The Superman Project

by A. E. Roman

  “I have my share.”

  “Were you in love with Joey?”

  She hesitated.

  “It was just an affair with Joey?”

  “Does it bloody matter, when the world is run by thugs, bureaucrats, and know-nothings, who makes love to whom?”

  “I happen to have an allergy to liars,” I said, “but I confess to a weakness for the truth. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “With Gabby gone,” Zena said, “I have no sisters I can trust. Me and Mara and Chase just grew up in the same fucked-up bloody family, and it wasn’t even a family. Just a disconnected bunch of people with no traditions and no love, a bunch of strangers who lived together. I would never hurt Gabby or let anybody hurt Gabby. I’ve been looking for Gabby, just like you, Chico.”

  I held her hand and pushed her to talk.

  “My father,” Zena continued. “He said he loved my mother. He dragged her from England to America. Then he left. He abandoned all of us. For years I didn’t see my father. He was too busy building his little Superman Project. He just left. Then my uncle Edgar, after my cousin Arjuna died and my aunt Anu left him, he abandoned us. You’ll abandon me too soon. I know that.”

  “I won’t abandon you.”

  What the hell are you saying, Santana?

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” I said.

  I blame biology. I blame the fact that when the blood rushes out of a man’s head before a night of passion, he is at a loss when it comes to thinking logically or critically. I blame biology. I blame Darwin.

  “Would you marry me? I mean, if it came to that? If there was a mishap?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course.”

  “I wouldn’t marry you,” she said. “I don’t believe in marriage. I don’t believe love should be reduced to a state-sponsored contract. But it’s nice to know that you would marry me. I mean, if anything happened.”

  I grabbed her hand, dizzy with desire again, and kissed it and said, “Of course I’d marry you. Tell me more. I want to know everything. Help me help you.”

  I was working now. I knew I was working. I felt like a rat. Then I thought about the missing girl Gabby Gupta and the murder of Esther Sanchez and that poor sucker Yayo, if he was innocent. “Tell me everything, Zena.”

  “In my family,” Zena said, “achievement was demanded. Everything was results. We were all told to become lawyers, doctors, engineers, businesspeople, computer people, scientists. Or the wives of men who were. Mother was raising four daughters alone. But we didn’t attack Father, we attacked Mother and she attacked us. He left us for his TSP. He didn’t come to my college graduation at Trinity College in Cambridge because he was probably shacked up with some rich man’s wife looking for TSP donations. And then he comes to us, drops out of the blue, like it’s some fucking gift that makes up for years of neglect. Father Ravi is not as fucking bloody great and good and wise as most members think or we pretend he is.”

  She told me she had always been unpredictable. That, I believed. I could never tell what Zena would do, from one minute to the next. Would she disappear, leave Hari, love me, confess to some terrible act involving Giovanni and Joey?

  “If women got together and started thinking less about what they want and more about what the world needed, they could change the world. Instead, women want to finish the job men started of destroying the world. Why? Because most women can’t think for themselves. When most women start thinking, they start thinking about what men want and how to please their men, and they call it love and we all go to shite along with this whole fake, makeup-wearing, diamond-wanting, diet-pill and beauty-magazine world.”

  Zena gave me a naughty smile and said, “My father inherited that Utopia Farms property from a wealthy member of TSP when she died. I think they were shagging. Not bad, huh?”

  “Kryptonic behavior?”

  “My father was all about Kryptonic behavior; that’s why he invented the confession circle, where all that toxic gunk gets washed away, and you live another day to perform even more Kryptonic hijinks.”

  She came close again. Too close. We kissed. Her mouth was sweet and plump. She pressed against me, her lips on mine. We tumbled into one of Willow’s spidery dreamcatchers.

  She took off her blue sari. The condoms appeared, and the moaning and groaning began. Weak, Santana, your flesh is so weak!

  Making love to Zena, Kryptonic Zena, imperfect Zena, the real Zena, was like making love to a summer night, humid, dark, disturbing, and comforting.

  I almost coulda forgiven her for anything in that moment.

  Almost.

  That night, with her warm and naked beside me, her dark body pressed against my stomach, her face buried in my chest, I slept long and deep, the soundest sleep in a long, long time, without nightmares but dreaming that she and I were somewhere in that nude painting of hers, some heaven, where she was sparkling, brown, and naked, not afraid, not wrestling anymore. But dreams must come to an end, right? Sí. But why so quickly?

  I was making love to Zena.

  I opened my eyes.

  I stood up.

  Dumping used Trojans in a small red wastebasket.

  Zena rose from the bed like a beautiful brown statue, rubbed her dark forehead, and lit one of the Djarums.

  “I feel so wicked all of a sudden,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Zena, brown-eyed Zena, lover of contradictions, sweet acrobat, sweet liar. Zena, who wondered out loud if the mad are attracted to one another, if they flock toward each other looking for company and comfort. I told her I didn’t think so, and she doused her cigarette and we made love again, and she fell asleep again, wrapped in my arms, naked, her backside pressed into me, breathing lightly and filling the room with her sweet, unmistakable scent.

  Ramona was yesterday.

  Zena.

  No. I wasn’t forgetting the case. I was still on the case. But even the devil, I hear, gets a holiday. The case would have to wait a moment. Anyway, there was no telling what I could learn from Zena. Yeah. Lie to yourself, Santana. Keep lying. Lie until the truth comes knocking. And it will knock . . .

  I opened my eyes and saw the baseball. The fake baseball allegedly signed by Roberto Clemente sitting on the dresser. Roberto Clemente was never a Yankee. The ball was a phony. Everything I remembered about that ball. Everything I knew had been a lie. My father had said it was signed by Roberto—or had he? There were childhood memories associated with that ball and the memories were as phony as the ball itself. Maybe as phony as Zena and Joey.

  Enough!

  I jumped out of bed again.

  “What’re you doing?” Zena said, stirring.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Go back to sleep.”

  Suddenly I had to get up. I felt sticky and hot and completely confused. I headed for the shower, but stopped short at the bedroom door, haunted.

  I rushed to the bathroom, sat on the edge of the bathtub, and lit another Djarum cigarette. I longed for another drink. I smoked ten cigarettes in a row, until I was weak and sick from it.

  My bloodstream full of nicotine, I was finally starting to relax. I stood and turned on cold water for a shower; then a knock came.

  “Chico,” said Zena, and threw open the door. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course. It’s hot, and I’m sticky. I’m taking a shower.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing.”

  “There’s a three-legged cat in the living room.”

  “Damn,” I said. “Thanks. I was lookin’ all over for those.”

  “You don’t always have to hide behind jokes with me, Chico.”

  “I’m not joking,” I said. “Of all my three-legged cats, that’s my favorite. I’d really hate to lose him. What’s he doing?”

  “Snuggling with a sleeping Chihuahua.”

  She blinked her brown peepers.

  “You’re mine now,” she said, grabbing me. “You belong to me.”


  And she bit me. She actually bit me.

  I held my hand. “I’m bleeding.”

  “Don’t be a baby,” she said. “You’re The Superman now.”

  She smiled and said, “Do you know why I fancy you?”

  “Because I’m not fancy?”

  “You don’t talk much,” Zena said. “Most men talk too much. You listen.”

  “It’s my job,” I said.

  “You make me feel safe,” she said.

  In the shower, she asked me, “Again . . . please,” and we did it again. I believed, for the first time since Ramona, that I was in love again—no longer with Ramona, not anymore. I had evolved, moved on, found a new love. If it gets me nowhere, if it means the end of everything, my case, my office, my childhood friendship with Joey, so be it . . . until I saw a vision of Esther Sanchez with those knife wounds, and I pushed Zena away.

  What are you doing, Santana?

  Zena sighed deeply. It sounded familiar; Ramona had sighed like that all the time. Maybe it was me? Zena got out of the tub and was in the bathroom doorway, naked, and suddenly I wanted to run. I wanted to go back to a time before I had ever set eyes on her, to be left alone, to sit still, but the world kept coming in. I sank down on the edge of the tub. Again the fear that she was a killer or involved in killing came over me. And for a long while, as she stood there in silence, I was torn between the impulse to run away and the urge to fling myself into her arms. I reached over and shut off the shower and said, “Do you love Joey?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re my Superman.”

  She touched my face.

  “What is Mara planning?” I asked finally. “Why did she back down in her fight against Hari?”

  “Who said she was fighting against Hari?”

  I got it.

  “They’re on the same side,” I said. “Mara and Hari are working together!”

  “You’re such a good detective,” she cooed as she kissed the palm of my hand.

  I kissed the palm of her hand, too. Oh, I would pay for my weakness later. As that old country song says there was a time to fold ’em and a time to hold ’em, and a time to run, and I was still holding when it was time to run. I didn’t know that then, or maybe I didn’t care, but the dreamer has to waken when the rain falls and the floors beneath his fantasy crumble.

  And we kissed and in the bedroom there was chocolate, and cherry, and the faint scent of what I thought was perfume coming from Zena. Her hair across my bare chest, sweaty and breathless on my skin, the heat of her body next to mine, my knees tucked into the back of her naked legs, her scent lingering on my fingertips.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said. “What’s that perfume you wear?”

  “Honeysuckle,” she said.

  A light, pleasant honeysuckle drowsiness came over me. With a sense of comfort that I had not known since I broke up with Ramona, I nestled my head into the dark pillows, Zena at my side, and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep . . .

  In the morning she was gone.

  Pablo finally called back.

  “Pedro?” said Pablo with a frantic tone. “You called Pedro? Please tell me you didn’t call Pedro!”

  “Not me,” I said. “Maybe Elvis. Do you know where Giovanni is?”

  “No.”

  I got a second call. It was Nicky. “Gotta go, Pablo. Hang tight.” I hung up.

  Nicky next.

  “I never did ask you,” I said. “How was Atlanta?”

  “Hot and sweaty,” said Nicky. “How are you?”

  “Same.”

  “Well,” said Nicky, “while your ass was relaxing, I did a little investigating of this Superman Project. There’s some kind of emergency meeting.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  We parked, jumped out of the Charger, and entered the green doors of TSP, Nicky at my side.

  TSP MEETING: Spiritual Healing

  Monday 8–9:30 PM

  1134 West 47th Street

  Suggested Donation: $25

  The auditorium was wall-to-wall with members and fellow travelers, ready and willing. Hari and Mara had arranged this emergency meeting.

  I strolled with Nicky into the TSP auditorium, decorated with flowers and red, blue, white, and yellow silks. There were no chairs this time. Everyone was standing. TSP wives had baked cakes, and children ran wild past buffet tables set up with huge pots of rice and curried vegetables, green and gold and sweet and salty. Father Ravi’s books were on display on a long table in a corner, where a band wearing prayer beads, ponytails, and robes played traditional Asian Indian music on sitars. The aroma of incense was everywhere.

  At the head of the auditorium, onstage, was a lavishly upholstered throne and to the side of the throne, a giant shrouded sculpture. I was standing with Nicky at the back, surrounded by a chattering crowd of men, when Hari Lachan rolled in, in his wheelchair, followed by Mara Gupta. Mara wore a golden sari and a long green-crystal necklace, her black hair in two braids that fell beside her maple-brown cheeks. She pushed Hari up the ramp to the stage.

  Hari sat in his wheelchair, before the two thrones, silent for a few minutes, smiled, then scowled at the audience. “They want me to be weak. But I will NOT be weak for them.”

  Nicky gave me a look.

  “Father Ravi was sent to earth to save the world.”

  Mara applauded enthusiastically. The audience followed her cue.

  “You all know,” Hari said, “that as we move up the ladder of power, we must take a different spiritual name. Well, my brothers and sisters, last night, a voice came to me in the darkness, and this voice told me that my new spiritual name was Father Aziz. Father Aziz? I was confused. There is only eternity, said the voice, and in that eternity is The Superman. You are a gentle warrior, Hari. Father Ravi is your teacher and your master. But you must overcome your master, the voice said. That is what Father Ravi teaches. You must love him and hate him. He taught you that, Hari. Your goal is to one day overcome your master. He taught you that, Hari. Your job is to become The Superman.”

  This time, Mara didn’t have to prod the mob. They applauded without her cue.

  “The British,” said Hari, “have left India. Father Ravi has returned to both Britain and India to teach them. In India where most books in English sell few, said the voice, Father Ravi’s Wrestling with The Superman will sell over a million copies. In America and Europe, said the voice, it will sell double that. The Superman Project will be welcomed in Ohio and London, Shanghai and Mumbai and Texas.”

  More applause.

  “India and Britain have concepts but no model, Hari, said the voice. TSP is the concept and the model. TSP speaks the truth. TSP works. TSP has cured and taken more people out of ignorance and spiritual poverty than any other program in the history of man. You are a CEO, you are a college dropout, you are a trust fund child. All you know is self-doubt. You arrive at TSP, upward and onward you go until a spiritual name arrives. A spiritual name arrives only when one has reached a new level of wisdom. You have arrived, Hari Lachan, said the voice. I was confused, my brothers and sisters. I was perplexed. Until—”

  Hari Lachan paused and then EXPLODED out of his wheelchair, jumped up and stood, arms outstretched, eyes closed, in ecstasy and pain, like an ant that had just burned all of its strength lugging a giant crumb into its hill. And then he stood up straight, looking strong and tall and healthy. And the place went mad with applause and swooning and tears and OH, MY GOD, OH MY GOD, Hari Lachan was a leader, a power, and a miracle! Hari Lachan was The Superman. Then Mara unveiled the giant sculpture to the side of Hari’s throne.

  It was a statue of Hari Lachan.

  Hari Lachan at the edge of a cliff in robes, a mighty wind blowing, his arms pushed back, his head thrust defiantly forward, fighting against the winds, as if about to take flight.

  I recognized the workmanship.

  Giovanni Vaninni.

  “Good e
vening, everyone,” said Hari, arms still outstretched. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Father Aziz. I AM THE SUPERMAN!”

  “Long live Father Aziz!” yelled Mara and applauded.

  “LONG LIVE FATHER AZIZ!!!” everyone repeated and applauded wildly. Some people were crying and holding each other and raising their hands to the sky.

  Hari Lachan was now officially the president and spiritual head of TSP, replacing Father Ravi, who, Mara announced, had gone to the mountains of Nepal, to retire and live in prayer and silence, a sacrifice he made for each and every TSP member.

  “TSP! TSP! TSP!” Hari chanted.

  “TSP! TSP! TSP!” everyone repeated.

  My cell rang again. “What’s up?” I asked, a finger in my ear to try to block out the screaming and yelling and applauding and pounding of feet.

  “Max is missing.”

  “What?” I said. “Louder!”

  “The air conditioner broke down on Parkchester!” Joy shouted. “Mimi let Max play outside in the yard. She turned her head for a minute and before she knew it, the gate to the backyard was open and Max was gone. A few minutes later she got an anonymous call from a woman saying that Max was safe and that Chico knew why this was happening and if Chico ever wanted to see Max alive again he’d back off Joey Valentin until she called back with instructions of where Max could be found safe and sound.”

  “Did Mimi call the police?” I asked with gritted teeth.

  “No!” Joy said. “Not yet. She feels so guilty, she wanted me to call you.”

  “Tell her I’m coming,” I said and slapped my cell shut. I felt my hands tremble, not for me, fuck me, for the kid.

  “Chico!” yelled Nicky.

  I turned and saw a horde of TSP guards headed right at us. No sign of Big Man. Maybe he retired after Nicky’s clothesline. Lieblich was there and Doyle led the charge.

  I gave Doyle, coming at me like a wounded beast, a loud slap. The blow landed on his left cheek and propelled him past me, almost turning him around 360 degrees. If I hadn’t held on to his arm, he would have gone through the window behind me and then to the street outside like falling timber.

  Doyle regained his balance and rushed out.