Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

Mr. Rajik raised his hand to pull a string and ignite a constellation of dim Christmas lights behind him. He was an ordinary-looking Hindu man at a table with a tea service, no expression on his face. “I’ll just make a few inquiries. Will you answer?”

“Ask me and see.”

“In the period of the last week, or even a little longer … have you looked at any time to the place where your shadow would be seen, and yet you saw no shadow?”

“No.” “Have you seen a black bird?” “Thousands. The world is full of black birds.” “And one that you noticed in particular? Because it didn’t belong

there —I might give you the example of a bird inside a house, or a black

bird perching on your windowsill. A sort of thing such as that.” “No. Nothing like that.” “Have you seen something—any kind of object, any kind of… Again

I’ll use an example: You crumple up a piece of paper, and it resembles someone’s head. Or a stain of some discoloration on the floor— something that resembles someone’s face, the face of someone close to you in the past. Have you seen a thing like that in the last couple of weeks? A thing that suddenly showed you the face of someone close to you?”

“No.” “I am going to say a prayer for you. What will the prayer be?” “You tell me.” “No, I can’t be the one to tell you. It’s not my place. It’s your place to

tell me what you would say if you spoke to God.” “Break on Through.” Mister was going to do a silence thing now. As if he didn’t speak

English. “I can write it down for you.” Mister reached up and turned out the small lights. His hands rustled

among his pockets and he struck a match and lit a stick of incense. The dark curved like a tunnel around them, like solid walls. Very sweaty nauseated hit now. “Gots to go, man, if you want to be fucking with me like this.”

Mister blew out the match. Nothing now. “Your eyes.” In twenty seconds the tiny red ember on the incense became visible, and the little eye that went with the voice, or the nose—this thing was the face, it was all he could see, and it was talking. “To break through—you are saying as through a boundary.”

” ‘Break on Through/ it’s a song. It’s my philosophy, my motto. You ask me for the word, that’s the word I’m gonna have for you. Break on Through.”

“Come back tomorrow.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

Mister spoke without urgency, very gendy. “Have I asked you for any money? Do you feel I’m not to be trusted? So I say to you, come back tomorrow. I can’t give you today what I don’t have today.” “Yeah. Yeah. Do what you have to do. Yeah.”

As Storm came within a couple of meters of Pudu Prison’s massive sheet-iron gate, he felt the heat of the morning sun banging off it into his face. The guard at the entrance slid a panel aside and peered at Storm out of the dimness of his cubicle, stared at his letter of introduction, which was in English, and made a phone call. Storm waited in the street for several minutes before the guard opened the man-sized metal door in the concrete wall.

A tall youth in civilian dress led Storm through the courtyard, where two dozen guards drilled for parade in green and purple uniforms. Ugly bastards. But soon they’d hang Skip Sands, so here’s to them.

Storm stood outside the warden’s office with the letter identifying him as a journalist named Hollis, the name on his Australian passport. A letter calling him a journalist wouldn’t do him much good. He understood that. Storm had attached to it a note of his own, explaining to the warden that he also represented a charitable group and wanted to visit the prisoner strictly as a humanitarian, not as a reporter.

Manual Shaffee, director and warden of Pudu Prison, greeted Storm cordially. “I apologize once again very much,” he said, “for our policy which prevents me from allowing you inside the prison.” But Storm was already inside, here in Shaffee’s office with the pictures of the nine sultans overpowering one wall, the air greenly lit by one circular neon tube overhead.

Shaffee was a little fat man of Indian descent with the pie-shaped and mustachioed face of a cartoon rodent and a jacket frogged with gold braid, and five different medallions on each mortarboard epaulet. Also, on his chest, ribbons. The impression he conveyed was one of idiotic sweetness.

“Are you a Muslim?” Storm asked. “No.” Storm said, “I myself am a Christian, sir.” “So am I!” the warden said. “I am converted. Believe me, I don’t like

to hang people.” “Please give Mr. Benęt this note, okay? I talked to his lawyer already,

and I think I saw the prisoner give me a nod at the sentencing.” “It’s completely against all regulations.” “I’m here in a humanitarian role. I’m asking you as one Christian to

another.”

The warden insisted Benęt would refuse him in any case. He pronounced the prisoner’s name as Benny. “Benny wants no visitors,” he told Storm. “Benny was even rude to the Canada consul.”

“What about his family?” “Nobody comes. Canada is too far.” “Make sure he understands I’m the guy who talked to his lawyer. I

think he’ll see me.”

“But Benny won’t see you. I can only keep telling you that. Benny spit in the Canada consul’s face. Doesn’t that lead you to some conclusion about Benny?”

“I’m pretty sure he’ll see me.” “He has refused all visitors. Otherwise I could help you.” But having fixed on this strategy, having made it Benét’s refusal rather

than his own, the warden now felt compelled to make Benęt prove it.

“If you will please wait,” he said, and dispatched a guard to talk to the prisoner. The warden lit a cigarette while Storm listened to the guards drilling out in the courtyard, in unison slamming their rifle butts down on the cracked concrete.

Sands and the guard stood together outside the door. Shaffee beckoned them with a tortured look.

Sands-Benét came in barefoot, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. And it was nice to see him looking so bad, wrecked in his eyes and skinny, nice to see him looking like a prisoner.

“Can I talk to him by myself?” “No.” “Five minutes.” The warden’s face shut, and Storm dropped it.

Storm said, “How’s life?” “Boring, mostly.” “Do you smoke?” “I finally took it up.” “You got any cigarettes? These Malaysians smoke Three Fives, I

think.” “Yeah,” Sands said. “I’ll give a couple cartons to the lawyer.” “Thanks.” “He pretty good?” “Good enough to get paid while I dangle.” “You understand the deal here. I’m just a humanitarian, a fellow

English-speaker.” “I get it.” “Benny’s consul came to see him,” the warden said, “and he spit.” “You’re my first visitor.” “Try spitting at me.” Sands stared at his bare feet. “Warden Shaffee’s a nice guy,” Storm said. “That’s why he’s letting

me talk to you. He wants to make sure you’re comfortable.” “The thought of getting out of here would comfort me.” “Not possible, man. You’ve been found guilty and sentenced, and

there’s no fooling around here. Eighty-three people have been convicted

under the new gun laws, and eighty-two have hanged.” “I know the numbers.” Storm asked: “And how do you feel about hanging?” “No comments!” Shaffee said, though nobody had asked him. Benęt shrugged. “Hey, at this point, it’s okay by me.” “No comments,” Shaffee repeated. “But I am a Christian. I think you

know my answer.” Storm took a step closer to Benęt. “It’s time to think about your soul.” “Don’t be daft!” “I’m offering you a chance to clear your conscience.” “I haven’t got a conscience,” Sands said. “So hanging doesn’t make you shit?” “I’ve lived too long already.” “What about Hell, you fuck?”