Fiction from The Literary Review

The Importance of Cardboard Boxes

KIM SALINAS

F rom a peephole next to her work seat, she could she could see her island. It looked small and unprotected from here. If she held up her thumb and forefinger, and looked at it through the space between them, she could close the two together and squash it like a rosebud. When she lived there, and walked upon its paths, it had seemed to her as smug and fat as the sun. Her feet could punish the ground as she chased her goats, or as she skipped rope with her friend Ellrisa. The brown earth had seemed unshakeable then. Little did she know it was as soft and permeable as a cloud, as open to violation as beets pulled from the ground.
     
     At the time of the abduction she was twelve, still dressed in white.
     
     She sat up straighter on the hard bench. The corners of it cut into the soft brown flesh behind her knees. In order to focus on her task, she could not, as she wanted to, close her eyes and remember the long-gone scent of papaya, jasmine, and honeysuckle. If she made another mistake the torture would be much worse this time. The scabs on her ankles, remnants of her last punishment, had just begun to heal. She had poked 70 holes instead of 67 into a side of one of the small cardboard boxes on which she worked. For punishment she had been forced to lie strapped atop a cube of steel, while a very quiet man in a white suit methodically used her needle to poke 67 holes in each of her ankles. She had had to count aloud after him each time he stuck the needle in her flesh. To remove her mind from the pain she remembered images from home; of gliding in her small red boat through the crystalline waters in the alcove below the cliffs—seeing a manta ray gliding like a black kite over the pale sand underneath the water, the sea anemones waving their pink fronds as she paddled slowly above them, and red hyacinths on shore turning their brilliant faces to the movement of the sun.
     .
      A man in a suit wielding a strap walked up. “You think too much, Twenty-three. Thinking is inconclusive and unconducive to maximum performance display. Your task—to poke with your scientifically tested needle 67 holes on side B of each box, 23 holes on side A, 7 holes on side C, and 2 and one half on the remaining side D—is a matter of crucial importance and optimum focus.” As he said this he gazed just over the top of her head, though she tried to meet his eyes. She wondered what he saw so far in the distance. Could he hear his mother's voice too? Miramar heard her mother's voice whisper: Darling it is simple to be alive. The man started down the aisle to check the other workers.
     “I just want to go home sir,” she replied. He turned, surprised that she had spoken to him. Miramar had taken some English in the little island school. “I feel so sad. My mother is old and needs me to help her. My father died when I was seven and she depends on me. She has no one else—all the people left are so old.”
     He walked back to stand in front of her. “You have important tasks to perform here, Twenty-three. Perhaps you don't realize the extraordinary consequence your actions here have on the villagers you left behind. You know, your mother's health depends upon your aptitude, the expedience with which you execute your tasks.”
     Miramar looked at the mountainous pile of tiny cardboard boxes piled in front of her. How could such a ridiculous task be important to anyone? “Excuse me, sir. My mother? How does it affect her?”
     The man looked down at her. One corner of his mouth curled slightly. “Oh, your mother will be very happy and grateful for your excellence, Twenty-three. You can be assured of that.” With that his lips straightened again. He looked at Miramar's eyes briefly for the first time, then turned curtly away.
     She glanced at the other workers. One girl, from a neighboring island known for the brilliance of its orchids, glued matches into small pyramids. She had an orderly array already stacked next to her. Her hair hung limply and her brown skin looked ashy from lack of sun. Another girl, whose island produced black pearls that were the envy of other islands for miles around, pounded on hammer-head sized circles drawn on paper; if she missed hitting each circle with her hammer then she was forced to use the claw side to pry out 49 nails from a wooden wall.
      Miramar glanced up at her. They exchanged sympathetic looks. The girl's eyes looked sad and empty. Miramar longed to talk to her, but she could not; each of the captured girls spoke different languages, or at least different dialects. She had to go to the bathroom. There was a clock on the wall in front of her that showed only two times on its face: 6:45 am and 7:27 pm. The clock was blank right now. She squeezed her knees together. When the numbers lit up red, it was time for all the workers to go to the bathroom. They were not allowed to go at any other time.
     Although the concept of time was irrelevant in her village, the men in suits treated it with great respect. Perhaps time is their god, she thought. Time and quantity.
     A woman in a suit walked up to her one morning as she poked at the cardboard boxes. “You are performing well, here, Twenty-three. Only one punishment in 6 weeks is extraordinary. You will be allowed to go back to your island soon.” Miramar trembled and looked at her. “The harder you work the greater your chances of returning home.”
     
     
     Miramar worked feverishly at her tasks. Sweat stains formed on her work clothes and the area between her eyebrows became wrinkled from her determination to perform well and return home. She told her mother with her mind that she would soon see her again. In response her mother relayed her excitement at seeing her only daughter again. She promised Miramar that all her favorite dishes would be prepared and that when she came back she could rest peacefully for many days, enjoying her familiar plants and animals.
     
     One day Miramar noticed movement below her work station outside of the steel cube building. She managed to sneak a look outside through the peephole. All the work the girls had done over the months was being destroyed, dumped into the crystalline waters by large trucks parked at the water's edge. She watched as a multitude of tiny brown boxes withered in the wetness and disappeared. Stacks of hammer-pounded papers swirled and gently rode the soft waves. They fanned out and disappeared. Matchstick pyramids turned dark brown and sank. Other girls' work twirled in the foam, flirted with the spray, and vanished under the sea. Miramar turned around. Two men in suits stood still, watching her. She screamed at them, “Is this all there is? Why! Why is all our work being destroyed by you? Why are we here!” The other girls looked at Miramar, who was usually so compliant. They glanced at each other, their faces puzzled and frightened.
     Other men in suits gathered into the room. The girls looked so small next to them. Miramar screamed as they walked toward her. The other girls huddled away from her, at the opposite end of the room. Miramar stood in the corner. The men held long pieces of twine. Silently, they held the girl down and wound the twine over and around her, many times until her flesh could no longer be seen. The other girls cried and covered their faces.
      Miramar's screams were muffled by the heavy twine around her mouth and nose. She squirmed against the tight grips of the men in their impeccable suits. They picked up her writhing body and carried it from the room.
     
     Miramar was carried by truck back to the island. Her mother received the little cardboard coffin from two women in suits. The coffin had 67 holes on one side, 23 on another, 7 on another, and 2 and one half on the remaining side. The women walked away, checking their watches. When Miramar's mother opened the box, the girl's pulse quieted and stopped. Clutched in her hand was the tiny needle.