Still Life Las Vegas

by James Sie

  Lee was singing. Emily didn’t know how long he had been accompanying her; his dark baritone had become so quietly entwined with her playing that she only gradually became aware of it. It wasn’t until the final chorus that he burst out in full voice:

  Ma non mi fuggir,

  Non dar mi piu tormento,

  Torna a Surriento

  Non farmi morir!

  Emily let the last notes linger and fade away. She was winded and breathing heavily. Something had stirred within her. Something had awakened. She looked up at Lee. His eyes were bright.

  “I understand,” he whispered. “I understand.”

  He leaned over and wiped Emily’s cheek with his thumb, and it glistened when he pulled it away. “Thank you,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure what for.

  Lee smiled at her. His face was glowing. “You must play. It’s what you were meant to do.” He stood up suddenly, depositing a startled Mercutio to the ground. “Come with me.” He began scanning the walls, pulling one mask off, then another.

  “Come with you?” asked Emily.

  “To where I work.” Lee held up a simple white mask with arched black eyebrows and a single teardrop encrusted with diamanté falling from its left eye. “Perfect,” he said, throwing the mask to Emily. “And I have the suit to match.”

  Emily fingered the papier-mâché mask. “Where do you work?”

  Lee grabbed a leather mask that was lying on the dining room table and pulled it on with one practiced move. It covered the top of his head and most of his face, leaving his mouth free. He thrust his head forward, twisted his arms upward in one grand flourish, and leered merrily at Emily.

  “The Venetian,” he said grandly.

  OWEN

  OUTSIDE VENICE

  EARLIER

  It was twelve fifteen. Owen had shredded his entire croissant. He stood up, creating a little buttery snowdrift on the floor by the bench. Emily was nowhere in sight.

  The two gondoliers stationed at the loading dock eyed him warily as he walked along the railing of the canals toward them. Perhaps he was moving too fast, or lurching. The gondoliers, one male, one female, shared a glance; Owen recognized it immediately. It was a mental, unspoken coin flip: Who was going to deal with the disturbed-looking tourist?

  The man must have lost. He took a step toward Owen. This faux-Venetian was middle-aged, dark-haired, and slightly rotund at the waist, his striped torso the exact shape as those little figures Walt played with at home, the ones that wobbled but didn’t fall down.

  Buongiorno, my friend, come stai? he shouted from the platform, waving one arm like an orator.

  Please, I, I’m looking for my wife, Owen said. He tried to speak discreetly, but the man insisted on playing to the crowd.

  Ah, is that not what we are all looking for? said the gondolier, waving his arms broadly, looping his hands in the air, and looking, for all the world, like he was playing a game of charades. What about these donne belle? he offered, fluttered his fingers toward a couple of thick-ankled housewives, who clucked appreciatively. Molto belle, eh?

  Owen’s hands gripped the rail. I’m not looking for a wife, I’m looking for my wife. This is not an amusement. And flapping your arms in the air doesn’t make you more Italian. Owen clenched his teeth and jutted out his lower jaw. I have a wife, he said slowly. She’s missing.

  The gondolier cupped one hand to his ear and fanned himself with the other.

  So sorry, signore, I cannot ’ear you.

  Owen shouted, My WIFE! She’s MISSING! This is an EMERGENCY! Owen threw his arms forward, matching the man gesticulation for gesticulation. I WANT to know if you’ve SEEN her! She is SUPPOSED to be at the GONDOLAS. HELP ME!

  The silence was immediate. The gondolier flinched, the Mediterranean swagger drained from his face. An aria from an incoming gondola was cut off mid-Mio. The only sound Owen heard was the feet of the housewives thudding quickly onto their waiting boat—thud-thud, thud-thud. I’ve done it now, thought Owen, breathing heavily, suffused with anticipation. I’ve uttered the words. This is when she appears, wraithlike, a slim branch of wild olive held in her hand, hellebore twined in her hair—

  Owen’s gondolier took a small step toward the railing, hat in his hand. His voice raised an octave, lost all of its rolling r’s and musical lilts; sounded, in fact, decidedly south of Manhattan in dialect:

  Didja check the gondolas outside?

  * * *

  Hot.

  White.

  Multitudinous.

  Vast.

  Owen leaned his hands heavily on the marble balustrade and closed his eyes. The relatively quiet refuge of the indoor canals had beguiled him; he had forgotten what outside was really like. The space had increased twelvefold, was, in fact, limitless. People were swarming everywhere, not only in the resort, but beyond the resort, coming from other hotels, advancing on walkways, up escalators, extruding from vehicles, stepping on and off gondolas. It was a seething anthill.

  One. Two. Three. It wasn’t until he reached ten breaths that he felt safe enough to relax his eyes. White stone. Tiles. Marble—travertine perhaps? A small cigarette butt flattened into the angle where the floor met the railing. A single drop of sweat splashed onto the tile and beaded on the polished surface. Twenty seconds later it whitened, then disappeared.

  Another few inches up, the balusters came into view, but they opened out to the chaos beyond so he jerked his head up, squinting at the sky instead. Pale blue. A bleached, quiet blue. Not as pretty as the painted sky inside, but it had its own charm. The sun wasn’t blinding; there were even some darker clouds knitting together overhead. Wind brushed against his face.

  Slowly, by degrees, Owen lowered his eyes, allowing himself to focus on the upper strata of objects in his vision. Spires. Tower. THE VENETIAN, in gold lettering. A screen—sequined acrobats were leaping and contorting silently on a huge video projection. Closer still, on pedestals—statues. From one column, a griffin pawed at the air. On another, a warrior posed with his spear, standing on some kind of reptile (was that the Doge? The protector of Venice? Owen could recall no mythic lizard-conquering Greco-Roman hero).

  Archways. Windows. Buildings, reflecting sunlight. Streetlights, striped awnings, and—and here we go—people, people walking, next to and across the streets, which were filled with cars huddling, waiting for the light to change and then crossing slowly in front of him, jostling like herded cows, buses and vans and long limousines and taxis and—

  A blue Volvo station wagon.

  It was there, beyond the gondolas, beyond the courtyard, passing by the hotel; it was the Volvo, Emily’s Volvo, he was sure of it, moving at a crawl, like she was looking for parking, looking to pull over, it was after work and he had his briefcase and she had the kids in the backseat and he would jump in and they would stop by Reza’s on the way home and pick up some Middle Eastern—falafel and garlicky chicken with thin, warm loaves of pita, it was too hot to cook—

  The car was passing.

  He was stumbling down the steps and across the courtyard into the thick of the crowd which had seemed impenetrable before but now miraculously opened in front of him, he had found the secret passageway, there was space where before there was only mass and he dashed into the gaps, ran until his breath tore in his chest and he was on the sidewalk. Men in baseball caps thwacked their candy-colored girlie pamphlets at him as he ran past, scarlet lips and heaving breasts smacking against their palms, but Owen had eyes only for one woman.

  The Volvo was four cars ahead of him and one lane over, about to turn left. It was covered in dirt. He couldn’t see the driver but he recognized the vehicle. There was the missing back-door handle, its absence gaping like an open wound, like an accusation, on the side of the car. Owen tried to close the distance but the hotel didn’t want its guests leaving that easily. The sidewalk curved away from the road, started veering back to the Venetian. He jumped the concrete barricade and ran onto the street, dashing between idling autos. T
he Volvo was the last to turn and he was running right behind it, gaining ground, and the cadence of his furiously pounding heart was not I-found-you-I-found-you, but forgive-me-forgive-me-forgive-me.

  The car was too fast. Down Buccaneer Boulevard it raced, him loping after it like a wounded giraffe. Stop! he yelled, waving his arms. Emily! Stop! But that effort cost him the use of his legs. He just couldn’t run any more, and stood panting in the middle of the street.

  The car seemed to slow down, but in the next instant it sped off again, tires squealing; it couldn’t get away from him fast enough. The Volvo rocked wildly from side to side before veering straight toward a row of wooden street benches and an enormous concrete planter.

  It happened very quickly. Owen reached out with his arms, fingers spread as if he could grab onto the back end of the car. Disregarding the curb, the Volvo clipped two of the benches and with a sickening crunch plowed directly into the planter. Air bags bloomed white.

  The sky had gotten so dark. Time moved very, very slowly. To Owen, it was as if he were always stepping toward the Volvo, always stepping toward a tragedy about to be revealed. How much misery could one car contain? It was cursed—the Volvo of Atreus. It wasn’t cursed. He was.

  The driver-side door swung open. Owen stopped. For an agonizing moment nothing happened, and then what looked like a lumpy carpet of red, white, and blue ruffles spilled out onto the ground. Immediately after, a giant man with a thick mustache staggered out of the passenger side. Owen blinked twice. What was next, a troupe of clowns?

  Using the body of the car as support, the large man made his way around to the other side. He was covered in white powder. There was an old scar running down his cheek and a new gash on the side of his head. He dropped to his knees in front of the ruffled mass.

  Baaang! the man moaned. He gathered up the ruffles, and like magic Owen could suddenly see the form of a person beneath the fabric. The giant man pawed through the ruffles, exposing a small bald head that looked like an egg in a fluffy patriotic nest.

  The egg howled, Aii! Watch what you’re doing with the cape! It’s completely hand-stitched! And the bigger man yelled, Fuck the cape! He cradled the small one and said, Mijo, are you all right? And the small one said weakly, Why did you grab the wheel, pendejo?

  The big man pushed down the cape gently, but the smaller one still screamed. Even from where he stood Owen could tell the little man’s head was resting at a strange angle. The little man groaned and said, Why did you … Aii … Don’t let me … bleed on the fabric … And with that the small man gasped and collapsed.

  Little Bang! Little Bang! the big man begged, rocking the little man. As Owen approached, he could see security men behind the trees, speaking into walkie-talkies.

  Please, Owen said. The big man stopped rocking. He turned his head toward Owen with eyes so unseeing that Owen couldn’t continue. Yes, that must be what I look like. That’s sorrow. That’s exactly it.

  Sirens began in the distance. Little Bang grunted to life. Without opening his eyes, he hissed to the big one, What the fuck are you waiting for? Go.

  The big one’s eyes widened. Bang! he said, unbelieving. Bang. He pressed Little Bang close to his body, releasing another cry of pain.

  Aii. You ox. Go.

  The big one got to his feet, still cradling Little Bang. He completely ignored Owen, who might as well have been a ghost. He began moving away from the car, Little Bang wrapped around him like a toddler, his head lolling on Big Bang’s shoulder. The costumes! Get the costumes! Little Bang tried to shout, but he was fading.

  The big one shook his head and started limping down the street. Wait! said Owen, but the man did not slow. Owen ran behind. Please!

  Little Bang opened his eyes and said, What the fuck do you want with us? and Owen asked, Where did you get the car? and Little Bang screamed, Take that motherfucking car! It’s a piece of shit!

  The woman who was driving it—?

  I killed her! Little Bang screamed, in both triumph and pain. From nowhere he brandished a candelabra, swinging it over his head. With this! I bashed her head in! he said, laughing maniacally.

  The big one picked up the pace, limping quickly away. Half a block later, he turned a corner, and the two disappeared.

  And then it started to rain.

  * * *

  Jove’s tears. That’s what filled the sky. Il larme di Giov. It was the Roman term for rain. Owen had always preferred the Greek expression: Zeus is raining. He found it more poetic; the image of the Sky Father raining down, not tears but his whole self, his essence pouring from the sky in benediction. The crops are saved. Zeus is raining.

  But not today. This was not benediction slashing down in sheets, this was Fury. This was Grief. This was Emmie, bludgeoned to death by a candelabra in some parking lot. Today, Jove was definitely, utterly, weeping.

  Owen was standing in the empty forecourt of the Venetian hotel, drenched. Most everyone else had already run inside to escape the rain. A few sodden tourists in shorts and T-shirts remained, huddled together under the balcony of the hotel. They laughed and pointed at the sky from their refuge, wringing the water from their wet clothes. They waved at Owen, gesturing for him to join them, but he knew it was pointless, and indeed, in the next moment the wind had winkled them out again, whipping the rain onto their bodies and sending them shrieking indoors for safety.

  The canal waters were rising. By the docks, a lone gondolier, hatless, was lashing a bucking gondola to a pole. A large man in a navy windbreaker huddled beneath an open blue canopy by the boarding ramp, shaking his head in disbelief and shouting into a walkie-talkie. Suddenly, the wind crippled one of the canopy’s spindly metal legs. The man underneath ducked and the whole tent went skittering across the marble in a tangled heap. It zipped past Owen and expired at the edge of the canal, a wretched sea creature washed up onto the shore.

  The man with the walkie-talkie made no move to retrieve the canopy, and if he saw Owen, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he stared at the sky, looking this way and that, as if he were trying to locate the source of a leak. You won’t find it, my friend, thought Owen. There’s no stopping this.

  Il larme di Giov. Owen thought of his own tears, the ones that poured ceaselessly on the days after Georgia’s death. Those were hazy days, then, the time surrounding the funeral and the hearing, but he remembered his face being continually wet. There seemed to be no end to the tears; too impatient to wait for his waking hours, they leaked from his eyes during sleep. Even with the medication—the medication certainly helped with the pain but it didn’t take it away. It was still there, muffled in cotton. And always, the waterworks, as Vee so gently called it. Here comes the waterworks, she would mutter. Kind Vee.

  Emily didn’t cry. No, that wasn’t true, that was unfair. He never saw her cry. He remembered the day of the funeral. He was sitting on the bed. The act of putting on his shirt, his pants, his tie and jacket, had almost overwhelmed him. It was as if he had run a marathon. Emily entered the room to fetch him (she was the only one who came into the room). Her eyes were red and puffy, but there was a sharpness peering out from under the swollen lids. It was as if her eyes were so bright they had caused the tissue around them to burn and inflame. The car’s here, she said, staring at the lamp by the bed. Emily never faltered. She never wavered. Her gentle hands guided him from car to church steps to pew to car to bed again on that terrible day. Her voice had no warmth in it, but no anger, either. It was low and perfectly, carefully modulated, like she were speaking from a tightrope, or a very high ledge. And never once did she look at him. When she had him undressed and in the safety of his bed, he started to thank her for everything she had done, for her strength and her love and her care, but she turned away quickly, grabbed the dinner tray, and disappeared.

  Long-haired Emily. He had lost her long before she drove the Volvo away. Emily of the Bright Eyes.

  Emmie.

  Where were his tears now? While the rest of his body was soaked, his
eyes were, unaccountably, dry. Tears were unnecessary now, Owen supposed. The waterworks were supplied. Jove cries for me.

  He started shivering. It’s time, he thought. This is when I should sink to my knees, this is where I shake my fist at the sky and rend my garments and cry out in agony. Cue the lamentations.

  They should have had lamentations, at Georgia’s funeral. They should have done as the Greeks had, hired professional mourners, women dressed in black with heavy veils and thick eyebrows, to begin the ololyge, to beat the earth. Their cries would be artificial at first, rented, but would (because they were professional, because of the tragic circumstances) transform into genuine wails that would pierce the heavens. Cheeks would be scratched; Katharsis could begin.

  The actual service was quiet, so, so quiet; even the priest whispered. Owen had no idea what he said. It was a hurried affair, everyone wanted to get it over and done with. And Owen, Owen just yearned for the bed, the bed, the safety of the bed.

  He felt that way now, shoes squelching with every step, the rain drowning out all sound save its own. He wanted to lie down. Not in a bed, though. In a gondola. He imagined himself rigid in the Venetian boat, like a dead Norseman out at sea, his belongings piled on either side of him. The canals would overflow, the waves would mount, and he’d be carried down Las Vegas Boulevard, washed away on Jove’s tears.

  EMILY

  THE VENETIAN

  EARLIER

  “It’s the swimming pools.” Emily and Lee were watching the first drops of rain darken the concrete outside the loading docks of the Venetian hotel. They were in the alley on the steps to the service entrance, looking up at the roiling, soot-colored clouds amassing above them.

  Lee squinted at the sky and continued. “It’s the pools and fountains and artificial lakes and God knows how many birdbaths out here. Do you know the amount of water that flows out of our sprinklers and down our toilets? Astronomical. I’ve read about it. It’s actually changing the weather. Las Vegas is re-creating its own climate, God help it.”