Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

Sunil contemplated calling Salazar. Fuck, he thought, this is not what I need now. Thank you, he said to the doorman, and crossed to the elevators. As the doors closed, Sunil reached for his phone. Why hadn’t anyone tried to call him, he wondered, and then remembered that his phone had been off, and that he still hadn’t listened to any of his messages.

Why would vandals break into this building? Fuck, he was too tired for drama. He had barely inserted his key into the lock when the door swung open and Asia stood there, face less swollen than before, but clearly badly bruised. She was wearing his shirt and not much else, and in that moment, Sunil hated himself because he was at once turned on and torn up for her.

Asia, he said.

Sunil.

What happened?

I’ve missed you, she said, and her voice was very quiet.

They stood there for a while, as though stranded, stuck, as if waiting for directions from someone hidden in the wings. He smiled suddenly and touched her face, and she pulled back, wincing.

Can I come in, he asked, as though he needed permission.

She stepped back and he shut the door behind him, then drew her to him, holding her close, yet gently, so as not to hurt her.

Did the vandals do this to you?

No, she said. They were long gone by the time I got here.

Did a client do it?

She nodded against his shoulder.

Have you been checked out, medically?

I’m fine, really.

Was it, you know—

Rape? No.

What then?

Someone tried to kill me.

Oh baby, he said, and his voice was heavy with sorrow and guilt and despair. I’m so sorry, so sorry. What did the police say?

The casino handled it. You know, it would get awkward with the police; I would be arrested for solicitation. Besides, he got away.

I’m so sorry, Sunil repeated, realizing that, like most people, he kept forgetting that although prostitution was legal in most of Nevada, it was actually illegal in Vegas itself.

I’m okay, Asia said, but her voice was slight, a faint tremolo against his skin.

They stood there for a while in silence, Sunil stroking her hair.

Sheila was here looking for you, she said, trying to keep the jealous bite out of her voice.

Did she say what she wanted?

To see you. Like me, she was worried. We’d both been trying to call you all day.

I’m sorry. My phone was switched off.

I needed you today.

I’m sorry.

She pulled away, wrapping her arms tight around herself. Where were you?

Salazar and I went to chase down a lead in the desert.

Who is Salazar, she asked. She hadn’t meant for her voice to be shrill, but it was.

The detective who brought the twins into my institute.

What twins?

The ones you didn’t want to talk about, remember, he said.

Right, she said. Of course.

The doorman says the police were here. Did they bother you, he asked, unconsciously straightening the Kentridge painting, looking things over, trying to tell if anything was missing, wondering if it was too soon to go through his effects.

No, she said. Nobody came here.

Do you need anything, he asked. Something to drink, to eat, or something for pain?

Asia shook her head.

Can you tell me about your attack? Do you know who it was?

She nodded. Yes, she said.

He sat next to her on the couch, noting that the Bible where he’d hidden the hard drive with his research was open, the disk gone. This is not the time, he said to himself, forcing his attention back to the moment, to Asia. He took her hands in his, and something about this moment, about his absence in her time of need, reminded him of Jan and of the whitewashed room in Vlakplaas. He pushed the memory down, but not before he saw a spray of crimson pattern the white walls.

Who was it, a regular?

A new client, relatively new, she said.

As she spoke she saw in his eyes how difficult this conversation was for him, and something inside her took pleasure at that. At the knowledge that even beyond himself, beyond any control he could have, he loved her. And in that moment she knew she couldn’t drag the moment out. There was no kindness in protecting him, or herself for that matter, from the terrible truth of it.

It was your friend Eskia.

Sunil, who had been stroking her hair, felt himself stiffen, his hand unconsciously gripping her hair.

Ow, she said, so softly it was barely a sound.

I’m sorry, he said, letting go. Eskia, you said?

Eskia.

He needed to sit down. No, wait, he was sitting down. He didn’t know Eskia was in town. What the fuck was going on? Had Eskia broken in here? To harm Sunil or just steal his work?

Why, he asked, not sure what he meant. Did he mean, Why did he hurt you or Why would you sleep with my friend, my rival, my nemesis, even if you are a hooker?

Why what, Sunil?

Why would he try to hurt you, Sunil said, gathering himself, bracing. Why did he do this?

He said he wanted to hurt you the way you hurt him before he kills you.

Kills me?

Yes, he said he was going to kill you.

Sunil got up and walked over to the window.

Why does he want to kill you, Asia asked.

Sunil said nothing, unable to speak for the sheer rage that was burning through him. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? The e-mail with Jan’s ring should have been enough, but he thought the text was from South Africa. It never even occurred to him that it could have originated in the United States. He knew the only way Eskia could have got that ring was by exhuming Jan’s body. And because he had been there, because he had seen what Eugene did to Jan when Sunil couldn’t turn her with the drugs and mind-altering methods he was perfecting, he knew that if he hadn’t found that ring on the remains — a ring that Sunil had slipped into that anonymous hole in the ground as a kindness, as a way to make sure Jan’s spirit could find its way into the underworld — Eskia would never have been able to identify the remains as Jan’s. He wouldn’t ever have found whatever closure he was trying to create. And now this.

Sunil, why does Eskia want to kill you?

Sunil shook his head. Something that happened a long time ago, he said, barely above a whisper.

Something very bad, she asked, realizing even as the words formed that it was a pointless question. She already knew the answer to it.

Yes, he said. Something very bad.

Did you do it?

It’s complicated, he said.

Did you kill someone important to him, she interrupted, impatient.

I didn’t kill her, he said.

She let out her breath.

But I did nothing to stop it either, he said.

Who was she?

Jan, he said.

Someone he loved?

Someone we both loved.

Jan. And when Asia said the name it brought an old and yet familiar ache back to Sunil and he stood there, wide open and weak, the light passing through him, refracting nothing.

Asia got up from the couch and approached him. She stood behind him for a while, barely an inch between them, and yet it was the chasm between worlds. She stepped forward and wrapped herself around him. Her feelings confused, churning, unsure whether to be angry with him or to comfort him, but yet wanting desperately to hold on to him.

Tell me everything, she said, afraid to ask, her breath hot on his back through his shirt.

Are you sure, he asked.

Yes, she said, thinking, No, I don’t want to hear about her, but knowing this exorcism was the only way forward, for her, for Sunil, for both of them. This woman she knew was still alive for Sunil.

And so he told her.

And in the two hours that he spoke, they went from standing by the window to sharing tea in the kitchen and then finally to intertwining their limbs in bed, where they fell into a fitful sleep.