Kept by Y. Euny Hong

Author:Y. Euny Hong
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2006-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

The room was in an uproar over the Turkish girl’s note. There was some confusion as to whether this was a runaway note or a suicide note or both.

Madame marched up to Justine and tweaked her nose between forefinger and thumb. Justine yelped.

Madame said, “YOU ARE HER ROOMMATE! YOU KNEW!”

“No! I didn’t!” cried Justine, whose nose was starting to bleed. “She said nothing to me. She didn’t even pack most of her things. I couldn’t know, Madame.”

Madame was still seething but seemed to believe Justine. “FIX YOUR NOSEBLEED,” she said, picking up a square box of Kleenex from the demilune table in the hallway and hurling it at Justine. It hit Justine squarely on her already put-upon nose.

“I’M GOING TO FIND HER,” said Madame.

“Madame, please be careful how you handle this,” said Heike, again the only person brave enough to speak up. “They do honor killings in Turkey. If you talk to her family about her, they will be obligated to track her down and murder her.”

Madame’s eyes surveyed us suspiciously. We all nodded to indicate our agreement with Heike, though we really weren’t sure of the facts. Heike would later explain that Zeynep’s family, as a member of the upper class, probably did not engage in this practice. But none of us found this comforting.

“WE WILL SEE,” said Madame Tartakov, storming down the stairs and into her bedroom. She slammed the door and got on the phone, screaming at her interlocutor in Russian.

Justine, who had a Kleenex wad protruding from her nostril, began to cry.

Four days later, Zeynep moved back into the house on Sixty-second Street, and we learned how Madame handled those who did not pay their debts to her.

Madame had had very little trouble finding Zeynep’s parents in Istanbul, based on information Zeynep had provided on her H1 work visa application. Without disclosing the precise nature of her relationship with Zeynep, Madame asked where she might find the girl. Unaware of anything amiss, Zeynep’s parents innocently informed Madame that their daughter was stopping with a cousin in Chicago, and they provided the phone number.

Madame called the alarmed Zeynep. Our dear mistress explained that she was required by law to report to the Immigration and Naturalization Service that Zeynep had left her employ. Under the terms of Zeynep’s visa, this would mean that she would have to leave the United States within ninety days or face deportation.

Clever woman, that Madame Tartakov. By sponsoring her girls for work visas, she killed three birds with one stone: the visas made her business appear legitimate; they gave her access to several contact numbers of the girls’ friends and family; and they gave her something to hold over the girls when they threatened to leave. And it was all almost totally legal. She wouldn’t have to get her hands dirty at all; the INS could be far more menacing than she.

Even so, Zeynep resisted. The phone call ended there.

The next day, Madame was ostensibly talking on two cell phones at once, holding one to each ear.

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