Bodies of factory foremen began to turn up all over the place like scarecrows. One was the overseer at a plant who had whispered filthy words to young girls. He was awake for the briefest of seconds before he ascertained he was being accosted in his bed. There was a rag being forced down over his mouth. He grabbed at the arms of his assailant. They were skinny, so he knew they belonged to a woman. The chloroform on the rag put him straight back to sleep.
He woke up tied to a stake, dressed in undergarments from the factory he operated. He looked quite enticing. All the women who walked by whistled and made lewd comments. Did anyone who looked so provocative have a right to refuse being provoked? He had on a pair of exquisite leather shoes fashioned for a woman. He begged to be able to remove them because they were too small. They were tight around the toes and caused them to bend. His arched feet looked like those of a hanging bird.
Two very young girls wearing black masks over their heads climbed up on a stool behind him. He had no idea what they were going to do. He had not realized until that moment just how unpredictable little girls were. How had no one ever realized how violent they were? The young girls wore executioner’s masks. They pulled the corset ribbons and his rib cage contracted. He couldn’t breathe properly.
The foreman of the sardine factory, who handed over the paychecks of women to their husbands, also found himself tied to a stake all day. A plate of food from his icebox was placed at his feet just beyond his reach. A girl with a black mask held a dog on a rope. When the overseer begged that he was hungry, she let the dog go to eat his feast.
Another overseer, who was paying women half of what men were receiving, found himself tied to a stake wearing only his pants. There was a ladder standing up behind him. A small girl in a mask climbed up the ladder while lugging a bucket and slowly dumped it on his head. He shivered violently in the cold.
* * *
Young girls wore their masks even when they weren’t going to a manifestation. They found them fun to wear in games of tag.
Everything was more fun with their masks on. They were able to be small monsters. With a mask on it was impossible to be evaluated as ugly or good-looking. They were freed from judgment and freed from authority. The masks were a small barrier that protected the girls from men. Men looked at them, but there was no way to read them. They were hidden behind their masks.
Men felt as though they were being stared at when they passed by the girls. They looked away and they still felt themselves being sized up and stared at behind their backs. They felt the eyes upon them all day. They didn’t understand how this was permissible. Why didn’t their mothers take the hoods off their heads, so they could go back to being little girls?
A man was walking home from work when he passed three girls with masks on. One of the girls tossed a handful of jacks onto the sidewalk. They looked like a cluster of spiders, running over his shoes. He hurried on. He had the distinct impression the girls were following him. He thought that at any minute they would take their hairpins out and run after him with them. They would stab him. Or perhaps they would just insult him. He didn’t know which was worse. He wished he hadn’t taken such a dark side road home. He should have gone to Sherbrooke Street, which was well lit and populated. His feeling of unease did not abate until he was in his room and the door had locked. He felt like weeping with frustration. Because he wasn’t sure whether he was afraid of the girls for no reason or if they had been genuinely threatening. That unknowing in itself was what made him feel so powerless. He didn’t really have control over the situation.
He went to put a kettle on but then dropped it, startled. There was a thin girl with a beige mask on her head standing in the corner of the room. But after he blinked several times, he saw it was just the lamp of course. Every time he blinked, familiar objects turned into treacherous girls.
* * *
One morning, the women who worked at the garment factory were all standing outside its door, blocking the entrance. There were so many women employed that the factory shut down without them. It was as though the machines were on the girls’ side too. The quiet of the factory after the women left was peculiar. It was an uneasy silence.
The foreman at the garment factory read about what had happened to the three men at the other factories. There were some who told him that he should not bend to threats. He should never negotiate with terrorists. But there was something too unholy about the manner in which these indignities were happening. If he had men as his opponents, he would not be afraid in the same way. Men would fight with their fists. They would make their anger known. He could recognize the signs of an angry man. He could also understand what made them angry. But he didn’t know what magic witchcraft women were capable of. Women were capable of anything.
Girls had as important a role in the garment factory as women did. They ran around on their little feet, darting in and out of the aisles. They scurried about like rats. Because they had started working at the factories so young, their bodies had become nimble and quick, adapting themselves to the frenetic pace of the machines.
He half expected these young girls to crawl out from underneath his bed. He was terrified of his maids. He thought they were all looking at him suspiciously. He felt all the women in the city were in cahoots. He had a dream all the girls in the factory descended upon him. They came after him with knives and forks. As though they meant to eat him alive.
A group of women passed him on the street. One of them whistled at him. He almost slipped on the ice and fell on his face because he was so threatened.
He conceded to all his workers’ demands.
* * *
There was always an element of creativity in the terrorist acts. That was because they were created by women, who had been raised in the decorative arts. They left chalk messages on the ground in the most perfect handwriting.
* * *
Then one evening, a crowd of girls from the sugar factory began a march up to the Golden Mile. Their black boots made the sound of a hailstorm. They could not keep quiet. Their murmuring and muttering grew and grew. Unlike the sound of a male crowd, their voices were high-pitched and sweet. And they made the most joyful cacophony. People rose from their sleep to poke their heads out the window to see this beautiful passage. There was a light fall of miniature snowflakes all around them.