Chris Abani - The Secret History of Las Vegas

Asia’s number rang for a long time, then went to voice mail. As usual there was no outgoing message, just a beep. In her line of work it was pointless, she changed numbers every other week. Occupational hazard. If she wanted to get back to him she would just hit Redial. Still he wished he could say something to her. He hung up and turned on his computer, to return to studying the MRIs his team had taken the week before in the Arizona State Penitentiary.

An e-mail alert pinged up on his screen. He opened the message and scanned it quickly. He didn’t know who’d sent it, but it was a photo of a ring; a big silver ring, with a turquoise butterfly wing under resin. His stomach fell away. It was Jan’s ring. He had buried her with it, all those years ago in South Africa.

Sunil had been in college on a state scholarship when he met Jan Krige. The first thing he noticed about her was the Bible. She had it with her always, a red pocket-sized leather-bound book with a red five-pointed star and a gold-and-black kudu in the middle stamped on the front: a South African Army Bible. Sunil had loved that there was a meticulousness to her. To the blond hair pulled back severely into a bun so tight he could see the blue veins pulse just under her hairline. To the green eyes carefully shaded by eye shadow and lined in fine black liner. To the expensive cashmere sweaters buttoned over newly starched white shirts, and then the white coats with the pens lined up like little soldiers in the breast pocket: red, blue, green, and black. Pens she never used, never even took out of her pocket. She always wrote with a heavy fountain pen — all black body with a gold cap — wielded like a wand, like a sword. He sat next to her at every opportunity, mostly because she was the only one who never moved away from him when he sat. Never shrank or wrinkled her nose as if he secreted an odor. It intrigued him that she treated him no different from anyone else, and it wasn’t like she couldn’t tell. He was the only black in the room.

He would sit next to her, watch her pull open an old leather satchel, a man’s satchel, worn and fading in brown. She would select her notebook, a different one for each class, whatever text they were studying, and her pen. She would line them up on the desk and then, finally, she would pull out the Bible, and lay it down. Then, turning to look at him, as though noticing him for the first time, she would smile, her red lips parting to reveal small white teeth in pink gums. Hello, Sunil, she said, every day. Hello, he said, and smiled back.

When he finally plucked up the courage to ask her about the pen and the satchel, she explained that they had belonged to her father. He died before she was born, on a peace mission to Mozambique, she explained, to convince the ANC terrorists to give up their attacks on the government.

That was his, she said, pointing to the Bible. It had been a gift from Mr. Botha to her father. It’s signed by Mr. Botha, she added.

Sunil couldn’t tell which Mr. Botha she meant. May I see, he asked, reaching for it.

She put her hand on his, white on black, small on large, and shook her head gently, sadly even. No, she said, it would be like looking into his soul. I’ve never even opened it.

Oh, he said, his hand burning under hers, wanting the pressure. My father died before I was born too, he said, lying.

I’m sorry, she said, moving her hand imperceptibly.

He felt it ignite a flame in him, feeling the delight of her, the warmth of her, and yet the conflict of his desire was strong. How could he feel this for a woman whose people were oppressing his? Desire is a fool, he thought then, wondering if it was his thought or something he had read somewhere.

He had never seen a Bible like hers before, so red, and that day it pulsed under his palm like a heart.

But that had all been so long ago. And yet here she was, at least the ghost of her. Material and present; a heavy silver ring with a wing. He touched the computer screen.

Fire watched keenly as Shiva’s eight arms waved dangerously close to Chewbacca’s face every time he moved. Chewy, tired of ducking, threatened to pull off Shiva’s extra arms if His Royal Blueness didn’t sit still.

Fire looked at Water, but Water had his eyes closed. Fire returned to watching, peering out from Water’s shirt.

Across the aisle from the ER waiting area, a man, pants down around his ankles, shuffled up to the nurses’ desk to find out how much longer he had to wait. The wool sheep attached to his waist kept him at arm’s length from the desk and the nurse had to cup her ear to hear him over the noise of the ER.

It was six when I got here, he said, pointing at the clock. Now it’s seven thirty. What the fuck is taking so long?

Please sit over there, sir, she said in a tired voice, pointing to the waiting area. The man sighed loudly and shuffled back to sit down next to a woman and her daughter. The woman pulled her child closer.

In the corner a very skinny Spider-Man was being harangued by a three-hundred-pound Wonder Woman wearing her hair in a three-foot updo: Don’t rub up against me, pervert, she said, pushing against his chest. The skinny Spider-Man backed away and Fire realized that apart from a leather G-string he was naked, his costume painted on in colored vinyl.

Salazar stood a ways down the hall talking to the duty cop. Vegas County saw a lot of law enforcement and correctional patients and there were always several cops milling around, in addition to the two officers permanently stationed there to make sure that nobody left unless they wore the appropriate wrist tag. Everyone was issued a tag at check-in: red for convict, blue for supervised (which included mental patients or people not yet processed, like Fire and Water), and green for everyone else. Simple but effective.

In the back row, a teenager wearing the costume from Scream bled from a knife embedded in his head. It was hard to tell if the knife was real or fake, and if it was blood or syrup dribbling down his face. A man in a Predator costume, sans face mask, screamed: Shit, I’ve been shot, shit; all the while holding a thick piece of gauze tight against his alien arm. It’s not that bad, the woman next to him said, I only shot you with a BB rifle. It was clear that she was his girlfriend. She wasn’t wearing a costume, and for that reason, she looked the weirdest in the room. The man next to the twins wore a gorilla costume with a cage attached to the front. In the cage was a man in jungle fatigues, hands wrapped around the cage’s foam bars. The twins didn’t immediately realize it was one costume, and that the wearer’s head was poking out of the gorilla’s chest, becoming the head of the caged man.

Fire undid Water’s buttons and pushed out into the open. Staring around with open curiosity, he seemed completely at home in the melee.

Hey, you’re not going to the Halloween pageant at the Fremont, are you, the gorilla asked the twins. ’Cause your costume looks even better than mine. The pot is five thousand dollars and frankly, I don’t need the competition.

This isn’t a costume, Fire said. We are twins.

Right, got you, the gorilla said. Bending down, he added in a conspiratorial whisper: I won’t tell.

Before Fire could answer, Salazar came over and led them to an examination stall, screened off but otherwise open to the ward. Fire overheard him say to a nurse: I want a psych consult for the patient.

Why, the nurse asked.

Salazar looked at her name tag: Andrea Hassiba. Listen, Andrea, Salazar said. My assessment of the scene leads me to believe they are a risk to themselves.

Fine, Nurse Hassiba said, I’ll call for one. In the meantime, it would help if you go to the admissions desk and fill out all the required paperwork. They will get the duty psychiatrist down here.