The Superman Project

by A. E. Roman

  And then, one day, all the love, brotherhood, and trust was all over, dead and gone, stomped, crushed like a dry leaf, lost and blown away.

  “Poor Arjuna and Anu were casualties of Father Ravi’s growth,” Solange said.

  Solange also told me that the construction of Mr. Gupta’s house had been frozen, interrupted by the unexpected flight of Mrs. Edgar Gupta. Without Anu Gupta, Mr. Gupta’s house was the Taj Mahal without its beloved Mumtaz.

  “Tough luck,” I said.

  “Arjuna,” said Solange, “was born in the United States. He was a quiet boy, not a bully, a poet. A poet is the very opposite of a bully.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “But go on.”

  “Arjuna had all kinds of friends,” Solange said. “Indian, Trinidadian, Guyanese, Italian, Irish, Africans. I loved that boy. Everybody loved Arjuna. Arjuna was too young to be killed in that war. Father Ravi killed that boy.”

  I nodded. “So Edgar Gupta felt he lost his son AND his wife because of Father Ravi’s Superman experiments. After the court case was thrown out, maybe he thought that Ravi should lose some people, too.”

  Solange nodded.

  “The disappearance of one of Father Ravi’s children may be the only thing that could satisfy Edgar Gupta after he finally lost his lawsuit.”

  Solange nodded.

  “And Giovanni is working for Edgar Gupta?” I confirmed.

  “Yes,” said Solange. “They both share one thing in common. They both hate The Superman Project. Giovanni was Edgar Gupta’s spy at TSP, the way I’m Joey’s spy here.”

  “Does Joey know all this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “Joey doesn’t tell everything to any one person,” said Solange. “I don’t think he really trusts anybody. Not even me. Would you, if you were innocent and in his position and felt that the people you loved were either double-crossing you or out to get you?”

  I watched the smooth trek of a cockroach, crawling slowly up the wall.

  “No,” I said.

  My cell phone rang. I picked up.

  “I know where you are,” she said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Threatening clouds flooded the sky. I heard a clap of thunder as I watched Mara Gupta from inside the president’s office at TSP. A door connected to a short hall, which in turn led to a library. In the library, Mara was conducting a workshop called “Reeling in The Superman: A Woman’s Perspective,” and I peeked in through the open door. Mara looked cold and unblinking in her glasses, her mouth tight and unsmiling, all clipboard and red pen, all business. She made female politicians look like schoolgirls on spring break.

  A thin, attractive blond woman in blue jeans said, desperately, pleading, tears in her eyes: “Dr. Mara, I don’t even know where to start. I feel unloved.”

  The blond woman called Jessica straightened her back a bit more. “I’m a very giving person. I love love. I do sweet things for my friends and family. But the things that SHOULD be happening for me are not happening. Look at me. I’m twenty, pretty, college educated, intelligent, fun-loving, the kind of girl most guys would want to date. I shouldn’t even be here complaining like this. I know I’m supposed to be a Superman, but I can’t deal with my problems alone.”

  “You are not alone!” said Mara. “The Superman is within you.” Then came the smack down, the tough love, the bitter pill. Mara shook her dark head and crossed her legs, the perfect crease of her designer slacks almost accusing the blond woman. She pointed her red pen and said, “Now for some truth. Your main problem, Jessica, is that you are asleep. It is possible to find a man who is serious about his career, and about having children and being happy. It is possible to find your Superman. But first you must stop trying to find a copy of the little man you have in your old reptile mind. You must start working from your Supermind.”

  The women around the room nodded in agreement.

  “So what do you think the problem is?” Mara said, and bit down on the cap of her red pen.

  “I don’t know. I just feel needy, unappreciated, and uncared for. My friends say I deserve more.”

  “Do you think you deserve more, Jessica?”

  “I deserve more.” There were nods, and a small burst of applause went around the room.

  “Have you read Father Ravi’s pamphlet ‘Letting Go of the Grundies’?”

  “Yes,” said Jessica. “I love that one.”

  “Many so-called men today don’t want children,” said Mara, almost jumping from her chair. “They don’t believe in marriage. They just want to work and enjoy themselves after work without any real responsibility, commitment, and maturity. These are the Grundies. So if you’re looking for a man who wants to marry you, cross those Grundies who don’t want children, don’t want to marry, off your Superlist. They are not the One, The Superman. The Superman can hold a job, support a wife and children, take out the trash, ask you about your day, and turn off the football game to talk about his feelings. Demand a Superman, expect a Superman, and you will get one.” The women applauded wildly. I stepped back.

  “Next up,” said Mara. “Brenda will share her experience and hope in the Project.”

  The only black woman in the room, wearing a silk purple sari, stood up and said, “I had a vision of what the ideal man should be. I wanted someone whose income combined with mine could afford us a family, an apartment, a car, and all the travel, luxury, and fun we could possibly tolerate. I wanted a Superman.”

  Brenda patted her slightly bulging tummy and said, “I have that now. And more. Thanks to the Project. And baby makes three.” With tears in her eyes, she said, “I’m happy. I’m really, really happy. And it’s all thanks to Father Ravi and this Project.”

  The women exploded in applause. Brenda sat back down.

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” said Mara, looking around at the ecstatic faces, slapping the sides of her chair. “If you’re new here and want to find a Superman to whisk you off your expensively heeled feet and show you a good time and the good life, read this new manual.” Mara held up a booklet titled Metamorphosis of the Supermind.

  “This manual will heal not only your purse but also your heart. It will help you focus your Supermind. Do you want, one day, to wear a beautiful wedding dress, eat wedding cake with the man of your dreams and the future father of your children? You must not only ask for certain things, you must demand them. Take it slow at first. Get in touch with your Supermind. Get closer to the Superman. Then everything you ever dreamed of becomes possible.”

  Mara got to her feet, closed her eyes, bowed her head, and began: “I am . . .”

  The women, taking their cue from Mara, also stood up, bowed their heads, closed their eyes, held hands, and chanted with Mara: “I am. You are. We are. The Superman.”

  After a bit of silence, they all opened their eyes, released hands, applauded, hugged, whistled, and wept. The thin blonde in blue jeans wept the most. Three other women formed a circle around her, and put their arms around her neck and shoulders, and hugged her tight.

  Mara smiled triumphantly and shook hands with the other women who approached her. After the tears and fervor died down, Mara dismissed them with a wave of her hand and they all went out in a neat and orderly mob, laughing, telling jokes, wiping tears.

  “You can come in now, Mr. Santana,” Mara said and signaled me to enter the room. “How’d you like the show?”

  “Coulda used more butter,” I said. “Other than that, interesting. How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Giovanni,” she said. “As you probably already know, Giovanni was working for me.”

  I tried not to look surprised. “Giovanni was also working for your uncle Edgar Gupta.”

  Now she looked like she was the one trying not to look surprised.

  Giovanni was working for Mara Gupta and Edgar Gupta. It was some kind of double cross. Giovanni was playing everybody. That meant he knew more about this whole mess th
an anybody else and he was gonna talk.

  “Where is he?”

  “Question of the day.”

  “My men saw you meeting with Giovanni at Bellevue before he escaped.”

  “I didn’t know Giovanni escaped from Bellevue.”

  “His art studio is completely empty and he’s disappeared. My men also saw you in the Bronx with Joey Valentin. They followed Pablo Sanchez there. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know where Giovanni is,” I said. “I don’t know where Joey is. You called the wrong P.I.”

  “Do you even understand what we’re trying to do here?”

  “Waste my time?”

  “Massive overpopulation,” said Mara Gupta, looking out into the night. “Environmental degradation, extensive poverty, ethnic and religious strife. The Superman Project will eliminate these troubles, unite all nations. There will be no more threes. There will only be one.”

  “You believe?”

  “I believe.” Mara Gupta raised her eyebrows and said, “And more.”

  “Sorta like a spiritual Swiss Army pocketknife?”

  Mara smiled for the first time. “Humor is good. The Buddha was a laughing Buddha, you know? And Christ loved to laugh.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Jesus was a prankster. Raising Lazarus. Walking on water. That devil in the desert thing. Jesus knew comedy.”

  Mara stopped me in my cynical tracks. “An earthquake took thousands of lives in Haiti, and The Superman Project gathered collections and sent relief. What did you do, brother? Don’t be sorry. It’s the same for all of us. We want to help, but we don’t know how or where to start. The original Americans killed millions of Native Indians. Europe’s African slavery killed countless millions. The German Nazis killed six million Jews. Stalin killed forty million Russian souls or so. The French killed thousands or a million in Algeria, depending on who you ask. In Uganda, Idi Amin was responsible for the deaths of three hundred thousand human beings. The guerrilla war under Obote killed at least a hundred thousand. The killing continues. If the Superman Project had been in place, these horrors would never have happened. Those people would have lived.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I know,” said Mara Gupta. “The way I know that subatomic reality is just as real as this table.” She slapped the table with a flat hand. “The Superman Project will do away with the old ways, the old caste systems.”

  “What about your height and weight requirements? Sounds like a new kind of caste system.”

  “We must have standards,” said Mara Gupta. “The Superman Project will not do away with all rules and laws. But we will give everyone an opportunity to be happy. Isn’t that what America is about? Not the guarantee of happiness, but an equal opportunity for all to pursue happiness?”

  I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Hand me your cell phone, Chico,” she said, like a mother talking to a naughty child.

  “What?”

  “Go into your pocket,” she said, real slow, like it was my first time behind the wheel of a car or at the foot of an escalator. “Pull out your cell phone and hand it to me.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, lady.”

  I went toward the door.

  I opened it.

  I looked around for guards with Tasers.

  Nobody there.

  “Chico?”

  I turned to glance at Mara Gupta.

  I had my back to the open door.

  Mara Gupta held her clipboard to her chest, looked at me, and said, “Where are you going, Chico?”

  “Home,” I said.

  Mara looked at her clipboard and checked something. “That’s a mistake. You’re not going home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where is the comic book? The first Superman comic book.”

  “Joey’s comic book?”

  “That comic book was bequeathed to Joseph Valentin because he held a position of honor at TSP, without TSP he would never have inherited it. That comic book is TSP’s property as far as we’re concerned.”

  “So take him to court,” I said.

  “Do you have the comic book, Chico?”

  I thought back to the nonsale of Utopia Farms and what Solange had told me: “Giovanni found out from someone on the inside that TSP is bankrupt” and “TSP has more bills than income.”

  “If I didn’t know any better,” I said, turning to get a good look at the TSP accountant, “I’d think you were hard up for cash and more interested in getting your hands on that three- or five-hundred-thousand-dollar comic book than you are in finding your missing sister.”

  “Is that what Zena tells you?” she said, without missing a beat. “Does my baby sister still talk in her sleep?”

  I just looked at her. “I don’t think I like you, Mara Gupta,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t play well with others.”

  “Poor Hari,” she continued. “First, Joey and Zena and now—”

  Joey and Zena?

  She looked at my face. My stupid telltale face. A smirk appeared on hers.

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Didn’t you know?”

  Joey and Zena?

  No, I didn’t know.

  I thought about what Joey had said about him and Gabby fighting over other women.

  Joey and Zena.

  No.

  I didn’t know that.

  Joey and Zena.

  They suckered Gabby and Pablo and they suckered you. You were wrong about them, and it stings like hell. You don’t like to be wrong about people, about your friends, about the people you love or loved or were in danger of loving, do you, Santana?

  You’re wrong, like Zena said; suck it up, baby.

  Mara inhaled and exhaled deeply and turned her head away. “Zena doesn’t know where Joey is. I thought she did. And now I’m convinced she doesn’t. And I suspect that you and Giovanni do, Chico.”

  She looked at me again. “You don’t think Zena’s been using you to find out where Joey could be? You don’t think Zena could actually be in love with Joey?”

  Zena and Joey.

  That’s all I was thinking about when I heard a quick rush of footsteps behind me. Before I could turn, I felt a terrible weight on my back and then a massive bicep suddenly around my neck, slowly cutting off my air supply . . .

  I tried a . . .

  Too late, Chico, too late . . .

  Lights out, Chico . . .

  Hello, darkness.

  Nighty nite, Chico, nighty nite . . .

  TWENTY-SIX

  As I ran through the crowd at the Brook Avenue train station, pushing and shoving, finally running along the wrong side of the orange danger line painted on the platform, I felt a hand, felt the push, the shove, and fell, my Zippo lighter flying, my life, saw the train lights, heard the screeching wheels, the screams, felt my head smack against metal, saw the train, now before me, roaring and rolling like a demonic beast made of steel, and turning my head I saw my father’s dead body beside me, and Esther Sanchez’s dead body beside his, and then another and another and it was only a matter of seconds before the train was on me, seconds before the pain and shattering, the breaking and rupturing and more pain, blood, the red and the black, and then darkness, my father’s darkness, Esther Sanchez’s darkness, rolling over me and just as the white light of the oncoming train drowned me the last thing I saw as I looked up were Joey and Zena on the train platform, laughing before a wall with the words THE SUPERMAN PROJECT painted in red, as the train passed over . . .

  When I regained consciousness, came out of it, fog in my head, ears ringing, room spinning, startled, I found myself lying on my back in the dark on a flimsy cot, still dazed, head hurting, teeth hurting, chest hurting, expecting to find Mimi and Max asleep on the floor like campers. Instead, I found myself in a locked and dark room. It was cold and it smelled faintly of vomit and piss and sweat.

  Good morning.

  Zena and Joey?

  Giova
nni?

  What the hell?

  I was being played.

  Santana, you are being played, I thought as I tried to forget the lousy nightmare and looked around the room with no windows. There was only a cot in the room and a yellow line marking a safety zone before the door.

  The last thing I remembered was Big Man applying the brakes to my windpipe with his bicep.

  From this point on, I would trust no one—not Zena, not Joey, especially not myself, no one.

  I jumped up off the single cot.

  I felt the walls.

  They were padded.

  I checked for my cell phone.

  It was gone.

  I went to the door.

  It was steel and bolted from the outside.

  Mara Gupta thought I was in contact and cahoots with Joey and Giovanni, had taken my cell phone and was holding me prisoner.

  I looked around the room with no windows.

  I sat back down on the cot.

  I didn’t know how I would escape. But I knew an opportunity would present itself, and when it did, I would have to be ready. I remembered how Nicky once had everyone in the Dirty Dozen read something called Zen in the Art of Archery. I thought about that book now. I would move like a cocked arrow and shoot out of that bright room with the padded walls. Any hesitation on my part would land me right back in.

  First I had to get past the bolted steel door, then Big Man, and God knows how many TSP guards were waiting once I got outside that room.

  I heard keys and lay back down on my cot and closed my eyes, cracking them just enough to see what was coming at me.

  The lights snapped on and the overhead lighting hit my eyes like an ice pick.

  “Hello?” said the girl in the red uniform, carrying a ring of keys and a clipboard, looking at me as she walked in cautiously. “Are you awake?”

  I pretended to still be unconscious.

  I peeked over her shoulder at the open steel door as she entered, locked it behind her, checking her clipboard. She looked confused. No sign of Big Man; not even one living soul on the floor.

  “Hello?” she asked in a concerned voice. “Are you going home today?”

  I didn’t respond.