Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

That’s funny. Come on. He leaned into her. He got his hand inside her sweatshirt and managed to touch her breast just barely as she struggled.

Stop! she ordered. She shoved him off and kicked him in the leg. He turned sideways and she punched him in the arm.

Let’s not fight.

She grabbed the fabric of his clothing as if to choke him with it or rend it. The strap of his assault pack got caught in her grip.

Wait up.

He stepped away and readjusted his pack behind him.

All right, game on.

No. You are bad boy.

Aw, come on. Come back.

No.

Seriously. Come back.

No. You are the wild boy. Out of control.

He followed after her as she went out onto the main avenue where there were people and lights. She acted as if she were browsing the markets, surveying this and that. She clasped her hands behind her back.

Look at this apple.

He had caught up with her.

Are you mad for real?

She looked at the crowd of people buying things.

Look at this peach. Pear. Melon. No.

They stood on the edge of the light from the bare bulbs that had been set up in the market so that people could see the produce, him in his pale loose camouflage gear, both of them unhooded, with their strong heads like two animals who had wandered in from the dark out of curiosity.

I carry maybe one hundred thousand or two hundred thousand of this melon, she said. Me and my mother.

She knocked one with her knuckles.

He rubbed it.

Feels like somethin to me.

Look at this fish, she pointed.

The fish were large and heavy. She read the cardboard sign planted in the ice. Six dollar. Hm, she said.

You into fish?

It’s expensive.

They wandered along the margin, shoppers streaming around them out into the night. He took a chance and put an arm around her. She said, No, like this, and took his arm in hers.

Wanna hit a bar?

But she said, No, we go up here.

At the top of the hill, there was a silver cart with a minaret spinning on top and smoke billowing out almost invisibly in the dark. You could smell the smoke. Painted on the side of the cart were the words Xinjiang Shaokao One Dollar. The vendor, who had a bag of charcoal by his cooler, wore a surgical mask and military fatigues. He was fanning the grill with a piece of cardboard. They watched the coals glow like red teeth. One by one the vendor turned the skewers over.

Liangge yang! Zou Lei sang out.

Two lamb, the vendor repeated in Chinese, from under his surgical mask.

What’d you tell him? Skinner asked.

I order the lamb kawap. I tell you before, I will invite you the real Chinese food.

Lade bulade?

Lade.

What’d he say?

He ask if he make it spice or not spice.

The vendor took a pinch of spice out of a cup and sprinkled it over the grill. When the meat was ready, he snipped the ends of the skewers off with meat scissors. Two lamb! He handed Zou Lei the skewers like a bouquet and took her money.

Your nanpengyou? the vendor asked.

You could say that.

American fellas have money, don’t they?

I wouldn’t know.

Everyone knows except you. Why don’t you have him pay?

You’re so concerned!

The vendor pulled down his surgical mask, revealing a lean face. He addressed himself to Skinner. You, he said, rubbing his fingers together. Money.

What? Skinner said.

The vendor went on with tending the fire and turning the meat and checking in his cooler.

You concern yourself with a lot, Zou Lei said.

Just looking out for you, sister.

Oh, that’s how it is.

That’s how it is.

Keep your eye on that fire. Don’t burn your little sticks, Skinner said.

The man made a tolerant sound, as if he were humming a lullaby, placating a child.

Zou Lei took Skinner’s arm and walked him down the block. There were condominiums and trees. They left the avenue behind. The concrete sparkled where it was not in shadow. They leaned on the scaffolding to eat.

What’s with him?

Maybe he is angry. The Chinese is poor people. Maybe he don’t have enough money to get the wife, the family.

He can’t afford a girl.

Or they cannot afford to live together. A lot of family is apart.

So he’s a hater.

Yes, maybe. Maybe he is jealousy.

I get it, Skinner said.

They were eating, their chins covered in grease.

You ever have this one before?

Yup, he said chewing. At like haji shops and stuff.

You like?

Hell yeah. It’s good. Messed me up a little.

How it mess you?

He chewed.

Like digestion or whatever.

You are not used to it. But if you can be used to it, it is very healthy. The people who eats this one grows up up up up.

She put her hand up in the air above both their heads.

This one is not the best. In my home, it’s the best one. You cannot believe. The lamb is kill very fresh. In the morning, he is alive, run around. In the afternoon, he is hanging up. Cut the meat, put the fire.

He nodded.

You never eat so good in you life. The bread, my mother bake.

She went on:

In my home is the mountain, forest. River. Everything.

He watched her silhouette. She started to say something else and stopped.

What?

You guess.

Then give me something to go on.

I am not the Chinese.

I thought you were.

No. One half.

She leaned forward, the bottom half of her face coming out of the shadow. He stared at her chin.

What are you?

You guess.

He didn’t know.

The Muslim people. Eats lamb.

She grinned and bit her skewer and slid the meat off with her teeth.

Are you messing with me?

She walked around in the dark smiling at him.

He shrugged.

She poked his shin with her sneaker toe.

You surprising?

No. I knew there was something different about you.

Maybe you don’t want to play games anymore.

That’s not true.

To hug.

Yeah, I do. Quit movin and I’ll show you in a heartbeat.

They were in a KFC in a chaotic Spanish and black neighborhood. They had walked here, having travelled down a rolling stretch of tall trees and small houses, a narrow strip of sidewalk to go on, sometimes going in ranger file with her in the lead, stepping over sodden cardboard which could have been where people camped. The restaurant’s windows were steamed over, and gangs of teenagers in matching red colors and blowout afros were calling back and forth across the place. She saved a booth, her face windburned, eyes bright. He came back from the counter carrying their dinner, his boots just missing the feet in red and black Jordans which were extended in the aisle.

He set the tray in front of her. She clapped her hands.

We has everything!

I know. Here’s your Coke.

He sat down and something heavy in his pack, which he had again worn to see her, clunked the seat. He shrugged out of it and set it under the table between his boots. They reached into the chicken bucket. She leaned forward, eating with both hands. The skin came off his chicken and he put it in his mouth and wiped his face. He wiped his hands, which, even when washed, looked as if he had been handling charcoal, the nails outlined.

At the next table, a female voice was hollering, Is you ready to stop bullshittin? And a gale of hooting went up around the place. In ecstasy, one of the teenagers screamed and stamped the floor with his Jordans.

You want ice cream? Skinner asked Zou Lei.

Ice cream! Maybe, she nodded. Maybe it is nice.

I know I’m feelin it.

He got them cones. When they were halfway done, he moved around and sat next to her on her side and reached under the table and squeezed her thigh. There was no resistance in her leg, as if the warmth of the restaurant had relaxed her joints.