“Are you feeling okay? You’re not canceling this afternoon’s rehearsal, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m feeling fine. Great in fact.” Her voice is chipper. Actually chipper! She can’t bear to spend another moment in bed, so she stands up, stretches, flings her arms out in each direction.
“Hmmm,” Adam groans. “Now I know something’s wrong. It’s not LSD again, is it? Please tell me it isn’t.”
“Adam, go back to bed. Sorry I woke you.”
He yawns wide. “Take care of yourself, Riya. Contrary to popular belief, divas can live well into their forties. I’ve seen it happen once or twice.” Adam attempts a wink, but his lid sticks shut.
“See you at rehearsal,” she says sharply, then disconnects.
Inspiration hits hard, a new song welling up from inside, deep. A song of hope, of love, of movement. She grabs a pen and jots some lyrics, hums a few bars, but the notes catch funny in her throat. Riya Natrajan clears it, then tries again:
Breezy, breezy, listen to my heart at play,
Feel me, ooh boy,
Simple as seduction.
Reaching, reaching, living for another day,
Feel me, ooh boy
Live forever, sweet seduction.
She sounds like a canary with a sinus infection, and no, not in a good way. Riya Natrajan scrambles around her suite, makes white tea with honey and a warm compress for her throat. In thirty minutes, when her voice has downgraded to the likes of a rooster choking on a kazoo, she starts to panic. Gargling with salt water doesn’t help a lick, and in an hour, she’s become so hoarse she can barely speak at all.
Side effects. Side effects of that stupid drug, that’s what this has to be. What if her voice is ruined? Forever? Manic thoughts surface—she wonders if her pain was what made her an artist. Without it she’s lost everything that defines her. She’s got no one to turn to. No one to tell her it’s going to be okay.
Well, there is one person.
She slips into oversized sweats, tucks the godsend vial safely away in the pocket, throws her hair up into a messy bun, and heads out into the hall. She starts a brisk jog as her half-asleep bodyguards rouse from their post.
“Ma’am!” they call after her.
“Just going for a jog,” she croaks like a frog with a mouthful of marbles.
“Not by yourself,” Robert, the bulkier of them, says.
“Well, no one’s stopping you from coming. That is, if you can keep up.”
She’s been so wobbly lately, Riya Natrajan can’t remember the last time she’d run anywhere, but after nine years of obsessing over dance moves for hours on end, she’s got thighs like a cheetah, and there’s no stretch of pavement that can intimidate her now. Her bodyguards, on the other hand, they’re bent over and huffing by the end of the fifth block. Robert calls a limo for rescue, leaving only Turk, slightly more athletic, but definitely not the brains of this operation. She needs to lose him fast.
It’s too early for shops to be open, but she knows a place down on the beach where merchants set up early on a Sunday morning and where tourists riding on their jet lag highs don’t care much about rising before the sun. It’s crowded already with artists selling shweshwe printed scarves and purses, intricate beadwork jewelry, and clockwork animal figurines made from recycled Fanta cans. Turquoise crested waves break against the seawall in slurred hushes, and the blood orange sunrise hangs lazily on the ocean horizon. Down shore, the twinkle lights from the Boardwalk glow dimly against the new day. She weaves through the crowd, accents from across the globe prickling her ears. A German man haggles over the price of a hand-carved tribal mask, and an American couple bicker about the social irresponsibility of buying NuIvory sculptures despite the fact that the last true-born elephant had walked the savanna nearly four decades ago.
Glancing back, Riya Natrajan catches a glimpse of Turk’s smooth, bald head popping up through the crowd like an anxious meerkat. Quickly, she ducks into the stand of a man selling wooden figurines. She sheds her bright green sweatshirt and ditches it behind a display rack so that she’s just in her sports bra, her tan skin blending in with the warm wood tones.
She doesn’t look, but feels the wind as Turk runs past. A chill sets in. Riya Natrajan ignores it and wedges deeper into the man’s stand. As she waits, she admires one of the figures, a delicate piece of a young woman. An angel.
“Is there something I could interest you in, ma’am? A gift for that special someone?” the artist says smoothly. “Or perhaps a treat of your own?”
Riya shakes her head quickly. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t got any money on me.”
“She’s not for sale, that one,” the man says. He smiles wide. Knowingly. “I cannot part with her just yet. Soon enough, though, she’ll need a good home. Why don’t you take a look at her face? A close look.”
“She really is beautiful,” Riya Natrajan says, eyes tracing along the wood. The grain plays against the shape of the girl’s calves, accentuating her hips, highlighting her face.
“She’s not an angel. That’s what most people think. She’s a precious thing, a child of man and god, but I fear she won’t have the chance to be loved by either.” The man shakes his head, then fixes Riya with eyes that pierce her soul. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was talking about a real girl, and not a piece of wood. A shiver surges through her, quick, yet violent. She smiles politely, then shuffles away.
Back on the street, she hails a bot taxi, then sprints across the street as one pulls over. She goes to open the door, but a man in a gray suit has already thrown his briefcase in from the other side. They lock eyes over the expanse of the backseat, and something primal wells up within her. She can’t chance sticking around on the streets like this much longer.
“Mind getting the next one?” She breaks eye contact and settles into the seat.
“Actually, I’m already late to a meeting.” The man speaks mostly into the uni-boob of her sports bra, of course. He thumbs the pay pad. His name lights up on the display—Benjamin Wells—then flashes green to confirm a fifty-rand hold against his account balance.
The bot’s bullet-shaped head spins around to face them. Its mono-eye displays a neutral shade of yellow. “Destination?”
“Triamyd Industries. Vann-Bosley Building. Theale Street and Govan Mbeki Avenue.” He taps Riya on the shoulder. “We can split it if you’re heading my way.”
“Out of the question.” Don’t you know who I am? Riya Natrajan almost says, but then tilts her head away so he won’t notice. Outside the taxi, she sees Turk across the street, momentarily held at bay by a sudden stream of traffic. “Fine! Just drive!” she commands. Anything to get away from here. She swivels the pay pad away from him and presses her thumb in the designated area. Her name lights up, and for once she’s glad about the bot labor laws and the one provision that allows bot taxis to operate without an overseer. To this dumb bot, Riya Natrajan is just a fare like any other fare.
The taxi bolts out into traffic and Turk is left stranded in its vapor exhaust. Benjamin’s alphie settles on the seat between them, offering a buffer of privacy, one that Benjamin’s sure to overstep. There’s silence. Way too much of it. She feels his eyes running over her.
“Hey, I’m sure you get this a lot, but did you know you look an awful lot like—”
“No. I don’t.”
“But—”
“I don’t!”
“Ben,” he says. He extends a hand.
Riya Natrajan ignores it and keeps her forehead pressed against the window as they speed along Beach Road. Her mind ebbs and flows like the blue-green waves of the Indian Ocean crashing against the rocky shore, wondering if she’s been blessed or cursed. As they pass the harbor, she looks back toward Benjamin, unable to stomach the sight of towering industrial robots loading the ships docked there. She makes the mistake of catching his eye.
His brows raise. “You are her.”
“I’m not.”
�
��Ag, man! Asemahle is not going to believe this. You know we just bought tickets to your concert for my brother-in-law.”
“Taxi, could we get some music back here?” Riya Natrajan snarls. Anything to drown this guy out. The first few melodic bars of her title track “Midnight Seersucker” fill the backseat of the taxi. She grits her teeth, refusing to acknowledge Benjamin’s rabid smile. “Taxi, kill the music and let Mr. Wells out right here. He’s decided to catch another cab.”
“Taxi, ignore that request,” Benjamin says, reaching forward and slapping the bot on its cylindrical torso, then turning back to her. “Okay! Allergic to small talk. I get it. Won’t hear another peep from me.”
“Please refrain from further contact with the driving mechanism,” says the bot with its mono-eye trained on Benjamin, flashing an intimidating shade of red. “Any damage incurred will be charged against your account.”
Benjamin pulls a face at the bot, then leans heavily against the backseat. Riya Natrajan rolls her eyes. The chill is starting to get to her. She shivers, rubbing feeling into her arms as the cab pulls up against the curb, under the shadow of twin mammoth buildings.
“Well, this is me,” Benjamin says, patting his alphie. “It was nice meeting you, ma’am.” He smiles and tips his head. As an afterthought, he offers her his gray wool blazer. “Here. I suspect you need this more than me.”
Riya eyes him suspiciously.
“Take it. I just figure, you know, someone of your stature taking a junky bot taxi this early on a Sunday morning, running away from that rather hulky gentleman back there—I thought you could use a little help. If I’m wrong . . .”
Riya Natrajan snatches the jacket. “You’re wrong. I was out for a jog and got a little winded, that’s all. So whoever you think I am and whatever you think I’m up to, I want you to forget about it, okay?”
Benjamin recoils, gives her a dirty look, then pats his alphie on the head and slams the door as soon as they’re both out on the pavement. Bitch, he mouths from the other side of the window.
She shoots him her patented Riya! don’t-give-a-damn pouty lips, then leans forward and knocks on the delta bot’s dome.
“Could I use your phone?”
The bot stares back at her. “Please refrain from further contact with the driving mechanism—”
“Yeah, yeah. Put it on my account. Now let me use your phone or I’ll have you decommissioned.”
With what Riya Natrajan swears is a frustrated sigh, the bot returns its gaze forward. The pay pad screen switches to a phone interface. She dials Adam Patel, and he answers immediately, dark circles still under his eyes, but fully alert this time.
“Riya! Where are you? Turk and Robert say you ditched them. Is something wrong?”
“No, I just need a little time to myself. I’ll be back for rehearsal this afternoon. I’ll be off the grid for a bit, but don’t worry, okay?”
“You pay me to worry, Riya.”
“I promise. I’ll be fine.”
“At least tell me where you’re going.”
“You know I would if I could, Adam. Love you.” She moves her hand toward the end call button, then says, “Oh, hey. Do me a favor and get a couple backstage passes for Benjamin Wells’s brother-in-law.”
“Benjamin who’s what?”
“Oh, look him up. You can figure it out. That’s why I pay you the big bucks, right? Kisses.”
And she hangs up, then gives the bot her destination and watches as the towering buildings of downtown Port Elizabeth turn to smaller commercial buildings, then homes, then brush.
As the bot taxi pulls into a long dirt driveway, the fare reads out eight hundred fifty-three rand. She confirms the payment, then orders the bot to leave the meter running. She gets out and unlatches the gate, then stares up the gravel path that leads to the house she hasn’t seen with her own eyes since she’d stopped being Rhoda Sanjit. The yard has gone to weed, but the house itself looks well maintained, minus a much overdue paint job.
Her knuckles rest against the wood of the front door. She can’t bring herself to knock. She watches shadows pass through the front window, like ghosts of another life. A wind chime plays in the breeze, a song composed of metallic notes. As a child she used to put words to them, spending entire summer days singing about boys and kissing and faraway lands. Her father had taken it down one evening, tired of hearing her voice through his office window.
Rhoda Sanjit had stopped speaking to her father that day. Didn’t say a word to him the entire week, until one morning she woke up feeling like she’d been run over by every wheel on a very long train. Her vision blurred. Even her very breath sent excruciating pain up and down her spine. “Daddy!” she’d cried out.
“May I help you, ma’am?” interrupts the mechanical voice of a house bot from behind her. Memories of that other life fade away.
“Um, yes. I’ve come to see Dr. Sanjit.”
The bot’s mono-eye flashes bright red. “Apologies. I see no appointments on Dr. Sanjit’s schedule. Is this visit of a personal nature?”
“It is,” Riya Natrajan says. “Please tell him that his daughter has come for a visit.”
“Apologies. Dr. Sanjit does not have a daughter. Unless you are referring to an alternate use of the term besides the designator for female offspring. Please define.”
Riya rolls her eyes and holds back the urge to slap the bot upside the head with her running shoe. “I’m his daughter. As in he’s my father. As in he knocked up my mother, and I was the result. Just tell him Rhoda Sanjit is here to see him.”
“Apologies. Rhoda Sanjit departed from this earth on 24 May 2056. Unless you are referring to a different instance of Rhoda Sanjit. Please specify your personal identification number.”
She feels a lump well up in her throat. “Departed from this earth? You mean, you think I’m dead?”
“Dead. Deceased. Passed on. No longer with us. Logic error: Vital statistics indicate that you are alive. Therefore, you cannot be Rhoda Sanjit.”
“I’ll show you a logic error,” Riya Natrajan says, taking off her sneaker, just as the front door opens.
“Hello. Can I help you?” says the stern voice, her father. His eyes flash with recognition, face cycling through the five stages of grief in the course of half a second before settling on resentment.
Riya Natrajan sighs. The tightness in her chest eases slightly. “Father”—the word feels tacky in her mouth. Almost wrong. His hair is gray, cheeks sunken, face worn beyond its years.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. If you’re looking for a priest, you’ve come to the wrong place. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” Her father shuts the door, but she sticks her foot in the jamb.
“You’re still mad. I get it. But it’s been eight years.” Riya presses harder against the door. “You can’t possibly hate me forever.”
“How can I hate you?” rasps her father. “I don’t even know you. Now, I suggest you leave before I call the police.”
Riya Natrajan shakes her head. She deserves it. She deserves to be locked away for what she did. Or didn’t do. It’s not like she hadn’t called. Not like she hadn’t sent flowers, twelve dozen lilies. Not like she hadn’t jumped on the fastest jet to Port Elizabeth as soon as she could. But she hadn’t been there for him when he needed her the most. While he watched her mother, his wife, being lowered into the ground and buried beneath six feet of black earth, Riya had been in Cape Town with Reginald Ivey, yes the Reginald Ivey, starting the negotiations that led to her first record deal, the one that paved the way for her career.
So she’s not going to be on the short list for any World’s Best Daughter awards, but if she can’t appeal to her father’s heart, she can always appeal to his mind. Rhoda Sanjit was one in a handful of people in this country to be diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, the diagnosis her father had made, the one he’d spent countless hours studying, the one he’d kept a secret all these years.
“It’s my MS,” she says. “That’s why I’m her
e. Please, just give me a moment of your time.”
Reluctantly Dr. Sanjit cracks the door, but lets his body fill the opening, as not to insinuate that she’s welcome here. “How’s the pain?” His voice comes out tepid, which is a lot warmer than it had been a moment ago.
“That’s just it. There’s no pain at all.”
His eyes narrow. “Self-medicating,” he says accusatorily.
“No!” Riya says, then retreats within the confines of her oversized blazer, pulling the lapels tight. “Well, some. But that’s not it. My senses are sharp. My mind is clear. No fatigue whatsoever.”
“Curious,” Dr. Sanjit says. He strokes his gray beard into a point.
“There’s more,” Riya says, lips barely parting. “I’ve lost my singing voice.”
“Ah . . .” Dr. Sanjit bobs his head knowingly. “This is God’s doing, then, and not a matter of medicine. Good day to you, Ms. Natrajan.”
“You can’t just turn me away. I’m your daughter!”
“The little girl I raised died years ago, a sweet child with possibility in her eyes and nothing but love in her heart. What you are, whoever you are . . . you’re not her.”
“Possibilities? Most people could only dream of achieving what I have!”
“You’re not most people, Rhoda—” Dr. Sanjit stops himself, his body swaying slightly as if overcome by nausea. With an unsteady hand, he reaches out for the doorjamb, misses. Riya Natrajan grabs him, and they find themselves in what might seem like a hug to the observer not familiar with the abyss between them.
And yet they linger.
“Please,” Riya whispers into her father’s ear. The tickle of his beard against her cheek dredges up a childhood’s worth of memories. Her eyes sting, but she forcibly composes herself.
“Come in,” he says after a considerable pause. “I’ll make tea.”
“Thank you.”
Her father looks her up and down, pursing his lips at her sweatpants and blazer. “There might be a change of old clothes . . . in the bedroom.” He nods down the hallway. Her old bedroom he means.
The Prey of Gods Page 10
