Chapter 45Ten Mornings

Under the Shanghai flyover, the stall owner crouched beside his electric scooter and undid the knot at the back of his apron, the knot he had not tied.

His hand went back over his shoulder and found the place where the two cloth ties crossed. The knot was loose, and sat a little to the left of his waist. One hook of the thumb and he had the end. The end was very short, a length of thread pulled from the edge of the cloth. He tugged it and the knot came open. The apron slid a finger’s width down his waist, and he held it up with the back of his hand and did not let it fall to the ground. The ties were cotton, starched and stiff, and where they brushed the back of his hand there was a frayed edge.

This knot was the way the person who had tied it for him in those two years had tied it, and he had never changed it. A plastic bag hung from the handlebar, holding yesterday’s unsold spring onions, seven in all, their leaves already limp. He crouched and looked at the two ties in his hands, looked for a while, and did not get up.

It was twenty past six in the morning, and the streetlight at the mouth of the lane was still on. On the flyover the cars went by one after another, and the noise pressed down from overhead. He did not look up.

He shook the apron open, brought it round behind him and tied it with his hands behind his back. This time he used his own way, not a loose knot. The two ties went through and were pulled tight, the end tucked under and pressed very flat, the two ties the same length on either side. The knot sat in the exact middle of his waist.

Then he stood up and went to the back seat of the scooter. The lid of the insulated box was open and it was empty inside. On its walls were three rings of soup stain, dried pale yellow, the innermost ring the faintest. He put a hand on the handlebar and glanced into the mirror on it. In the mirror was his back, the apron ties behind his waist, the knot facing out.

He looked for a long time.

When he had finished looking, he crouched and undid the knot. His thumb pressed on the knot, pressed twice, before it found the end. He tied it back the way it had been: a loose knot, a little to the left of his waist. The two ties went through, his thumb pushed in, the knot tilted a little, and he did not straighten it. This time he pulled slowly, and on the last pull he stopped and did not tighten it further.

He put his right hand on the right-hand pocket of the apron, pressed once, wiped once. The mark would not wash out. The shape of the palm was still there, and its edge was the edge of his palm. In the pocket was an unopened packet of toothpicks, and he did not take it out.

Last of all he set the right-hand clasp of the insulated box straight. The clasp had been broken once, and a length of bicycle inner tube was looped round it, its edge rolled up in a ring. He pressed it down with his thumb until it lay flat against the lid.

※

Zhou Sulan’s work ID card was in her right-hand pocket. The four corners of its plastic case had worn round, and the photo faced out.

At ten past four in the morning she reached the sanitation depot. The depot door was not locked, only fastened with a hasp. A bun wrapper had been left on the threshold, and she picked it up and threw it into the bin in the corner. Her broom hung on the fourth hook, the slanted end up. There were six hooks on the wall in all, and two were empty. A colleague arrived second, his gloves on the wrong hands. She did not say anything, and waited for him to notice himself.

Sweeping started at five. Eleven hundred metres, three times a day. The first pass swept last night’s fallen leaves and the water that had run out of the doorways. The water on the road was from the night, and the broom pushed it into the gutter, where the rust on the drain covers lay in patches. The woman who sold soy milk ducked out from under her roller shutter with two buckets in her hands, glanced at her, nodded once and ducked back in. Her broom went past the woman’s feet and pushed a small piece of vegetable leaf to the edge of the gutter. When she reached the third telegraph pole, she moved the broom to her left hand, shook out her right, and moved it back.

She stood for a while in front of her locker and pulled out the work ID card. The plastic case had been issued with the card and had had nothing in it. By the mouth of the case was a white scratch where a fingernail had gone across. The slip of paper had been pulled from under a bowl. She had brought it back and kept it in the inside pocket of her coat, folded once, the corners gone soft. There was still a little grease along its edge, pressed out by the base of the bowl.

There was only one time on the paper: half past ten.

She knew the number. It had been written quickly, and where the pen lifted the ink had bled a little.

She slid the paper into the plastic case, pushed it to the bottom and pressed the mouth of the case flat with her thumb. The slit was very narrow, and only one corner of the paper showed. She pressed that corner in too. The case bulged a little and went flat again. The work ID card went back into her right-hand pocket, the photo still facing out.

Before seven she had swept as far as the second bin. Beside it was a torn-open delivery bag, its mouth ripped into strips. Her broom stopped on the rim of the bin and stayed there for half a second. The broom did not come down, and did not lift.

She pinched the fold in the brim of her cap back into its old place.

Bristles down, slanted end up, she went on sweeping.

※

Tokyo, the lift lobby at the company, ten to eight.

He was wearing new glasses. The frames were thin and metal-coloured, with no tape on the arms. On the day he had them made, the assistant was in a small shop in the underground arcade at the station, with twelve pairs of glasses laid out in a glass case, and he tried on three. The assistant held the lenses up to the window and looked through them against the light, then wiped them once over with a piece of soft cloth, changing the angle partway through. The assistant said, “No scratches.” He nodded once.

He had not thrown the old pair away. It was in the drawer, right at the back. The right arm was still bound with clear tape, wound a turn and a half from the hinge upwards, wound very flat. The slight bend in the frame was still there, and the hinge still moved. He had not tightened it, and he had not taken it off. He pushed the drawer back in, all the way, and heard it knock against the edge of the drawer with a single sound.

On the train to work, the ceiling lights of the carriage were reflected in the window. When the doors closed he turned slightly to let them shut, and did not let them catch on anything. He did not lower his head, and he did not look at the glass. This run stopped at nine stations in all, and he got off at the seventh.

The lift doors opened. Someone stood inside, in a suit, holding a paper bag with its top folded over twice and three lines of handwriting on it, very small. He stepped aside, a very small step. He did not say sorry.

He said, “Morning.”

The lift doors closed. The mirrored wall of the lift reflected his face, and there was not a single spot of glare on the new lenses. At the edge of the mirror were two scratches, and he did not look at them.

As he passed the kitchenette, the water heater had three small lights, only the left one lit, and the water had not yet boiled. His desk was in the third row by the window. There were seven desks in the third row, and his was at the far end. The lock on its bottom drawer was broken, and no one had ever fixed it. Outside the window was the glass curtain wall of another building, and in the curtain wall the sky was reflected, and the sky was white. He put his bag on the chair and did not sit down. The papers on the desk were yesterday’s, three stacks in all, twelve copies to a stack, the corners square. He pushed them to the left.

A sticky note was stuck to the edge of his monitor, its corner curling. The notes came from his manager’s desk, a pad of sixty, and he took only one a day. On the back of the note were tally marks, one short vertical stroke for every time he said sorry. There were fewer marks on the back now than before. He was counting them himself.

He slid the sticky note under his keyboard and pressed it flat.

※

Seoul, the old practice room, six in the morning. The window was not yet light.

There was a streak of mist on the mirror, where it had been wiped last night. It had been wiped clean, but the edges were still damp. Soles had worn a pale line into the wooden floor, running from the front of the mirror all the way to the door. The boy first picked up the plastic ruler from the floor. Its edge had worn round, and the zero end had worn a shallow dip. He carried it to the cabinet by the wall and pulled open the second drawer. In the drawer were five old scores, a roll of black tape, a pen with no cap and two drawing pins. Along the edge of the drawer was an old scratch, left many years ago by someone else’s fingernail. The line of black tape along the bottom of the mirror frame was still stuck down, one end lifting at the edge, and he did not peel it off. He put the ruler in, pushed it to the very back, and the drawer knocked against the back of the cabinet with a single sound.

He closed the drawer and did not look at it again.

Twenty past six, the bathroom in the dormitory. The bathroom door slid, and a layer of dust had built up in its track. He pushed it and it made no sound. The scales stood against the wall behind the door, an iron case, the needle sitting on zero. He stepped on, feet apart, standing on the two strips of anti-slip bumps, and waited for the number to stop jumping.

He did not take his socks off.

The socks were white, and the grey ring rubbed into the heels was still there. They had been washed many times, and the grey was faint, but it was still there. He stood and looked down at the number once. The number was a little higher than yesterday, or a little lower, and he did not try to remember it.

He stepped down, and his socks made no sound on the tiles. There was a water mark on the mirror. He wiped half of it away with a tissue, and the other half he did not wipe. The shoebox under the bed had been pushed back in its place, its lid closed. By the door there had been a pair of slippers. One of them was gone, and he did not look for it.

The mirror was very small and showed only his jaw and a section of neck. He raised a hand and pressed his thumb to the place on the right side of his jaw. The colour of the pressure mark was paler than yesterday, a pale red, with a ring of white still round its edge, a very narrow white. Pressed, it was flat, and only the edge was still a little hard. He pressed once and let go.

He hung the towel back on the hook behind the door, hung it flat, one side long, one side short.

※

Paris, Stone Steps Square, half past seven in the morning.

The water on the steps was from last night and had half dried, so the stone was dark in some places and light in others. Fine grass grew in the cracks between the flagstones, its tips grey. The roller shutter of the café was half up, and inside someone was wiping tables, wiping very slowly, changing cloths after each one. At a window on the first floor someone leaned out, looked at the square once and drew back in.

The speaker was plugged into the socket at the café door. The charge light climbed one bar at a time, reached the second bar, stopped and waited. A full charge took an hour. She crouched beside the socket and watched the bars, and did not touch it. The power cord was black, with a turn of insulating tape round the plug. The end of the tape was lifting, and she pressed it down with a fingernail. On the faceplate of the socket was a scratch, left by plugging in and pulling out many times.

The speaker was old, and the beige tape on its handle was wound three times round. Even fully charged, it lasted only forty minutes. She had counted many times, counted on the steps, and at the thirty-first minute she stopped to drink water.

Yesterday she had danced two rounds, forty minutes each. In the second forty minutes, the person who danced very badly had stood at the edge of the bottom three steps and danced with her. His first beat was early, his second late, and on the third his right foot came down first, came down hard, and he lurched forward. She had counted. He went wrong seven times, and she did not correct him.

The toe of her right shoe still had the hole, white threads curling at its edge, and she had not mended it. She had changed the way she wound the lace. The lace went round above the hole, not across its mouth but over the upper, round the instep, pulled tight once round above the ankle and tied off hard. The left foot still had its two knots.

The cardboard was a box sent back from a warehouse, opened out and pressed flat. It lay on the steps with the marks of two knees pressed into it. On the cardboard was a warehouse stock number, nine digits, upside down, and she did not look to see what it was. She pressed the cardboard flat with her palm, all the way down to the bottom step. One corner of the cardboard lifted a little, and she held it down with the toe of her shoe. One corner of the cardboard bore a square red stamp, with no writing on its face.

She stood up and pulled the lace of her right shoe tight one more turn.

※

Dubai, the service yard on the site, seven in the morning. With the tower accepted, there was no more pouring at night. The night shift was withdrawn from tonight, and this morning was the last sign-out.

Sol came off the night shift and walked from the annexe all the way to the service yard. His safety line hung over his shoulder, the clip facing out, the webbing steel grey and without a crease. The cuffs of his overalls were rolled twice, and there was a white tan line on his wrist. His hard hat was on his head, the lettering on the back of the brim still half faded, and he had not traced it over. There were no trees on the way. He walked four hundred and twenty steps and went straight through the sun.

Someone was filling up at the cooler drum, and he went round. A patch of white paint had peeled from the drum, and the iron showing through was dark. There were three iron hoops round the drum in all. The shade cloth of the canopy cut the sun into pieces that fell on the concrete. A small site truck drove past outside the fence, the broken bricks in its bed rattling all the way.

The window of the sign-in booth was open. Duka sat inside with a pencil tucked behind his ear, his hands very clean. The sign-in pen was tied to the table leg, the string long enough to reach.

The sign-out sheet was on a new page, its edge still even, with only the date printed on the top line. By Duka’s hand was a teacup, upside down on the paper.

Sol passed his work badge in through the window.

Sol picked up the pen and wrote his name in the empty line, one word: Sol. He left the box for the works number empty, and did not write in it.

When he had finished, he put the pen back where the string could reach it. The string of the sign-in pen swung slightly, and then was still.

He unscrewed his water bottle and drank a mouthful. The bottle was one he had bought himself, plastic, with a few lines drawn on it in marker pen, the first at the bottom, the fifth a little above the middle. The lines were straight. He did not count them.

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Kuala Lumpur, the atrium of Twin Court, twenty past six in the morning. Only half the lights in the atrium were on.

Aini came round from behind the cleaning trolley and did not turn on the lights. The trolley’s wheels went over the drain cover by the door with a clunk, and she stopped and set the wheels straight. A packet of bin bags hung from the handle, unopened. She had counted them. There were ten.

The directory screen beside the information desk in the atrium was dark. She walked up to the screen, and in the glass was reflected someone in overalls, the collar skewed to the left.

She raised her hands and pulled the collar straight. The second button was loose, and she twisted it with her thumb until it was tight.

A layer of dust lay along the top of the screen’s frame. She stepped up onto the trolley’s footplate, reached the frame and wiped along it with the dry corner of her cloth, leaving a narrow bright line, its two ends even.

She stepped down from the footplate, folded the cloth in four, dusty side in, and pushed it into the pocket of her overalls.

Half past six, the food court. The roller shutter of the first stall was still down, and a pinch of sand was caught in the track on one side.

She bent and brushed the sand out of the track bit by bit with a small brush, all the way to the end of the track. The sand fell onto the threshold, and she gathered it into a heap with her palm. She pulled one bag from the packet on the trolley handle, opened its mouth and swept the sand in.

※

Auckland, Wynyard Quarter, the gate of the boatyard at Ramp Four, morning.

There was a new scrape at one end of the guardrail, made yesterday by the trailer’s shackle, and beside the scrape a small flake of paint had lifted. Across the road, the woman with the coffee van had parked in her usual spot. An old sticker on the van door had curled at the corners and rustled faintly in the wind. The boatyard gate stood open a crack, and from the hook on the frame hung a tin oil can, its spout pointing down.

The Old Wind stood on the slipway, her keel resting on two long timbers, the cut ends of the wood still white, a hand’s height off the ground. On the white paint of her hull were a few water marks, left as the tide went out. In a crack between the stones at the foot of the slipway a broken end of rope was caught, the end pointing at the sea. On the wooden rack at the edge of the dock lay an old canvas sheet, its corner lifted by the wind and dropping back.

On the road was a puddle from last night, two strides across, and he went round it.

He crouched at the guardrail and looked at the paint beside the scrape. Under the lifted flake was old grey, and under the grey a small patch of wood showed, dark in colour, its grain running along the scrape.

He took a sheet of fine sandpaper from his trouser pocket, tore off a corner, folded it into a small square and held it between his fingers. The wind came from the far end of the slipway and curled the edge of the sandpaper, and he pressed the edge flat.

He laid the sandpaper against the lifted paint and sanded gently along the grain, until he reached the part that held firm. The white dust that came off fell at the foot of the guardrail. He swept it bit by bit into his palm with a finger, closed his hand, walked to the scrap bin in the corner by the wall, opened his hand, and the white dust fell to the bottom of the bin.

※

Gold Coast, the back lane of the seaside hotel, ten to six in the morning.

Looked down on from the window of his first-floor room, the lane was very narrow, with air-conditioning units on the walls on both sides. Their fans were still, and water dripped from their trays onto the ground, drop by drop, dripping a small ring of wet. On the back step stood a stack of empty beer crates, the corner of the top one crushed in. At the foot of the step was a puddle, reflecting a small patch of sky from the mouth of the lane, and the sky was still grey.

Dean’s knee brace was still on the bedside table. The water it had soaked up the night before last had dried right through, and its edge had stiffened into a white ring. There was a split in the fabric, worn by the rocks, the split facing inward, and he had not sewn it.

He pulled the knee brace on and fastened it from the bottom up, as far as the third notch, and stopped. The elastic on the inside of the brace had lost its give, and he took it in an inch.

On the outside of the kneecap was a hard lump, and when the edge of the brace touched it, it went tight there. He pressed his palm flat on the outside of the brace, then pressed down once more, until he was past the tight place.

He put on his shoes. The shoes were white, and there was still a little sand in the tread. He picked it out with a fingernail, as far as the third groove. The laces had dried, and went tight after a single tying, and he did not tie them again. The leather at the toe had worn a white mark, scuffed by the rocks, and he did not wipe it.

The sound of the sea outside the window was slower than yesterday. He counted ten, and only on the tenth did it break on the sea wall. There were eight streetlights along the sea wall in all, seven still on, and one of them flickered. He did not look at the sea. From the kitchen came the sound of chopping, one stroke, then another, the knife coming down on the board with a crisp sound.

Today he had switched to the early shift. The aprons hung behind the door. The grease on the first two would not wash out, and they stayed on the hook. He took down the third and put it on. He pulled the waistband in a notch, let it out half a notch, and tied it where he was used to. Then he went towards the back door at the end of the lane. The hinge made a sound.

※

New York, the rented room, seven in the morning.

The veteran put his right leg on first. The floor of the rented room was concrete, and there was a chill as soon as you came in. The stump went into the socket with a click, all the way home. The socket had a ring of six holes, five with screws in them, the sixth empty. The alarm clock by the bed had stopped at twenty to seven, and he did not wind it. The clock had four buttons, and he did not press any of them. On the windowsill stood a glass with a white ring at the bottom, left where water had dried. He did not go and pour any water. A layer of dust lay on the tissue box, and he ran the pad of a finger over it and left a streak. There were three tissues left in the box.

The chair back had once had three things hanging on it: a jacket, the strap of a satchel, and this key. He took the Allen key off the back of the chair. The key had been given to him by someone else, black-handled, with a length of tape wound round the handle. On its tip was a little greyish-white powder, left from the last time it turned a screw. He tightened the screw at the socket half a turn, no more. As it reached the end, the screw bit on the key, and he changed the angle, eased the key back a little, and stopped.

The Allen key went back into the tool bag. The tool bag was canvas, and stood by the wall at the door. On its side were four small pockets, three of them empty, one holding a roll of thin cord. The zip had caught at one place, and he worked it back with a finger, twice before it ran smoothly. He pulled the zip shut.

The satchel was on the chair. From the top compartment he took out the receipt, back side up. The receipt was thermal paper, the print on the front already faded. On the back was pencil, the accounts done three times: the first laid out across, the second laid out down, the third only a few numbers, circled. None of the times added up. He looked at it once, and did not work it a fourth time.

He folded the paper twice, the corners lined up, and pressed a finger along the crease. The crease went down, and the paper made a very faint sound. It was the third time he had pressed this crease.

The curtain was drawn half open. The sound of the subway came up from under the ground outside, a burst, a pause, another burst. He counted two bursts and did not look out of the window.

The side pocket of the satchel had been empty, with two very faint creases at its mouth. He pushed the paper into the side pocket. The mouth of the pocket was very tight, and the paper went only halfway in. He pressed it down with a finger, all the way to the bottom, and did up the clasp.