Chris Abani - GraceLand

Elvis stood on the balcony looking out over the dark water of the sound. Behind him, to his left, Felicia sat at a round metal table.

“Is that Maroko?” he asked, pointing out across the sound.

“I’m not sure. I only arrived in Lagos last night.”

“It is nice, the way the rich live,” he said, turning back to her, indicating the entire condo with a sweeping gesture. On the way there he had been stunned by the smooth tarred roads, well-laid-out grounds, huge villas and mansions in white, high metal fences patrolled on the inside by stone-faced guards armed with automatic rifles.

“Come and sit down,” she said. “Are you full or should I fetch you more food?”

He sat down opposite her and pushed away the still-half-full plate.

“No thanks. I haven’t eaten so much in so long.”

“Does she starve you?”

Elvis looked away.

“She does, dat bitch!”

“Let’s talk of other things,” he said.

“Fine. Your father says you dropped out of school.”

“Can we drop that subject?”

“De way you dropped out of school? I don’t think so.”

“I wasn’t learning anything useful there.”

“You know, education is de only chance here. If I dropped out I wouldn’t have studied nursing in de university and I would not be going to a good job in America.”

“You are going to a husband in America.”

“And a good job — don’t sass me, boy, before I …”

“Before you do what? Can’t you see I am all grown now?”

“Elvis, still so stubborn, still so proud,” she said, shaking her head.

“So what is his name?”

“My intended?”

“He is your husband now.”

“You’re right,” she giggled. “I still haven’t gotten used to it.”

“These things take time. Are you looking forward to going?”

“Not really. I am afraid. America is so violent and I won’t have my family.”

He snorted. “Well you better make him your family. This one fell apart a long time ago. As for the violence, you will be fine as long as you don’t sleep with some white woman’s husband. That’s why people get shot there.”

“Dere is no danger of dat,” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, Patrick, my husband, is a doctor in a hospital in Las Vegas.”

“How did you meet?”

“He wrote from America saying he wanted a wife from home, and mutual friends hooked us up and we began writing to each other. Den he came over for six months and we had a good time. When he went back, I was sure he would forget me, but he didn’t. He wrote regularly and came back within six months to marry me.”

“Then he left again?”

“Yes.”

“So how much time have you spent with him, in total?”

“A few months.”

“And how much time have you been apart?”

“Longer than we have been together.”

“So why did you not just follow him back?”

“Their immigration people make it really hard, Elvis. Dey are not convinced dat we are married. Dey even said dey wanted us to have a child first to prove it.”

“They are mad,” Elvis said, getting up and walking over to lean on the metal rail. He shook out a cigarette and lit it.

“May I have one?” she asked.

“Trying to become an American lady?” he joked.

“No,” she said, laughing. “I got into de habit working night shifts. It seemed like everybody died at night and I needed something to burn de smell from my nostrils.”

They smoked in silence for a while.

“Have you got a photograph of Patrick? I’d like to see what he looks like, if I may.”

“I thought you’d never ask. I’ll be right back,” she replied, getting up and going indoors.

She returned with a photograph album under one arm and a small paper bag in the other.

“Pull up a chair,” she said, sitting down, moving plates to one side and laying the album open on the table. He sat next to her and she explained who was who, turning pages excitedly.

“Dere,” she said, snapping it shut on the last page.

“Nice.”

“Here,” she said, reaching for the paper bag. “I have gifts for you.”

With a flourish, she laid a Bible on the table in front of him.

“A Bible? I don’t want to disappoint you, but I am not much of a Christian,” he said, not touching it.

“It was your mother’s,” she said.

He picked it up gingerly, as though it would bite. Touching it brought back memories of his mother: how she would say her rosary every night before a statue of the Virgin of Fatima and then read a passage of the Bible before bed. Or maybe she hadn’t. It was getting difficult to separate the imagined from his real memories. He wondered why Oye hadn’t given it to him when she gave him his mother’s journal. He opened the Bible; scrawled in his mother’s cramped, spidery handwriting were her name and a date. There was also a handwritten dedication: “Sweet Lord Jesus, all that I am, all that I have, is yours, Lord, now and at the hour of my death.” He flipped through it quickly, the pages fanning out in a ripple. The book seemed to stay open a little longer at a section that was heavily underlined.

“Dat is an omen,” Felicia said. “Dat was her favorite psalm.”

“It opened here because constant use has cracked the spine. It’s not an omen, just bad binding.”

“You of little faith!”

“The Lord is my shepherd …” he began, but stopped.

“Go on,” she urged.

“No,” he said, shutting the Bible and putting it back on the table. “What else have you got for me?”

She reached into the bag and pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. He weighed it in his hand. It was thick.

“What is this?”

“Just a little money to help you, but don’t open it until you get home,” she replied.

“Okay.”

She reached into the bag again and pulled out a postcard. Elvis took it and stared at it for a long time. It had four panels on the front. In one, the word “Vegas” was spelled out in lights. The second panel framed a nighttime shot of the Strip, all lit up. The third panel featured an Elvis impersonator, while the fourth was a photo of the Graceland chapel. This is an omen, he thought. This is it. He turned it over and over. On the back Patrick had scrawled a note, and the date stamp showed it was nearly six months old.

“Dis is where I am going,” Felicia said. “I wanted you to have it. My address is on de left-hand corner.”

“Thank you.”

“As soon as I am settled, I will send for you. It will probably take some time to get you a visa, so you must be patient. Okay?”

He nodded and lit another cigarette.

“Dat is, if you want to come,” she added.

“Sure — who doesn’t want to come to States?” he said.

“You smoke too much,” she said.

“Oh, not you as well!”

“I am worried about you, Elvis. What do you want to do with your life?”

“You know.”

“I don’t. Tell me, please.”

“I want to be a famous dancer. Like Elvis.”

“He was a singer too.”

“I can sing.”

She sighed. “Listen, Elvis, dis is a difficult world. You have to let go of childish dreams. You can’t get by dancing, at least not here.”

“Thanks for believing in me.”

“I want you to go back to school.”

“School? At my age?”

“And what age is dat? You are only sixteen. If you had stayed in school, you would be graduating dis year. If you work hard, it will only take you a year to catch up.”

He turned back to the sound. Below in the garden, fireflies decorated the shrubs in lights. Cicadas called. Soft music came from an adjoining condo. On the street, an occasional car swished past silently, headlights picking out a buoy or an anchored boat.