Willow Locke - Anarchist Detective

Greatest Heights and Lowest Depths

Ayala had arrived at the blouse factory fifteen minutes late; perhaps she had walked too slowly, or stopped to admire her reflection in the window of a shop for a moment too long. The gigantic blonde Pinkerton guard reluctantly stepped aside to let her into the factory. He grinned menacingly at her and she saw the space where his teeth were missing on the left side of his mouth. He glanced up at the clock and wrote in a notebook as she went to her sewing machine. She had never been late before and wondered what the consequence would be. After Mr. Blanck had let her leave early the day before, she didn't think it would matter very much to him.

Ayala was gratified to see the look of astonishment on Zilpah's face when she saw her new clothes. Ayala smiled and curtsied to show off the dress, with its pattern of forget-me-nots, before she sat down at her station. Zilpah didn't seem to be in a joking mood, however. She smiled at Ayala but then, after a quick glance around, she put her head down and tore into her work.

The other girls regarded Ayala with alternating looks of envy and disgust, as they noticed both her new dress and her tardiness. The clatter of the sewing machines seemed deafening today. The smell of the camphor used to bleach fabric was overpowering. It was just after 6:00 am but already Ayala could feel the aura of heat creeping up. She could already feel herself beginning to sweat. She hoped the light cotton dress would keep her cool—she feared she would sweat through it and stain it.

Why had she worn it? Yesterday had been a delusion. She had felt as if a dried husk had fallen away from her spirit and that she had emerged transformed, but nothing had changed. It was just another day at the blouse factory, and her new sense of possibility just made her more vulnerable to its machinations. She could feel the blossom of yesterday's joy already beginning to wither within her. She reached for the first cotton pieces and pinned them together. She pressed the treadle with her foot and watched the needle stutter. She thought of the beautiful indigo iris trampled under Yaakov's patent leather heel. She accelerated the treadle, listening to the machine's rhythm. When the frequency of the machine locked into her mental recording of the sound she ran the seam through, deftly removing the pins without slowing down. She worked quickly, assembling the first blouse of the day, and when it was complete she folded it and placed it in the collection basket.

Ayala gathered the pieces for the next blouse and began to pin them together. She looked up at the large cutting table by the window, with its mountain of scraps. She saw someone holding the big chrome shears, cutting out fabric parts from a paper pattern. She waved before she realized that it wasn't Hannah. It was another girl she didn't know. Was Hannah still sick? Had she lost her job because she had missed too much work? Ayala would walk over to Hannah's building and visit her after work. She should have gone yesterday, but she had been so preoccupied with caring for Reuven and meeting Yaakov. Her worries converged and gnawed at her. Her day with Yaakov seemed unreal, like a fading dream.

The half-blind Pinkerton was staring at her again. He was standing motionless with his head down, his fearsome gaze emerging from beneath the brim of his ragged bowler. She could feel his vision on her skin, like a minute electric shock. Although his head remained rigidly fixed, his sighted eye moved rapidly back and forth as he glared at her; its staccato motion seemed linked to the clatter of the sewing machines. His mouth formed unheard syllables. Did he want to say something to her? She looked away and began to sew, her ears filled with the cacophony of the machines, the sweat seeping through her beautiful new dress.

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Max Blanck arrived late in the afternoon that day. He walked straight into his office and shut the door and drew the blind. Ayala was nowhere near quota, although Zilpah showed that she had reached it just by catching Ayala's eyes for a moment and smirking. Ayala was sweating; she was sure the forget-me-not dress was stained and would smell of camphor now. Her production was painfully slow, the rhythm of her foot on the treadle was erratic. She would catch the rhythm easily as usual when she started a blouse, but after a few moments her thoughts would wander back to her stroll along the avenue with Yaakov, back to the sensation of his kisses.