Porochista Khakpour - The Last Illusion

Indigo watched Silber put the letter into his back pocket and rejoin the workers. He had an extra spring in his step, his eyes were suddenly shining, his words back to quips; Manning gave the transformation a raised eyebrow followed by a thumbs-up. She couldn’t believe it.

Something had been happening, and it wasn’t good. And she couldn’t depend on Silber, who in the past few weeks seemed too mired in a sort of nervous breakdown to save them or even himself. She was the only one who knew there was something happening, and she knew she had to stop it as soon as possible.

She scanned the Silbertorium, bustling with its entire cast of characters, all hooting and hollering, bitching and snapping, whistling and humming. It was a circus. And yet: it was a circus in danger. Who could be trusted out of all those interns, assistants, and underlings?

And as if on cue, she saw Manning wave a middle finger at a red-in-the-face intern of his, who promptly burst into tears.

“No fucking way! I’m not on some Silber slave ship to watch it all go to shit,” Oliver Manning was shouting at one Bran Silber in the break room later that evening. “And I’m not worried about my ass! Do I seem like the kind of guy who’s worried about staying alive? I don’t give a flying fuck! And it’s not your life I’m sweating, either. It’s that thing!”

He pointed to a wall, on the other side of which was the illusion, in its unwieldy, mammoth, very material form.

Silber gulped and nodded. “Chief, listen, I’m not reading it that way. I was just thinking, we get the girl in here, hear her out — on the off-chance she actually has something real to say, something that might supplement the thing — and then we make her sign something and then send her out. And then rat her out! And so, in my mind, the thing is only enhanced by this.”

“Fuck you,” Manning groaned.

“I mean, it feels too perfect, like this was an answer to a prayer almost. I mean, look, I know you probably don’t believe in God—”

Manning punched that same wall. “Fuck you doubly. What gives you the nerve to say that?”

Silber stared at the floor like a scolded schoolboy. “I don’t know. You seem more, I don’t know, angry than the average believer?”

“I’m a Christian, Sil,” Manning said, lighting a cigarette. “Christ: angry dude. The Jewish God: angry as hell. I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Exactly. My point was that it seemed easy to dismiss the letter, when its timing was, dare I say it, almost miraculous! I mean, it’s probably nothing. But if there’s the slightest possibility there could be some added miracle, some new dimension — I don’t know. Can’t we just call her?” He wondered why he was even asking Manning’s permission, but was too afraid to say it, which answered his question.

“Hell, no. You’ve lost your mind, man. You think this terrorist is a miracle from God? No way. I will not have some crazy psycho stalker in here putting my boys in danger and, more importantly, that motherfucking thing we’ve been slaving away on for ages. I’m getting a paycheck, Sil, and I’m getting a paycheck because that shit is going to work.”

Silber nodded glumly. “Could a phone conversation hurt?”

“Oh, there’s gonna be a phone conversation, all right,” Manning said, leaning back against the wall and pausing to blow three perfect smoke rings. “We’re gonna have a talk with the cops!”

“Oh, God, you want to anger her? You want to piss off a woman who sounds like that?”

“That’s why we’re calling the cops and not the fucking Tooth Fairy, you ass. Because of that, precisely. That chick is danger, and we need the big boys on her.”

“We have security!”

“We have security the day of. She’s not talking about the day of. She’s talking before, and before starts now — it started before now. She could be on her way. You want that?” He looked down at the letter one more time. “I mean, motherfucker, she says she’s gonna bomb the World Trade if we don’t make it disappear first! Isn’t that a pretty important confession, or at least threat? Now, I’m not painting my life as precious, some big thing of value, but I’m willing to bet you do.”

Silber said nothing. Lately, the truth was, he hadn’t. Not even close. All he had was the image of the back of his eyelids, as his face sat in his hands for hours at a time. What sort of life was that? And, as Manning was implying, it had made him less afraid of things like a threatening letter. Months ago, he would have wanted the National Guard in there over it. But now, some woman with presumably a gun and some rapid-fire crazy talk didn’t worry him. It would probably do more for his name than anything else, he even thought, at a particularly low moment in the long pause.

“I don’t want to call the cops,” Silber finally said.

“Nobody’s asking you to, asshole. I’m on it.”

Normally, Manning taking charge would have a warming effect on Silber, but this time it felt chilling. “I think it’s a bad idea. Don’t ask me why! I just do. Not that you care.”

“I don’t, frankly,” Manning said, pulling an old-fashioned-looking cell phone of walkie-talkie proportions out of his back pocket. “And you know why? Because I’m done.”

“You’re done?”

“This has been a nightmare. We’re done after this, Bran Silber.”

Silber snorted. “Oh, that’s all you meant? Well, fine. But I beat you to it, because there’s nothing to be done with.”

Manning cocked his head to the side, not understanding.

Silber got up. He didn’t even want to be in the room for the phone call. As he opened the door to leave, he looked over his shoulder — still one to love a gesture with sky-high dramatic flair — and snapped, “Believe it, Mans. There’s nothing after this one. You’re done because I’m done. The end!”

To capture them in that era, a still would do: a young couple, closed mouths, apart — in the same room, but their bodies so very apart — frozen in a New York City apartment. It was always Asiya’s apartment those days. She, suddenly in better spirits — they seemed in a perpetual seesaw of spirits, her down, him up, her up, him down — had ordered Chinese, a stir-fry that she claimed she had made, if only to make it more special. She had meant to make it, only she couldn’t sit still those days, not enough to focus on vegetables and measurements and cutting and cooking.

Something, she could feel, was happening. Hotter, closer, more than ever.

Zal was as pale as it was impossible for summer to render a human. He was sitting hunched over an empty bowl, chopsticks poised, ready for something that was not yet coming. The already cooked meal was cooking just a bit more in a pan, for authenticity’s sake.

Asiya watched him carefully. He didn’t know.

Zachary had moved back a few weeks ago, and, just minutes after they’d shown up at the house that evening, when Asiya was sure he wouldn’t be around, he had come in and seen Zal there. Zach shouted some profanities and threw a couch pillow Zal’s way, and then he left with a slam of the door. The whole time Zal had looked down at his bowl, on the same seat, same pose, same stupor.

If he knew, he wasn’t letting on. But he didn’t, she thought — how could he? Not yet at least.

She brought the steaming stir-fry over and scooped some on his plate with rice, and they sat silently, eyeing their food. Two sounds broke through the silence: the central air on an intense blast as it had gotten so very August, more than ever, in August’s final days; and the sound of Willa, laughing or crying, her soft voice somehow tumbling down the staircase to their table.