Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

Twisting slowly from a branch bent so low it seems like it can’t hold its terrible burden is a young woman, eyes closed peacefully, something close to a smile on her face.

Selah, Water calls, softly at first, then louder, Selah, until it is a scream.

He wakes abruptly; alone, Fire fast asleep under his caul, sitting in the chair by the window. If anyone heard his scream, they don’t respond. Reaching out, Water touches the cold glass of the window.

Selah is a cloud, he says, a star cloud, constellation of the dog.

The moment’s awkwardness when Asia answered Sunil’s door to find Sheila was compounded by the fact that Asia was wearing lacy underpants, sporting a black eye and a shirt that could only have been Sunil’s, two buttons keeping it on.

I’m sorry, Sheila said, not knowing what else to say.

About what, Asia asked.

Is, er, Sunil home, Sheila asked.

No, Asia said, not stepping away from the door but not shutting it either.

Asia was curious about Sheila, but not unduly worried. She knew she was the only one Sunil was sleeping with, and he’d never mentioned this woman. Still, the day had been full of surprises.

I’m Sheila. I work with Sunil. He hasn’t been answering his cell. I was worried.

Hello, Sheila, Asia said. I’m Asia.

Hi.

Asia didn’t like that Sheila had been calling Sunil on his cell and felt comfortable enough to come over, clearly unannounced. I haven’t heard from him either, she said. I thought he was at work.

No, I checked, Sheila said.

He’s never mentioned you, Asia said.

This is the first time I’ve come over. I’m really embarassed. Look, I’ll go, just tell him I came round, Sheila said.

You should come in, Asia said, stepping back and holding the door open. That is, if you want to.

Are you sure, Sheila asked.

Asia wanted to say, I don’t want to be alone. Not right now, not today. She wanted to say, I’m confused and terrified, because I found out that not only have I been sleeping with my lover’s best friend, but he also tried to kill me. And my lover is not really my lover, but my client. And I love him. I do, but now I don’t know why because I really don’t know enough about him. Instead she said: I’m sure.

Sheila walked in and stopped in the hallway as Asia closed the door. She followed Asia into the living room, where she felt herself stiffen and draw a sharp breath even though she hadn’t meant to. Were you robbed, Sheila asked.

Asia took in the ruined living room, feeling good at the implication that Sheila assumed she lived with Sunil. I don’t live here, she said.

Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed, Sheila said.

Assumed what, Asia asked.

I’m sorry, Sheila said.

About what?

I’m not sure, Sheila said, acutely uncomfortable. About coming unannounced.

Yeah, that is kind of forward, Asia said, checking Sheila out. Thinking: late thirties, fashion still caught in the ’80s, tight body, cute face. Still, she thought, no competition.

So what happened here?

None of your business, Asia said.

So this has nothing to do with that, Sheila said, pointing at Asia’s black eye.

Like I said, none of your business.

Sunil didn’t — Sheila began.

Fuck you, Asia said softly. I thought you said you knew him.

Right, Sheila said, I’m sorry.

So do you have a message for Sunil, Asia asked.

What?

A message you’d like to leave for Sunil?

I’m sorry, but I’ve known Sunil for six years, Sheila siad, and I’ve never heard about you, Sheila said.

Asia smiled, but her eyes were cold. I’ve known Sunil for six years too and he’s never mentioned you, either.

They stood there, side by side, in the room Eskia had trashed, not looking at each other.

Have you called the police, Sheila asked.

If you have no message for Sunil, I’ll just tell him you came around then, Asia said.

Yes, thank you, Sheila said, I should go.

Asia nodded and pushed the door closed firmly, ending the conversation. She walked back into the living room and sat on the floor. For a long time she just sat there, and then she gave in to the release of tears.

It was a full moon. Heavy in the frame of the car window.

Sunil was lost in the memory of Jan, of the last time he saw her alive at Vlakplaas.

There was Eugene, Sunil, Constable Mashile, and Jan. Jan in the light-blue skirt, white blouse with lacy detail, long tanned legs, and her long lean toned arms unadorned except for the ring that sat on her thumb, too big for any other finger. The one Sunil had given her so long ago. He wondered why she’d taken it off the chain.

She seemed out of place here, like a woman on her way to a picnic who had taken a wrong turn, casual in her smile as though the most dangerous thing she faced were whether ants would get into the jam or not. Incongruous in this place, this stark white room with bare cement floors. The paint here always smelled new, because fresh coats were applied frequently.

Eugene loved the pristine whiteness, the way it would show up blood from the more intense interrogations, the patterns on the wall forming a red puzzle. How much pain before that one capitulated. How much before this one informed on everyone — even the innocent. What was most effective on whom — teeth extracted with pliers; good old-fashioned fist work; the cut inner tube of a car tire pulled down over the face to suffocate in controlled measure. But of course, this was an imprecise science, lungs often filled with liquid and sometimes blood, and so on. The point no longer the information, no longer saving the state, but for nothing more than the hunger, the desire to know the body in all its savage beauty.

All of it happened in this room, Eugene’s favorite.

The windows opened onto a vista of hills and scrub and low scudding clouds that drew shadows across the stubby rise. Sometimes there were zebus lowing in the heat, driven by a boy trying to find pasture for them to graze before being driven off by gun-toting policemen for trespassing.

Not the usual view from an interrogation room.

Jan sat facing Eugene, a table between them, a slow-moving ceiling fan above them turning the heat over like a blanket drying on a stove, not cooling anyone, just moving the humidity around evenly.

Sunil sat on a stool between the windows trying not to look at Jan or Eugene. Instead he focused on the bowl of fruit that sat between them on the table, noticing the details: three pears, a knife, and an oddly shaped and heavily ornamented silver object, which could have been anything but looked decidedly Victorian.

Constable Mashile was staring intently at Eugene, trying to keep the look of discomfort from his face.

Would you care for a pear, Eugene asked Jan. No? Well then, I’m sure you won’t mind if I have one. He reached over and tested each one, finally selecting the one that met his standards. Pears are most delicious at the midpoint of ripeness, between too firm and too soft, he continued.

No one else spoke.

You know, before they get really ripe? The flesh has some bite to it and yet the juices are sweet, Eugene said to no one in particular. He rubbed the pear against his khaki bush shirt and picked up the knife, cutting slowly, deliberately, into the fruit. Everyone watched him pare it into quarters. He let them fall apart and lie there on the table like flower petals. He picked one up, held it to his nose, inhaled, and then with a smile, he placed it in his mouth and bit down on the grainy flesh, his smile widening. He chewed slowly, quietly, and then spoke: Perfect, just perfect. This should really have been the fruit to tempt Adam, don’t you think? The apple shows a singular lack of imagination on the part of that particular Bible author, whoever he was. I wonder if Moses was a composite, you know, like Shakespeare? He poked at the three quarters that were left with the tip of the knife, as though testing for the optimal one. He speared one on the tip of the knife and ate it with delight, smacking his lips and looking so lost in his pleasure that everyone else looked away in embarrassment from that particular intimacy. Eugene put the knife down and rubbed his hands together and said: That was good, reminds me of my childhood. My moeder would cut up pears for me, a rare pleasure on that farm so far inland where fruit rarely did well. Memories, eh?