by Chris Abani
This kind of john can never love you back. Not in any real way, because not even you, with all the true gifts of the courtesan, can live for any length of time in the illusion that he has of you, wants of you, and even demands of you. You will be too tired to have sex some nights, you will want him to fuck you in ways that you want to be fucked, you will grow tired of always having to reassure him that he is good, that he is loved, that he is everything you don’t deserve. So your heart will get broken.
The deeper danger, though, with this kind of john, is that the monster he sometimes glimpses in the mirror of you is so far away from what he can accept of himself. Because unlike the asshole john, this john’s vision of himself is not of a virile self who dominates women, it is of a saint. When the saint glimpses the monster, if his will is too weak, he turns not into the enlightened one but into the worst kind of violent man—the kind who will burn the world down.
But in the end, I suppose, hookers are women and so we are drawn to this flame of destruction by our own need, our own fear, our own weakness, which is, I suppose, that we all want to fall in love.
At least, that is what I want. I want Sunil to fall in love with me, to say without reservation, Asia, I love you.
TUESDAY
Sixty
Lake Mead and a gathering dusk, loons coming in to land in the rustling tamarisk, the sun little more than a memory, the foundations of the ghost town, all silent and brooding.
It was quiet when Sunil pulled up. A little too quiet, not even a cicada to be heard. He parked next to Salazar’s car and walked down the crunchy, shell-lined path to the edge of the lake.
Salazar was already there. He had come prepared. There were two canvas chairs and a folding table, all of which had been set up. There was a paraffin lamp hissing on the tabletop and two giant cups of coffee.
In the center of the folding table sat the ship. The beauty of it took Sunil’s breath away.
When Salazar had rescued him from Eskia, they had talked. And for the first time in more than seven years, Sunil unburdened himself to someone. No secrets, half-truths, no deceptions or deflections, just the whole unadorned story of him. It took longer than he had expected so that it was nearly dark when Salazar called in the tribal police. They examined Eskia and seemed somewhat uninterested since the victim wasn’t from the reservation. They wrote up a statement that suggested it was self-defense and then called in the coroner. Still, by the time all the paperwork was done and they drove back, it was quite late.
They heard about the explosion at the institute on the radio.
I knew there was something off about them. I knew it.
I guess they weren’t joking about that Downwinder Nation action group, Sunil said.
I should go arrest Fred and the twins myself, Salazar said.
They’ll be long gone by now, Sunil said. Then he added: I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.
That’s okay. You’d better not leave town, though. The police, and maybe even the military, might be looking for you, plenty of questions.
I know, Sunil said. I know. Do you want to go by the institute?
We’re never going to solve this case, are we, Salazar asked.
No, we’ll never know for sure. But I have a sense that it’s over now.
Yeah, you’re right.
As he dropped him off that night, Salazar had asked Sunil to join him at dusk the next day by Lake Mead. Same place the twins had been arrested, by the ruins of St. Thomas.
I have this ritual thing that I have to do. A way to let go of all the ghosts. I would be privileged if you’d come.
Sunil liked that. The idea of setting free all the ghosts of his past. As long as no human or animal dies in this ritual, he said.
No animals. I build these model ships for the dead I have known or been touched by. I take them to a large body of water, light them on fire, and set them free, Salazar explained.
That sounds spectacular, Sunil said. I’ll be there.
And so here he was. But still, he hadn’t expected the ship to be this magnificent. The truth is, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected; a paper boat, some facsimile made out of balsa wood, but not this.
This was a perfect replica of a seventeenth-century Spanish galleon, three feet long, about two wide, and with its masts up and sails unfurled, it was at least another three feet tall. The detail was incredible. There was even a masthead with a mermaid.
Wow, Sunil said. This is a beautiful ship.
You came, Salazar said, passing him a cup of coffee. He said the last part as though he was genuinely surprised by Sunil’s voice, even though he must have heard him coming.
I brought something for the cold, Sunil said, holding up a bottle of single malt.
Fuck yeah, Salazar said.
So this is the ship you built for that girl from two years ago? The one we never identified.
Yes, yes, this is the one. But you know, it seems like I was building it for more than just her.
I know what you mean, Sunil said, circling the table. It’s really, truly exquisite. Are you sure you want to burn it?
It’s my swan song, my last ghost. I plan to retire soon. So yes, I’m sure.
What’ll you do?
Salazar shrugged. Travel maybe. I’ve never been to Cuba. Or I may stay here but get close to it, like, say, Florida. Open up a shop and build ships for collectors.
That actually sounds fantastic, Sunil said.
You think so? Fuck, that means a lot coming from you.
Sunil coughed and looked away, taking a sip of coffee.
Look at us, being sentimental like a couple of fucking girls, Salazar growled.
Sunil laughed. There’s my Salazar, he said.
He cracked open the bottle, tipping a libation to the ground. Salazar watched.
Force of habit, Sunil said, catching his look.
I was thinking how beautiful it was, Salazar said. My father used to do something similar.
Sunil splashed generous amounts into their coffee cups and took a deep swig from his own.
How’s your throat today, Salazar asked.
Better.
Salazar nodded.
So, exactly how do we do this, Sunil asked.
Well, I think we should say a few words, Salazar said. Taking note of the look on Sunil’s face, he added: Or we could just think of them.
Yeah, that sounds better. You know, it’s just that I’m not that into God.
Salazar nodded. He put his coffee cup down, picked up the bottle of lighter fluid that sat beside the ship, and doused it liberally. Then he delicately lifted the ship and walked over to the water. Sunil followed. By now it was pitch-dark and the only light was the distant glow of Vegas in the background.
The ship bobbed on the water, kept close by Salazar’s foot. Sunil thought Salazar was whispering what must be prayers. And then he realized that it wasn’t Salazar whispering, but him, and that if anything Salazar was waiting for him. The prayer had been a simple one: Forgive me, Mother, forgive me.
Salazar bent down and lit the tip of one sail. He held the ship back until the flames were steady and then he pushed it off with the tip of his shoe.
Both men watched the flaming ship ride out on the dark water. By the time it was halfway out, the flames had climbed to about six feet and spread out, like a being of light was retreating over the waves.
So what will you do now, Salazar asked.
I really don’t know. It seems I do have to go back to South Africa for a while, make amends with my past, my history.
To making peace, Salazar said.
I’ll drink to that.
They stood there, watching the ship sail away, each man lost in thought, lost in his own unique release.
A loon took off from the tamarisk and rose toward the sky.
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Chris Abani, The Secret History of Las Vegas
