Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

But you hear the terrible whispered truth as your mother prowls the house like a hungry ghost. And White Alice, who was once white but turned colored because of a sickness; White Alice, who lost it all — her husband, her kids, her nice home in a white suburb, her white pass card, her privilege — and had to live in Soweto like a kaffir; White Alice, whom Dorothy had taken in, taken to, a fellow lost soul, Alice had betrayed her. Stolen Sunil’s story and day by day reconstructed the truth. A truth she sold to the secret police in the hopes of getting her life back, her kids, her husband, her home, her whiteness. And who wouldn’t, Dorothy muttered, and who wouldn’t. But still, but still. And now her husband and many other men dead, and Sunil without his father, not even a mythical one. And all because of a story, a story and a mouth that told it. She was good at stories.

The last sound you hear that night draws you into the kitchen. And you see your mother sitting there, shoulders shaking with sobs. Terrified, you approach, terrified because you have never seen her this way, this woman whom everyone deferentially calls Nurse Dorothy.

And then she looks up when you call to her, and you scream.

You don’t scream because of the mascara running down her face in black witch tendrils, or the rouge of her cheeks smeared with tears and sweat. It is her mouth that terrifies you. She has sewn it shut, the needle still dangling from a piece of black surgical thread. Not a mouth at all but flesh, meat, raw and bleeding.

And so you run. Run to White Alice’s house.

And then the men come in an old ambulance and take your mother, and though there is a murderous rage in her eyes when she sees White Alice, there is also an understanding, gratitude for this gift of the men dressed in white uniforms.

And Dorothy looks from you to White Alice and because her mouth is still sewn shut, the women can only exchange looks.

Yes, White Alice says, yes, I will take care of Sunil.

Again that murderous rage and gratitude, then Dorothy is gone.

You are twelve.

You never tell your story again.

Johnny Ten-Ten, who lives down the street at Ten-Ten, says: You know why your mother sewed her mouth shut and then got taken to the crazy house?

You know better than to answer, you know that children can be cruel.

It was early, and a mist thrown by the heat and the sprinklers covered the grounds of the Desert Palms Institute. Invisible in the whiteness, peacocks shrieked like god-awful creatures. Water, unable to sleep all night, was wide-awake when the nurse came round on the forty-minute-interval suicide watch. Although Sunil didn’t actually believe the twins would kill themselves, he wanted to be sure.

The nurse brought coffee. Is it how you like it, he asked Water, passing a Styrofoam cup of hot liquid.

Four hundred billion cups of coffee are consumed across the world every year, Water said, sipping gingerly.

You didn’t sleep much, did you?

The record for the longest time without sleep is eighteen days, twenty-one hours, and forty minutes, Water said.

Is your brother still asleep, the nurse asked, pointing to the caul-covered Fire.

Water’s stomach growled loudly in response. The rumbling made the nurse smile.

I’ll bring you something to eat in a minute, he said, closing the door gently.

Water walked across the room and stood by the window. The mist was dissipating, revealing well-manicured Japanese-style gardens rolling down to a fence. Even with the landscaping, the place still looked like a corporate park. The room, decorated as it was like a high-end but impersonal hotel room, added to the effect. The nurse returned.

The kitchen isn’t open yet, but I did find these in the vending machine, he said, holding out a bag of M&M’s and a packet of Red Vines.

The main flavor of licorice candy is anise but for red licorice it’s cherry, Water said, putting a Red Vine in his mouth.

I’ll be back in forty minutes, the nurse said, turning to leave just as the caul covering Fire snapped back like a venetian blind.

Fire blinked, adjusting to the light. Sniffing theatrically, he said: Red Vines.

Water passed one. Fire chewed-on it for a minute, eyes closed, then spat the chewed-up red candy into his cupped hand. The nurse watched from the half-closed door, mesmerized.

Fire looked up. Hello, he said to the nurse.

Hi, the nurse said.

Disgusting habit, I know, Fire said, but I’m not good at digesting anything that isn’t liquid. I get most of my nutrition from Water.

Like a baby, Water said. That’s why I eat for two.

You eat for three, Fire said.

Water laughed so hard, Fire looked like he was riding a mechanical bull.

That’s quite all right, the nurse said, retreating.

Did you sleep, Fire asked Water.

No, Water said.

Is the coffee any good?

No, Water said.

What’s that horrible screeching?

Peacocks, Water said.

What’s with the curt answers, Fire asked. Are you in a bad mood?

Water shrugged. The peacocks screeched again.

Jesus, Fire muttered, how many of those fuckers are there?

An ostentation, Water said.

A what?

A group of peacocks is an ostentation, Water said. Like a bouquet of pheasants, a kettle of hawks, a deceit of lapwings, a descent of woodpeckers, an exaltation of larks, a murmuration of starlings, a siege of herons, an unkindness of ravens—

Fuck, Fire said, you really are in a bad mood. He passed the handful of spat-out Red Vines to Water and retreated under the caul. I’m going back to sleep, he said, voice muffled. Maybe you should try and get some.

The caul snapped shut.

Closed for business, Water said, and finished his coffee.

Eskia crossed his room to look out the window at the still-rising sun. He hadn’t slept much. He never did, really. He had resigned himself to this a long time ago. His insomnia held the full weight of his guilt; the heft of his father’s sniper rifle.

He’d already spent three days at this hotel and would have to check out today. Routine made it easier to be found. To be marked. It made intelligence operatives careless. From following him, he knew the Venetian was Sunil’s favorite, so he decided on there.

Eskia cupped a mug of coffee in his hands. The room service delivery had not woken the sleeping Asia. He studied her sleeping form, sheets half off her. She had impossibly long legs; so long they made her torso seem short. And her hair was thick and worn in a crowning Afro. Flawless amber skin betrayed her biracial identity. Something a South African would spot easier than anyone else. He was somewhat surprised at the abandon with which she slept. He was irrationally angered by it. What right did she have to be so carefree?

Glancing over at the breakfast for two on the cart, Eskia wondered why he had bothered. He wasn’t that hungry, and while he didn’t typically frequent prostitutes, he was sure they didn’t expect breakfast the morning after. But this wasn’t just any hooker. This was Sunil’s special hooker.

He knew Sunil from college, and while he was the closest thing Eskia had to a friend then, their relationship had always been fraught.

Eskia came from Soweto royalty, an upper-middle-class family of Anglican ministers, doctors, and lawyers. People who lived in Orlando, the part of Soweto the locals sometimes called Beverly Hills; people who sat in the front pews at church on Sundays and sent their kids to private schools abroad; people who made up the cream of the ANC leadership.

Eskia’s parents were paying his way but Sunil was on scholarship, one rumored to be bestowed by the apartheid government. Because of that, ordinarily Eskia would never have befriended Sunil, but they were the only two blacks in their cohort and so an uneasy friendship developed between them, an alliance that affirmed each other’s humanity in the face of the crushing shame of apartheid. But Eskia perceived his need for affirmation as a weakness on his part and so he came to resent Sunil for it.