchy, her voice hoarse as a crow’s, like an old witch from a fairy tale. And she was always having babies. I didn’t know how many children Juliet’s mother had given birth to. Her belly would swell and shrink, babies would be born and then die. From deep inside the room came the wail of an infant, heart-rending and desperate. But no one went to tend to the child. It was as if they were just letting it cry itself to death. “Older sister Juliet.” Juliet came out, her hands still wet. “Annie?” “Older sister Juliet, you have to run away. Your father was beaten by the Jonathans. They said they’d send you to the brothel,” I whispered. Juliet’s face slowly turned pale, even her lips losing their color. “Before your father comes back, you have to run! Go!” I urged, pushing her gently. But she didn’t move. After a long silence, she said quietly, “Thank you, Annie. I’ll be fine. You should go home now.” That day, as I looked into the dark, cold mouth of her building’s stairwell, a strange feeling came over me. It was as if older sister Juliet had been swallowed by that hallway. That indescribable quality about her also became clearer—like a rose plucked from the stem. It may still look alive and vibrant, but in truth, it’s already dead. Heavy-hearted, I walked out—and ran into Hainé. He stood in the middle of the road, smiling at me as if he’d been waiting especially for me. Hadn’t he left? Why was he here…? “Hi, Annie. What are you doing here?” he asked, coming up beside me. “Came to ask for my mother—see if our laundry is done,” I said. “Oh.” He nodded. But the next second, he shoved my face against the wall as easily as handling a chick, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “Good. I was really afraid you might be meddling in things.” “Let me go!” I shrieked. “Brother Mike and the others don’t care if you’re a kid. If they find out you’ve done something unnecessary, your parents will be in trouble.” I could feel the grit on the wall scraping my cheek. Tears welled up unbidden. I yelled, “I’ll tell my dad! He’ll beat you up!” “Your dad? That cuckolded cripple? He doesn’t even dare hit his own wife, and he’s going to hit me?” “You’re a bad person! Your whole family are bad people!” I sobbed. After a moment, he released me and walked away without another word.