Alexandra Duncan - Salvage

He touches the tiger. “I was thirteen when I got this. A few months later, I got caught running white tar to a dealer near the hotels, and they sent me down south to a juvenile detention camp.” He shrugs. “I spent three years there before they sent me back to my uncle.”

I look away. “I’m sorry.”

The kettle puffs and builds to a low keen. “Don’t be.” Rushil pulls it from the burner. “I met a counselor there who was with Kere Haavu before he went straight. He got me to study, finish school while I was locked up. I want to try and do the same.”

We lapse into silence. I think on how tense and sick he looked when we went to visit Pankaj, and how it all lifted the moment we were away. He didn’t want to be there, but he took me anyway. He didn’t want to be there, but it was the only way to find me work on the books, work that would keep me away from men like Pankaj and boys like he used to be.

I watch him pour tea and carry the tray out to Miyole. He pretends he’s going to dump the whole contents of the sugar bowl into her cup, only to pull back at the last minute. She giggles and reaches as he holds the bowl over his head. I watch them, watch Miyole smiling true for the first time since we broke the cloud caps over the Gyre.

Rushil looks up at me. In that moment, I realize I’m smiling, too, and cover my mouth with my hand.

Rushil knocks softly on the sloop’s hull. I put down one of the old paper books I’ve been practicing my reading on and climb out of the berth as quiet as I can.

“She’s sleeping,” I whisper.

“Sorry,” Rushil says. He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say next.

I lead him away from the ship so we don’t have to go on in whispers. “What is it?”

“I was going down to the TaTa Talkies tonight,” he says, looking more at his feet than me. “I thought maybe. . . do you want to come with me?”

“What’s the talkies?”

“It’s this old theater down by the levees. From back when Mumbai was the movie capital of the world. They keep this room on the second floor set up like an antique cinema, with a light projector and everything. The midnight show is always packed. Hold on.” He pulls his crow from his pocket. “It’s Musical Marathon night. You want to go?”

“I, uh . . .” I hesitate. I don’t want to admit to Rushil I have no idea what a marathon is, or a musical, exactly. “I don’t have the money.” That’s true enough. Why would I spend what precious little I have on music?

“My friend Ankur works there,” Rushil says. “He can get us in for free.”

“But Miyole . . .” I look back at the sloop.

“She’ll be safe,” Rushil says. “You can lock up the ship and I’ll set the gate alarms.”

I press my lips together, thinking. I’ve seen smallgirls and boys some younger than Miyole out running the streets alone all day, and here she’ll be locked up safe. Even if ship strippers did break in, ours is the last they’d go for, with its burned-out engine and missing tiles. I wish I could be as light as Rushil looks now, even for one evening.

“Come on.” Rushil smiles and punches me playfully on the arm. “You deserve it. She’ll be fine. Besides, musicals are no fun alone.”

I bite my lip and look back at the sloop again. “How long will we be gone?”

“Two hours,” he says. “Maybe three.”

I’m off some longer for work each day, and besides, Miyole’s asleep. She won’t even know I’m gone. “Right so.” I smile tentatively. “I s’pose I’ll go.”

I scrawl out a note saying I’ll be back soon, in case Miyole wakes up, and then grab Perpétue’s jacket. It’s too hot to wear it, but I feel better having it with me, even if it’s only draped over my arm.

We walk down to Sion station and take the train past the center city. As we glide closer to the massive levees on the west side, a sprawling white building with a dome and spire roof shines out among its neighbors. A sign glittering with millions of tiny lights projects above its top floor—TATA TALKIES—backed by the immense blankness of the levee wall. I stare past it, up at the round houses perched atop the walls like glittering lanterns floating in the night sky.

“Come on, this is our stop.” Rushil pulls at my sleeve.

We walk to the front steps of the building. I pause before the wash of light streaming from the theater and watch the people filing in. Their sleek, armless shirts, loose-cut pants, and gossamer scarves reflect the foyer lights. They take the steps gracefully, their thin-soled slippers and sandals bending with the curve of their feet. They leave me feeling shabby and heavy in my boots, my faded cotton button-down and patched trousers from the Gyre. Except for my work uniform, I only have one set of clothes, and I haven’t washed them in three days.

I turn back. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

“What’s wrong?” Rushil asks.

“I don’t . . . I don’t know. It’s . . . I don’t think I belong here.” I wave my hands at myself, my clothes, my snarled, uneven hair.

“No one cares. Besides, we’re not going in that way.” Rushil nods at the brightly lit grand entrance.

“No?” I frown.

“Nope.” Rushil grins. “Ankur’s giving us his employee discount.”

We skirt the crowd and head down an alley to the left of the building. A metal fire stair zigzags up its side.

I hang back. “Up there?”

But Rushil is already banging up the steps. The whole staircase sways slightly under his feet, as if it isn’t entirely anchored to the building anymore.

“Rushil!” I call as quietly as I can. I climb the first few steps, and feel them bob under my weight. “Rushil!”

“Come on,” Rushil calls down from the top tier. “Don’t worry. I’ve climbed this thing a million times.”

I swallow and step lightly up the staircase. It wobbles and sways, but I make it to the top.

“See?” Rushil says. “It’s nothing.”

I peek through the cracked door into a hallway lit with dozens of glass-beaded chandeliers. A crowd shuffles in from a grand staircase, filling the close space with mumbling and excited whispers.

“Maybe we should go back,” I say.

“It’s dark in there.” Rushil leans over my shoulder to check on the crowd. “No one’s going to notice us.”

I put my eye to the slit in the door and look on the crowd again. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I won’t seem so out of place in the dim light, with everyone’s minds on the musical.

“Right so,” I say, then catch myself. “I mean, okay.”

I move to pull the door open, but Rushil stops me with a tug on my hand. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make yourself say things our way. There’s nothing wrong with the way you say it. It’s atranji.”

“What?”

He frowns and stares up at the levee, searching for words. The glare from the glittering sign and all the lights of Mumbai mute the sky to gunmetal gray. “It’s like . . . well, strange, but that’s not how I mean it.”

“Thanks?”

“No, I mean . . .” He sighs in frustration. “Extraordinary, that’s it.”

I smile a little. Extraordinary. “Right so?”

“Right so,” he says, and I have to laugh at how funny my crewe’s words sound coming from his mouth.