The Robber Bride (65 page)

It helps her, to know about the High Priestess crossing her. Also it fits, because now, finally, she’s come to the chosen day, the right day to confront Zenia. She realized it as soon as she got up, as soon as she stuck her daily pin into the Bible. It picked out Revelations Seventeen, the chapter about the Great Whore:
And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH
.

Behind Charis’s closed eyelids the form took shape, the outline – crimson around the edges, with scintillations of diamond-hard light. She couldn’t see the face; though who else could it be but Zenia?

“That’s why I thought it was such a – well, so right,” says Charis to Tony.

“That what was?” says Tony patiently.

“What you said. About Project Babylon. I mean, it couldn’t just be a coincidence, could it?”

Tony opens her mouth to say that it could be, but shuts it again because Roz has given her a nudge under the table.

“Go on,” says Roz.

Charis wades through the city, breathing airborne sludge. Past the BamBoo Club with its hot-coloured Caribbean graphics, past Zephyr with its shells and crystals, a place where she usually browses, but today she pushes past it with hardly a look, past the Dragon Lady comic book shop, hurrying because she has a deadline. It’s her lunch break. She doesn’t usually take much time for lunch because lunchtime is the busiest time, but they’ve closed the store for a few days while the new counters and the brown-paper bows are being put in place, so today she can make an exception. She’s asked Shanita for an extra half-hour; she’ll make it up by staying later, some day after they’ve reopened. That will give her time to get to the Arnold Garden Hotel, to see Zenia and ask what she needs to ask, to extract the answer. Supposing Zenia is at the hotel, of course. She could always be out.

When she was getting dressed this morning, washing herself in her drafty bathroom, it occurred to Charis that although she knew the name of the hotel she didn’t know the room number. She could always go to the hotel and poke around, walk up and down the corridors feeling the doorknobs; perhaps she would be able to pick up
the electrical currents by touching the metal, sense the presence of Zenia through her fingertips behind the right door. But the hotel would be full of people, and those other people would create static. She could so easily make a mistake.

Then it came to her during the ferry ride to the mainland that there was one person who would be sure to know what room Zenia was staying in. Roz’s son Larry would know, because Charis had seen the two of them go into the hotel together.

“This is the part I didn’t want to tell you,” says Charis to Roz. “That day at the Toxique? I waited in the Kafay Nwar, across the street. I saw them come out. I followed them. Zenia and Larry.”

“You
followed them?” says Roz, as if somebody else has followed them too, and she knows who.

“I just wanted to ask her about Billy,” says Charis.

Roz pats her hand. “Of course you did!” she says.

“I saw them kissing, on the street,” says Charis, apologetically.

“It’s okay, baby,” says Roz. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Charis!” says Tony, with admiration. “You’re a lot more cunning than I thought!” The idea of Charis tiptoeing around behind Zenia’s back fills her with pleasure, because it’s so unlikely. Whoever else Zenia might have suspected of shadowing her, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been Charis.

When Charis arrived at the store that morning, and after Shanita had gone out to pick up some small change from the bank, she called Roz’s house. If anyone answered at all it would be Larry, because by this time the twins would be at school and Roz would be at work. She was right, it was Larry.

“Hello, Larry, it’s Aunt Charis,” she said. She felt stupid calling herself Aunt Charis, but it was a custom Roz had begun when the kids were little and it had never been abandoned.

“Oh, hi, Aunt Charis,” said Larry. He sounded half asleep. “Mom’s at work.”

“Well, but it was you I wanted to talk to,” said Charis. “I’m looking for Zenia. You know, Zenia, maybe you remember her, from when you were little.” (How little had Larry been? she wonders. Not that little. How much had Roz ever told him, about Zenia? She hopes not much.) “We were all at university together. I’m supposed to meet her at the Arnold Garden Hotel, but I’ve lost the room number.” This was a big lie; she felt guilty about it, and at the same time resentful towards Zenia for putting her in such a position. That was the thing about Zenia: she dragged you down to her own level.

There was a long pause. “Why ask me?” Larry said finally, guardedly.

“Oh,” said Charis, playing up her usual vagueness, “she knows what a bad memory I have! She knows I’m not the best organizer. She said if I lost it, to call you. She said you’d know. I’m sorry if I woke you up,” she added.

“That was pretty dumb of her,” said Larry. “I’m not her answering service. Why don’t you just phone the hotel?” This was strangely rude, for Larry. As a rule he was more polite.

“I would have,” said Charis, “but, you know, her last name isn’t the same as it used to be and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the new one.” This is a guess – the new last name – but it’s the right guess. Tony once said that Zenia probably had a different name every year. Roz said, No, every month, she probably subscribed to the Name-of-the-Month Club.

“She’s in 1409,” Larry said sulkily.

“Oh, just let me write that down,” said Charis. “Fourteen-oh-nine?” She wanted to sound as dithery and forgetful as possible; as much like an aging feather-brained biddy, as least like a threat. She didn’t want Larry phoning Zenia, and warning her.

The significance of the room number does not escape her. Hotels, she knows, never number the thirteenth floor, but it exists anyway. The fourteenth floor is really the thirteenth. Zenia is on the thirteenth floor. But the bad luck of that may be balanced by the good luck of nine, because nine is a Goddess number. But the bad luck will attach itself to Zenia and the good luck to Charis, because Charis is pure in heart – or she’s trying to be – and Zenia is not. Calculating in her head and clothing herself with light, Charis reaches the Arnold Garden Hotel, and walks under the intimidating awning and in through the glittering brass-trimmed glass doors as if there is nothing to it.

She stands in the lobby for a moment, catching her breath, getting her bearings. It’s not a bad lobby. Although there’s a lot of murdered-animal furniture, she’s pleased to see that there’s a sort of vegetation altarpiece as well: dried flowers. And through the plate glass doors at the back there’s a courtyard with a fountain, though the fountain isn’t turned on. She likes to see urban space moving in a more natural direction.

Then all of a sudden she has a discouraging thought. What if Zenia has no soul? There must be people like that around, because there are more humans alive on the earth right now than have ever lived, altogether, since humans began, and if souls are recycled then there must be some people alive today who didn’t get one, sort of like musical chairs. Maybe Zenia is like that: soulless. Just a sort of shell. In this case, how will Charis be able to deal with her?

This idea is paralyzing. In its grip Charis stands stock-still in the middle of the lobby. But she can’t turn back now. She closes her eyes and visualizes her altar, with the gloves and the earth and the Bible, calling upon its powers; then she opens them and waits for an omen. In one corner of the lobby there’s a grandfather clock. It’s almost noon. Charis watches until both hands of the clock are aligned,
pointing straight up. Then she gets onto the elevator. With every floor she passes, her heart beats harder.

On the fourteenth floor, really the thirteenth, she stands outside 1409. A reddish grey light oozes out through the crack under the door, pushing her backwards with palpable force. She puts her palm against the wood of the door, which vibrates in silent menace. It’s like a train going by at a distance, or a slow explosion far away. Zenia must be in there.

Charis knocks.

After a moment – during which she can feel Zenia’s eye on her, through the glass peephole – Zenia opens the door. She’s wearing one of the hotel bathrobes, and has her hair wrapped in a towel. She must have been taking a shower. Even with the terry-cloth turban on her head she is shorter than Charis remembers. This is a relief.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she says.

“You were?” says Charis. “How did you know?”

“Larry told me you were on your way,” says Zenia. “Come in.” Her voice is flat, her face is weary. Charis is surprised at how old she looks. Maybe it’s because she isn’t wearing any makeup. If Charis didn’t know better by now than to leap to such conclusions, she would think Zenia is ill.

The room is a mess.

“Just a minute,” says Tony. “Go over that part again. You were there at noon and the room was a mess?”

“She was always messy when she lived with me, that time, on the Island,” says Charis. “She never helped with the dishes or anything.”

“But when I was there earlier, everything was really neat,” says Tony. “The bed was made. Everything.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” says Charis. “There were pillows on the floor, the bed was a wreck. Dirty coffee cups, potato chips, clothes lying around. There was broken glass on the coffee table, the rug too. It was like there’d been a party all night.”

“You sure it was the same room?” says Tony. “Maybe she lost her temper and smashed a few glasses.”

“She must have gone back to bed,” says Roz. “After you left.”

They all consider that. Charis goes on:

The room is a mess. The flowered drapes are pulled half shut, as if they’ve been closed recently against the light. Zenia steps over the items strewn on the floor, sits down on the sofa, and picks up a cigarette from the dozen or so that are scattered around in the broken glass on the coffee table. “I know I shouldn’t smoke,” she murmurs, as if to herself, “but it hardly matters, now. Sit down, Charis. I’m glad you’ve come.”

Charis sits down in the armchair. This is not the charged confrontation she’s been imagining. Zenia isn’t trying to evade her; if anything, she seems mildly pleased that Charis is here. Charis reminds herself that what she needs is to find out about Billy, where he is, whether he’s alive or dead. But it’s hard to concentrate on Billy; she can scarcely remember what Billy used to look like, whereas Zenia is sitting right here in the room. It’s so strange to see her in the flesh, at last.

Now she’s smiling wanly. “You were so good to me,” she says. “I’ve always meant to apologize for going away like that, without saying goodbye. It was very thoughtless of me. But I was too dependent on you, I was letting you try to cure me instead of putting the energy into it myself. I just needed to get off somewhere, be alone so I could focus. It was – well, I got a sort of message, you know?”

Charis is amazed. Maybe she’s been misjudging Zenia, all these years. Or maybe Zenia has changed. People can change, they can
choose, they can transform themselves. It’s a deep belief of hers. She isn’t sure what to think.

“You didn’t really have cancer,” she says finally. She doesn’t intend it as an accusation. Only she needs to be sure.

“No,” says Zenia. “Not exactly. I
was
sick, though. It was a spiritual illness. And I’m sick now.” She pauses, but when Charis doesn’t ask, she says, “That’s why I’m back here – for the health care system. I couldn’t afford treatment anywhere else. They’ve told me I’m dying. They’ve given me six months.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” says Charis. She’s looking at Zenia’s edges, to see what colour her light is, but she’s not getting a reading. “Is it cancer?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” says Zenia.

“It’s okay,” says Charis, because what if Zenia is telling the truth, this time? What if she really is dying? She does have a greyish tinge, around the eyes. The least Charis can do is listen.

“Well, actually, I’ve got
AIDS
,” says Zenia and sighs. “It’s really stupid. I had a bad habit, a few years back. I got it off a dirty needle.”

Charis gasps. This is terrible! What about Larry, then? Will he get
AIDS
, too?
Roz! Roz! Come quickly!
But what could Roz do?

“I wouldn’t mind spending a little time, somewhere peaceful,” says Zenia. “Just to get my head in order, before, you know. Some place like the Island.”

Charis feels the familiar tug, the old temptation. Maybe there’s no hope for Zenia’s body, but the body isn’t the only factor. She could have Zenia over to stay with her, the way she did before. She could help her to move towards the transition, she could put light around her, they could meditate together.…

“Or maybe I’ll just check myself out,” says Zenia softly. “Pills or something. I’m doomed anyway. I mean, why wait around?”

In Charis’s throat the familiar sentiments bubble up.
Oh no, you must try, you must try for the positive
.… She opens her mouth to issue
the invitation,
Yes, come
, but something stops her. It’s the look Zenia is giving her: an intent look, head on one side. A bird eyeing a worm.

“Why did you pretend to me, about the cancer?” she says.

Zenia laughs. She sits up briskly. She must know that she’s lost, she must know that Charis won’t believe her, about having
AIDS
. “Okay,” she says. “We might as well get this over. Let’s just say I wanted you to let me into your house, and it seemed the quickest way.”

“That was mean,” says Charis. “I believed you! I was very concerned about you! I tried to save you!”

“Yes,” says Zenia cheerfully. “But don’t worry, I suffered too. If I’d had to drink one more glass of that foul cabbage juice it would’ve finished me off. You know what I did when I hit the mainland? First chance I got, I went out and had a big plate of fries and a nice raw juicy steak. I would’ve inhaled it, I was so starved for red meat!”