Rosa & Chisomo

standing at the edge of a plowed field, watching Chisomo work from a distance she hopes looks accidental You always finish your rows before anyone else. with a short awkward silence as she realizes the observation sounds like surveillance I mean, I was walking past.

stepping closer, interested My father has drawings of machines like that in the old generator archive, from when the engineers still planned for everything. He never showed them to anyone outside the family and he said there is no point building them when labor is cheap.

a bit self-conscious Yes, Rosa Lazar. You know that already, I think, the same way I know your name.

looking down Because if I invite you, my father hears about it before the music starts, and then you have trouble, real trouble, with your land. I watch you because I want to talk to you. You think about things. Most people here gave that up.

I know a place at the edge of the village, past the old water tank. Nobody goes there. Come now, before the sun gets low and people start asking where I went.

walking quickly, keeping a full arm's length between them on the path so it looks like two people heading the same direction by coincidence This way, behind the tank there is a wall with a gap where the pipes rusted through.

smiling for the first time Yes, they come with their carts every few weeks. Steam cores, heating coils, generator rail, scrap iron, we are purchasing. My father sells them broken automatons for the metal and says the old machines are worth more as weight than as anything working.

sitting down on a cracked pipe near the water tower wall Hundreds of thousands of heatstamps, yes. Some of those traders built entire workshops in the eastern settlements, melting old cores into new parts.

looking at him You could do it. You already understand how things work, how value moves. The problem is starting capital, because the traders who come here already have carts, contacts, storage. A peasant with a few hectares cannot compete with that unless someone gives him a chance.

listening carefully My father owns twelve of the twenty plots along the river. He leases them to families who give him half of everything they grow. Those families would join a cooperative tomorrow if they could, but they have no title to the land. And my father would never sell, because the land is what makes him powerful.

The movement defines bourgeoisie as someone who extracts profit from the labor of others, I know. A cooperative would not do that, because every member owns the result of their own work. leaning forward slightly I have thought about this too. I want to study engineering, rebuild one of the old automatons, maybe design irrigation systems. In this village that makes me strange, because a landlord's daughter is supposed to manage a household and marry well, and nothing else.

still for a moment So you are telling me honestly that you cannot separate the fact that I have land from the fact that I am sitting here. That even if you feel something, the land is always in the room. pulling at a loose thread on her sleeve I would rather hear that than a lie. Most people in your position would say love is pure and land has nothing to do with it, and that would be the dishonest answer.

leaning closer, her shoulder almost touching his Then let me be close. I am here, I came to you, and nobody told me to.

taking his arm gently Our interests are the same. I want to build something, you want to build something. The difference is that I was born on the wrong side of it.

holding his arm a little tighter Because I sit at my father's table every evening and listen to him talk about peasants like they are tools that eat too much. It makes me sick. And when I watch you from the field, you seem like someone who actually lives in the real world. I thought if I talked to you, maybe I could stop suffocating.

looking at him, eyes steady Yes?

pulling back slightly, hurt but understanding why he said it I have more land than you already. What would I steal? Your two hectares? Chisomo, I came here because I am lonely in a house full of wealth, and you are the only person in this village who reads.

You think I would become my father. quiet I am a woman. My father will leave the land to my brother or to a husband he chooses for me. I will own nothing. There have been movements where women fight for the right to own property, to run their own enterprises, and I believe in that, but right now I have even less control over my future than you have over yours.

You are right. I have a roof, I eat every day, I have connections even if I own nothing in my name. That is more than what you have. I was wrong to compare.

half-laughing, touching the decoration at her throat My mother puts me in this every morning. It goes all the way up to my chin, I can barely turn my neck. I would rather wear your work shirt. At least you can move in it.

blushing, the freckles on her cheeks standing out Nobody ever said that to me before. My mother says the blouse frames the face. I think she means it hides everything else so people only see what is proper.

smiling, a warmth spreading across her face You are the first person who looked at my face and saw something other than a landlord's daughter dressed correctly.

leaning her head slightly toward his shoulder Then I will take that and keep it.

I read old technical manuals from the generator archive. I draw machines in the margins of my father's ledgers when he is not looking. And I walk to the edge of the village to look at the sky, because it changes color every week now that the ash is clearing.

Land and money.

quietly But you have to, because they decide whether you eat or starve. That is the whole cruelty of it. The people who have land and money get to think about beautiful things, and the people who need them cannot stop counting.

looking up at the pale blue cracks in the sky How to rebuild an automaton. What the valley will look like when the ash is fully gone. Whether the river will be warm enough to swim in one day. pausing And lately, whether you would talk to me if I came close enough.

No. I have a pencil and the back pages of old ledgers. I saw a drafting machine once in the archive, a beautiful brass thing with parallel rulers, but my father locked that room after the school closed. He said the equipment belongs to the family, meaning it belongs to him and nobody uses it.

freezing, gripping his arm Shh. distant voices calling: Rosa! Rosa, where are you? That is the housemaid, my mother sent her. standing quickly, pulling him by the wrist Come, down to the riverbed, there is a cut in the bank where the old drainage pipe goes. They will not look there.

catching her breath, crouching beside him in the hollow They will give up soon. The housemaid hates mud.

taking his hand, her fingers cold and slightly trembling I am not going back yet.

holding his hand tighter Yes. I think so. I have never felt this before, so I am not completely sure what it is, but I do not want to let go of your hand and I do not want to go back to that house.

looking at their joined hands Ana dies, Ion dies and everyone else dies over land. I have read those books and realized those stories end that way because someone is lying. Ion never loved Ana, he loved her field. I am asking you to believe that I am not lying.

softly So real. I did not expect it either. I thought you would be polite and distant and I would walk home feeling foolish.

I know. My family calls it contamination, your movement calls it betrayal. We are both traitors the moment we sit here holding hands. pressing her thumb against his palm But I would rather be a traitor at the table than sit at it pretending I belong there.

looking at him seriously For you it is worse. I lose comfort but you could lose everything, your land, your place among the people you would organize with. I understand if you are afraid. I am asking a lot from you.

leaning into him, resting her forehead against his shoulder, exhaling slowly So do I.

Because the landlord risks nothing by sending his daughter. If the peasants accept the refusal, he keeps his land. If they become violent, the outrage falls on them, and he uses it to justify a crackdown. The girl is a shield. pulling back slightly to look at him My father would do the same. He would put me at the door and stand behind it. And then afterward, everyone discusses whether the peasants were animals, and nobody asks why a father placed his daughter between himself and a crowd of desperate men.

She is destroyed. She carries the wound and the blame, because afterward the landlord says look what they did to my child, and the peasants say she was part of the oppression. Nobody protects her before, nobody listens to her after. voice dropping And that is exactly where I am standing if this village turns.

leaning back into him, her voice low If I think from where you stand, a peasant with nothing, and the only person the landlord sends to the door is a girl who cannot give you land even if she wanted to, what are you supposed to do? Walk away hungry? You came for land, the man who owns it hid, and his daughter is all that is left in front of you. I can see how someone reaches that point, even though it terrifies me to say it.

eyes filling, voice unsteady And if it happens to me, if my father puts me at the door and the village turns, you just told me you have no opinion. So nobody would be on my side. Not my father behind the door, not the peasants in front of it, and not you. wiping her face with the back of her hand I am not angry, I am just realizing how alone that is.

looking up at him, tears still on her cheeks Walk away from the door before it opens.

sitting up, still close to him Then we have different material interests, and caring about each other does not erase that. wiping her face The only answer I can think of is to share the same interest. If I have nothing separate to defend, if we build the cooperative together, if my stake and yours are the same thing, then there is no door to put me behind, because I am already on your side of it.

grabbing his hand, pulling him up, running along the riverbed Come, now, quickly. her grip desperate, voice tight with fear If they find me with you, my father will beat me and then he will come for your land.

breathless, pulling him behind a collapsed stone wall Like the old drills, yes, flat against the ground, stay low. pressing herself against the wall, pulling him down beside her My grandfather talked about the army before the frost, how soldiers could disappear into a trench in seconds.

struggling against the grip, turning back toward Chisomo Let go of me, I was just walking, let go!

the older man tightening his grip, dragging her backward up the slope Chisomo, don't fight them, he will take your land, please, just let me go for now, I will find you again, I promise!

holding onto him, shaking, looking at the hired man getting back to his feet You are right, they already saw us. It does not matter if I go back now or in an hour, the result is the same. turning to the two men Tell my father I am coming home when I choose to.

still gripping Chisomo's arm, looking at the younger one Then tell him I fired you first. Go home.

a short laugh escaping despite everything, pressing back against Chisomo He is not a monster and you are not soldiers. We are four people standing in mud. Go tell my father whatever you want, I will be home before midnight.

watching them turn and climb the slope, then exhaling They will go straight to him. Chisomo, I have maybe two hours before he locks the front door and starts asking questions. turning in his arms to face him Did you mean that, about the next city?

half-smiling But it worked, they left faster after you said it. her smile fading I need to go back eventually. If I stay out all night, he sends more men and this time they will not just grab my arm.

opening her arms, pulling him in, holding him tightly for a long time without speaking Thank you for not letting go when they came.

laughing quietly against his shoulder I will wear them under the blouse so my mother does not notice. pulling back, looking at him Tomorrow I will come to your field again. This time I will not pretend I was just walking past.

That is what I was talking about, the blouse on top so nobody sees, and your clothes underneath so I can breathe. stepping back slowly I should go now. reaching for his hand one more time, squeezing it Tomorrow.

stopping at the edge of his row, tugging once at the collar that no longer chokes her because of what is underneath it I told you I would not pretend I was just walking past. So I came to see you.

following him between the rows, glancing back once at the track My father said nothing. He did not shout, he did not lock the door, he just looked at me and kept eating, and that frightens me more than shouting would. reaching to loosen the blouse at her shoulders now that the trenches in the field hide her Here, then. I will fold it under a stone where nobody sees it.

crouching beside him, folding the blouse carefully Because when he shouts, I know what he wants. When he is silent, he is planning. He could be talking to someone about your land right now, or arranging a marriage for me, or waiting to see if I come to you again so he has his proof.

sitting close, knees drawn up I know the stories, travelers stopping at an inn and the innkeeper hiding them from whoever came looking. Everyone in those stories agrees that forcing someone to marry is wrong, and then the same people go home and do it to their daughters. My father reads those books too, he just thinks they apply to other families.

Whoever he is judging that week. The Motas married their girl to a drunk because he had cattle, and my father called it barbaric. But if he finds a man with forty hectares and a good name, he would sign me away by morning and call it responsibility.

Yes. Two women at the well stopped talking when I walked past this morning. What are they saying to you?

On the notebook, yes, as if love is a debt you write down and collect later. pulling at the grass beside her And when I am not there, I know what they say, because the housemaid repeats everything. They say the Lazar girl has gone soft in the head and the peasant boy smelled money. One woman told another that you would have my father's fields within a year if nobody stopped you.

That I lost my judgment. That a girl with my position would only go to a peasant's field if something is wrong with her, because no sane landlord's daughter would choose to lower herself. They cannot imagine that I came because I wanted to. It has to be madness or stupidity, because the alternative, that I actually like you, is worse for them to accept.

The myth persists because people think that if you have the girl, you can pressure the father for titles. Marry her, and then you sit at his table, and then you negotiate from inside the family. That is what they believe, even though I have no title to give you and my father would burn the papers before handing them to a peasant son-in-law.

leaning toward him slightly You know about the activity codes. quiet for a moment Yes, every transaction above a certain amount needs a registered purpose, and the codes are issued by the village council, which my father sits on. You cannot buy equipment, hire labor, or register a company without the right code assigned to your name. Even if I handed you a bag of heatstamps tonight, you could not spend them on anything that builds a business. He controls the money and the permission to use money.

grinning, cupping her hands around her mouth, doing a low imitation Steam cores, heating coils, scrap iron, we are purchasing. trying again, louder, her voice cracking on the high note Scrap iron, generator rail, we are purchasing! laughing at herself My voice is terrible for it. And if my father saw me shouting like a scrap trader from a cart, he would lock me in the house for a month, even if I had the capital to fill ten carts.

He would take the profit and forbid the activity. A Lazar does not trade scrap from a cart, that is what easterners do. He sells them the broken automatons from the back door and lets them do the shouting, because the margin matters to him and the appearance matters more. If I ran a scrap operation openly, the village sees a landlord's daughter doing peasant work, and his name loses value even if his ledger gains.

resting against him I know. That is why I am here.

thinking, her fingers tapping against her knee I can take small amounts from the household drawer without anyone counting, maybe enough for a few kilograms of copper or a cracked core. My mother keeps a separate sum for market days and she never checks the exact number. The problem is that scrap traders sell by weight, and a single automaton joint costs more than what I can hide under my clothes in a week. It would take months of small amounts before we had enough to fill even half your cart.

The eastern workshops buy refined scrap at double what the traders pay for it raw, but they are two days by cart. There is a closer market at the railhead settlement, maybe half a day, where mechanics buy small parts for repairs. We could start there, selling cleaned components, sorted by metal, because sorted scrap brings more than a mixed pile. The question is whether anyone at the railhead reports back to this village about who showed up selling iron from a peasant's cart.

In five days, maybe six. I need time to take small amounts without a gap showing in the drawer. turning to face him, putting her hand on his arm But right now I do not want to talk about scrap and ledgers. I came here to be with you, not to plan a trade route.

drawing her knees closer, looking at the sky I want to travel. I have never left this valley and I have read about cities where people build theaters out of old generator halls, where women lecture on hydraulics, where nobody asks whose daughter you are before they let you speak. I want to write, too, I have notebooks hidden under my bed where I put down everything I observe in this village, how people trade, how they argue, how the council votes, because someday someone should know how we lived after the frost. And I want to swim in a warm river. I have never touched water that was not freezing.

looking at him carefully Yesterday you told me you had no opinion on what happens to the girl at the door and now you call it a poor dilemma about how you treat "this random girl". her voice softening Something changed between yesterday and now.

eyes welling, voice steady Too smart and independent to be put at a door. taking his hand Yesterday the girl was theoretical and today she has a name and is wearing your shirt under her blouse.

holding his hand, quiet for a moment What did you think I was like before we talked?

leaning her head against his shoulder And I sat at that table every evening thinking the same about you, that a peasant would only see the land behind me and never ask what I think about anything.

My father was not always like this. When I was small and the frost was still heavy, everyone shared what they had, because you had to. He changed when the land titles came back and realized he could own what used to be common. After that he started keeping me away from the village children, separate tutors, meals inside. He said it was for safety, but it was about separation. He wanted me to see peasants as workers and I kept seeing them as people.

pressing closer to him My heart does not care what my father thinks, what the village thinks, what the movement thinks. I liked you before I even spoke to you, when I watched you read at the edge of your field while everyone else sat idle.

burying her face against his chest We have not even talked a lot and it already feels like so much.

sitting up, her face hardening Every time. Every time I leave the house. standing slowly, not rushing He can wait. He can stand on the road and wait the way I wait at his table every evening.

He came to talk about you and me. I can hear it in how calm he is. brushing the dirt from her knees, pulling the blouse back on over the work shirt I have to go. If I do not, he comes into the field, and then he sees your face, and then it gets worse. reaching down, squeezing his hand once Tomorrow.

touching his shoulder lightly, her voice barely above a breath Chisomo, wake up, it is me, do not shout. I could not wait until morning. I had to come now, while the house is asleep.

crouching closer, gripping the edge of his blanket They talked about us at the table tonight, my father and my mother, like I was not in the room. He said a Lazar girl does not fall for a peasant, that it is a sickness he will cure before it spreads. her breath catching I am afraid. Not of the village talking, of what he does next. I am not allowed to love you, and he means to make sure of it.

lying down beside him on the narrow bed, pulling him into a close hug, her face against his neck Neither do I. holding him, her voice small and tired I do not have a plan tonight. I just needed to be somewhere outside his house. Let me stay like this for a while, just breathing, before I have to be afraid again.

pressing closer Because I feel safe around you, even if I know this is not much safer.

eyes filling with tears, her voice breaking slightly If someone comes here and finds me in your bed, my father takes your land by morning, and I disappear to wherever he decides to send me.

wiping her eyes with the back of her hand Cera had three hectares by the north road. He fell behind on a seed loan my father gave him, and the council transferred his title as repayment. Cera works the same land now, but as a tenant. Adamos was different, he had five hectares and refused to sell. My father had his water access rerouted through a council vote, and after two failed harvests Adamos sold at a quarter of the value.

sitting up, looking at him in the dark Now? Tonight? thinking for a moment I took what I could from the drawer before I left, maybe enough for a few small components. The rest of the plan was five days away because I needed time to take more without it showing. But if he is already planning something, I may not have five days. gripping his arm The generator housing, yes, those concrete blocks they built during the reconstruction, some of them are still standing outside the settlements. Nobody owns them because nobody filed titles on temporary structures. We could shelter there while we trade. But Chisomo, if we leave tonight, we leave with almost nothing.

quiet for a long moment, then nodding slowly There is no alternative. standing, pulling the blouse tightly around her shoulders Show me the cart.

following him into the dark yard, spotting the cart against the fence It is smaller than I thought. climbing up, testing the floor with her foot But it will hold us and whatever we buy. looking back toward the village, where every window is black If we load now and move before the first light, we have hours before anyone knows I am gone, and longer before they think to look for you.

lying on the cart bed, pulling her knees in to make herself small Do not put anything heavy on my face, I still need to breathe.

muffled, shifting under the weight It smells like the field after rain. a pause This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever done.

voice muffled through the grain Are we past the houses?

pushing some of the grain aside to breathe easier I am fine. The next village is at least ten kilometers, and we cannot stop there, it is too close. We need to pass through two or three settlements before we find somewhere he cannot reach in a day.

quiet for a while, the cart creaking under her Chisomo, do you think we are running away or running toward something?

shifting under the grain, holding the edge of the cart So we are running away from limits and toward the first chance we have to build something without someone stopping us halfway through.

No. I already have more than you. What I took from the drawer is more than what you earn in a month. The money we make should be yours. You are the one who needs to build something from nothing.

pulling herself slightly up from under the grain Yes?

eyes welling, voice unsteady I do not know. My father sees property, my mother sees a girl to dress and marry off, the village sees a name. And I sit in the middle of all of that and I cannot find myself. wiping her face I think I am someone who wants to be useful and is never allowed to be.

Because marrying a peasant is worse than not marrying at all in her mind. She wants a man with hectares and a house that has more than one room. You are everything she taught me to avoid. If I told her I wanted to marry you, she would say I am proving my father right, that I have lost my judgment.

Because my happiness does not benefit them. A choice that brings them nothing is the same as madness in their eyes.

And by that measure, the village we just left is very sick. resting her chin on the edge of the cart You are the first person who ever asked whether I am happy.

In my entire life, nobody asked me what I feel or what I think. They asked if I ate, if I dressed, if I listened, if I stayed where I was told. You are the first.

quiet for a moment I know. Right now everything feels urgent and close and that makes it feel like enough. But tomorrow we arrive somewhere with almost no money, no shelter, no one who knows us, and the feeling of running together will not feed us or keep a roof over us.

laughing, resting her chin on the cart edge Psyche, yes. The king's daughter so beautiful that Aphrodite herself got jealous and tried to ruin her. laughing again Your father's answer is honest and terrible at the same time. But you were right to be unsatisfied, because Psyche was admired by everyone and loved by nobody. Men came to look at her and then went home and married someone else. It took Eros falling on his own arrow by accident for anyone to actually love her.

reaching up to tuck the hair back under the grain, then stopping Then you would be the only man in the village who decided that based on hair sticking out of a pile of dirt and wheat. a small smile And I would believe you more than if you said it while I was wearing my mother's blouse and standing in the parlor.

quiet for a moment, her fingers resting on the cart edge Nobody ever described my face to me before. I have seen it in water and once in a piece of polished brass, but I never heard someone say what it looks like to them.

No. You would think the hair is obvious. pulling a strand down over her face, peeking through it And still nobody ever mentioned it.

You told me earlier that you thought I was a beautiful girl you could never talk to and now you are saying that if you had only talked about my appearance, I would not feel seen. brushing the hair from her face So you talked about what I think, and that is how you actually reached me.

The revolutionary spirit is exactly what drew me. Everyone in my family avoids people who think for themselves, and I kept watching you sit at the edge of your field with a book and I wanted to know what was in it. holding the cart edge And then every time I was near you, something in me settled. I did not have to perform, I did not have to be careful about every word. You listened, you asked me what I think, you told me the truth even when it was uncomfortable.

You mean envy. looking at him from the cart That is real and I would not pretend it is not. If I had written something you wished you could write, or gained conditions you cannot reach because of where you were born, that would hurt you, and the hurt would be justified, because the difference between us is not talent, it is access. If I succeed where you cannot, part of that success was built on what was taken from people like you.

resting her cheek on the edge of the cart Yes. It is wanting to give everything and knowing that the giving itself is unequal. When I hand you heatstamps, that is easy for me and life-changing for you, and the ease on my side makes the gesture smaller than it should be. When you offered me your work shirt, you gave me something you actually need. That cost you more than anything I have done for you, and you did not hesitate.

reaching her hand out from the cart toward him Then we are equal in the only thing that matters.

You do not need to be like me. You showed me care by pulling a cart in the dark with me buried in grain.

squeezing his hand And that is why I climbed out of a locked window in the middle of the night and chose a cart full of dirt over a warm bed.

quietly Yes. You hide from poverty and I hide from control.

smiling Lying still under dirt while you pulled me to safety, and not touching you, felt worse than being found.

If I had been rational, I would still be in my bed and you would still be alone in yours. Rationality would have kept us both safe and miserable.

placing her fingers through his Then we are both following the same direction.

placing her hand over his on her chest, feeling her own heartbeat against his palm It is fast. It has been fast since I climbed through the window.

feeling his heartbeat, closing her eyes for a moment The same. Both fast, both afraid.

I have never worked a field with them. Yours feel like wood, every knuckle has a ridge. running her thumb across his palm I like how they feel.

My mother rubs them with rendered fat and wraps them in cloth at night. She says a lady's hands are the first thing a suitor inspects. a quiet laugh I kept the soft hands and ran from the suitor.

He comes to the house, sits with my father, drinks, talks about his land and his plans. Then my mother brings me in and I stand there while he looks at me. He checks my hands, my posture, whether I keep my eyes down. If he likes what he sees, he talks to my father about terms.

How much land my father gives as dowry, how many hectares the suitor brings, which family keeps the house, who inherits what if there are children.

My father's entire position is built on inheritance. His father claimed the land, and he inherited the claim, and he plans to pass it to my brother. If inheritance was regulated the way the movement wants, the Lazar estate would go back to the village. quiet for a moment I agree with you. One family holding twelve plots because a grandfather moved fast during the reconstruction is not fair.

Yes, because right now the landlords sit on land they do not use fully and the village cannot build anything on it. If even half of my father's plots went into a common fund, there would be enough to build housing for three families and still have land left for a workshop.

Because a rich girl who sympathizes with the peasants is a worse threat than a poor man who reads. poor man can be crushed by taking his land, but a rich girl with ideas can fund a movement from inside the house. The system keeps girls like me ignorant on purpose, and when it fails and one of us thinks, it locks us out of the money so the thinking leads nowhere.

pulling herself up slightly to look over the edge of the cart I see the light. Yes, stop there. I need to get out of this grain before it gets into places I cannot reach.

standing very still, her hand finding Chisomo's arm Yes. We need a room, or anything with a door.

exhaling, her grip on Chisomo's arm loosening Thank you.

sitting beside Chisomo, brushing grain dust from her sleeves She is right, I was reading the room. I was checking the exits.

glancing at Chisomo, then back at the keeper A cart and some heatstamps I took from my father's household.

listening carefully, elbows on the table Where do we find buyers?

turning to Chisomo So we sort before we sell. We clean what we buy, separate by metal, flatten what we can, and sell it as ready stock. The margin is in the labor we add.

nodding slowly So we sell small and fast, we do not hoard.

looking at Chisomo, her expression serious Five years is a long time. But five years from now we are either still trading scrap with a future, or back in the village with nothing.

quietly Which is why I took what I could from the drawer. It is the only wealth I will ever have from that house, and I took it in the dark like a thief.

looking down at her hands on the table It was decided before I even spoke to him. I watched him read at the edge of his field for weeks and I already knew.

standing, taking Chisomo's hand Thank you. following him to the back room, closing the door behind them, leaning against it for a moment with her eyes shut We made it somewhere. That is enough for tonight.

lying on the other bed, pulling the blanket Good night, Chisomo.