Suicide Club

by Rachel Heng

  These cars were bulbous and boxy, in so many different shapes and sizes that it made her dizzy to look at them. She had fleeting memories of individually owned cars in her childhood, but even so, the carshare companies had taken over most of Sweden by the time she had left, rolling out their yellow and gray fleets across the country.

  The cars were lined up like slumbering farm animals, some creaking and groaning as dark shapes flitted about them, cranking a wheel here, polishing a mirror there. Anja looked around and realized she had lost Abel.

  She approached a man in overalls leaning against the open hood of a small blue car with round headlights.

  “I’m looking for a car,” she said.

  He eyed her. “Oh?” he said drily.

  She bristled. “How much is this one?” she said, pointing to the little blue car he was pressed up against.

  The man gave her a long, lazy look. “Ten thousand.”

  “Are you kidding?” It was nearly twice what she had to spend.

  The man eyed her. “What’s a girl like you want a car for, anyway? Gift for your boyfriend?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she snapped. “How about four thousand?”

  The man’s upper lip lifted in a snarl.

  “Don’t waste my time.”

  Anja tried again. “Maybe not this car, but what do you have for four thousand?”

  The man let out a sharp laugh. His eyes seemed wary, and they flitted about her, never quite landing on her face. He seemed to be watching something behind her, but when Anja turned around, she only saw the doorway of the building.

  “Like I said, I got better things to do.” He pulled the front of his cap over his eyes, crossed his arms, and appeared to go to sleep while still standing up.

  Anja moved on. Perhaps she would have better luck with someone else. There were so many cars here, so many traders, surely there was something she could buy.

  But half an hour later, after talking to countless other men in overalls, Anja was on the verge of giving up. The first trader’s price, it seemed, was on the low side. No one else quoted anything below eleven thousand, some asking for as much as twenty. Some didn’t seem to even want anything to do with her, moving into the shadows as soon as she drew near.

  Anja balled her fists and bit her lip. A wave of frustration rose in her chest. She couldn’t leave here without a car—what if the officers came tomorrow? The thought of going back to the apartment and trying to fall asleep that night, waiting with dread, gave Anja renewed resolve.

  “Laurie. Laurie!”

  It took Anja a few seconds to react. It was Abel, waving at her from across the room. She carefully picked her way over the ground strewn with various car parts and junk.

  “Laurie, this is my friend Jerome,” Abel said, brandishing an arm proudly.

  The man next to him was small and slight, coming up only to Abel’s shoulders. He wore a neat checked blue shirt, buttoned to the collar. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim warehouse, and Anja could just make out a smattering of freckles across the tops of his cheeks.

  “Hello.” Jerome nodded but didn’t offer his hand. He looked at Abel. “So, anyway,” he said gruffly. “What kind of car?”

  “I don’t care—just something that can get me around. I’m going on a long trip.”

  “Okay. Well then, you’ll want something that’s not too much of a clunker. How big do you want to go? Any passengers on your long trip?”

  Anja paused. She hadn’t thought about how she would place her mother in the car. Or how she would get the car back to her apartment, since you could hardly just drive into Manhattan like that.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “One passenger. She’ll—she’ll just need the backseat, though.”

  “Ah,” Jerome said. “Motion sickness?” he asked knowingly. “How much you want to spend?” he said.

  Anja’s heart sank. Still, she had to try.

  “Six thousand,” she said.

  But Jerome didn’t laugh in her face, he didn’t do a low whistle to the side or walk away. Instead, he nodded.

  “Six thousand,” he said. “Okay. I think we can find you something.”

  “Really? No one else would sell me anything back there,” she found herself saying before she could stop herself. It occurred to her that this was not the best negotiating tactic.

  “Oh, girlie,” Jerome said. Anja winced, tried to ignore it. “Laurie, is that what you said your name was? Well, you can’t just walk into somewhere like this and hope that someone’s going to give you a fair price. Especially when you look like you just stepped out of the Ministry.”

  “So—” Anja paused.

  Jerome raised an eyebrow. “So why am I helping you?” He looked over at Abel. “Ask my friend over here.”

  Abel examined a loose bolt on the floor with his toe.

  “Anyway,” Jerome said, “I assume you’re paying cash?”

  Anja nodded.

  Jerome stuck his hand out. Anja eyed him. “Show me the car first,” she said.

  He let out a long-suffering sigh and stared at Abel again. “Fine,” he said.

  Jerome brought them to the very back of the hall. Anja saw that bricks were coming loose in the wall and pinpricks of sunlight shone through. She looked about herself, up at the tin ceiling and at the crumbly pillars with cars and goods stacked about them. It was a wonder the whole structure didn’t all come crashing down.

  “There,” Jerome pointed. “Best part—it has a sun roof.”

  It was less car and more van. Raised on four large wheels that came up to her waist, the car was boxy and glaring, and to top it off, it was red.

  “That’s—” Anja started. Both men were standing with their thumbs hooked into their waistbands as if they didn’t care, but their eyes were wide and expectant. “Perfect,” she ended.

  She pulled the cash out of her front pocket. Their eyes barely widened when they saw the thick wad in her hand, and Anja was reminded of an urban legend that the Market traders were actually the richest men in the whole city. That they secretly visited pay-per-use private clinics and extended their lives past the Ministry-sanctioned numbers, at an exorbitant cost. But when she handed Jerome the money, he snatched it from her in a way that told her he was no secret millionaire. He counted the cash slowly under his breath, tongue sticking out between his teeth.

  When he was done, he grinned. It was the first time Anja had seen him smile, and it made him suddenly look twenty years younger. From his back pocket he pulled a ring of keys that was as large as her head. He sifted through them, picking out one identical key after another, finally plucking one out of its loose tag. He handed it to Anja.

  “Here you go,” he said. As she took it, a thought seemed to strike him. “Can you even drive?” he said.

  Anja gave him a withering look.

  “Okay, okay,” he said.

  “Well, thanks,” Anja said, truly grateful.

  “Hey, no problem, Laurie,” Jerome said, elbowing Abel in the ribs.

  “Look,” Anja said. “My name’s not really Laurie. It’s Anja. Anja Nilsson.”

  Abel held out a hand. “Nilsson. Like the opera singer?”

  Anja’s stomach squeezed. “Yes,” she said. “Do you know—have you heard her?”

  “Are you kidding? Love that shit,” Abel said. Jerome nodded vigorously, pulled out his tablet and tapped its face.

  The aria that poured forth was scratchy and jolting. Jerome shook his tab.

  “Sorry, not the best signal here,” he said.

  But despite the jolts and echoes, her mother’s voice was unmistakable. They were silent, all except Jerome, who was humming along. Standing in the crowded Markets, huddled around Jerome’s tab, Anja felt with a sudden clarity what she had to do.

  Her mother would not have wanted some doctor up in Canada to do it.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Lea checked her watch as the floors rushed by. Jiang would have just arrived home, she thought. Hi
s wife would be heating the Nutripaks; he would be taking his shoes off, hanging up his jacket, regaling her with the boring events of the day.

  Jiang lived in the penthouse, of course he did. Lea noted the dark marble walls, the plush carpet underfoot. The healthy plants in spotless ceramic pots standing outside his front door. She rang the doorbell. It didn’t seem to be working, so she rang again, leaving her finger on the button longer this time.

  The door clicked open.

  “Yes?” Jiang’s wife was a large woman, larger than Lea would have expected. She’d never met her before, come to think of it. She had a severe mouth and the hint of a cleft chin. The skin around her eyes dissolved into a fine web when she spoke, but her neck was as smooth as it was long, and blemish free.

  “Is Jiang here?” Lea said.

  Jiang’s wife frowned. “Who are you?”

  “I work with him. Is he here?”

  She eyed Lea suspiciously, then ducked her head behind the door. “Jiang!” she called. “Someone from—work.”

  Lea heard Jiang’s familiar footsteps, heard his tone of annoyance—What, work, why would they come here, haven’t they heard of the phone—before he appeared at the front door. When he saw her, his voice changed.

  “Lea,” Jiang said. “What are you doing here?” He looked down the hallway, as if checking to see if someone had followed her there.

  “I need to borrow your boat,” Lea said.

  “What? Why? I mean, no,” Jiang sputtered. “What boat?”

  He shut the door behind him and stepped out into the hallway.

  “Just for a day,” she said. “I just need it for tomorrow.”

  Jiang continued to protest that he didn’t know what she was talking about, what boat, why would he have a boat.

  “Jiang.” Lea fixed her gaze on him. “If you don’t let me use it, I’ll walk in there right now and tell your wife why you have it.”

  He coughed and fell silent. His forehead was shiny again. Lea realized Jiang was wearing a large fluffy bathrobe and bedroom slippers.

  “What are you even doing here, Lea? How is this going to help your—your case?”

  “Are you going to let me use it or not?”

  He glared at her. “Fine,” he muttered. “Hold on.”

  Jiang disappeared into the house. Who is that, darling? At this time of the evening? She couldn’t hear Jiang’s muffled reply, but it was curt. A few moments later, the door opened again.

  “Just for tomorrow,” he said, handing her a key. “It’s down in the old docks. Lot 317. But perhaps you know that already.”

  She grabbed the key. “Thanks,” she said, and turned to go.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Lea,” Jiang called after her. “But this isn’t the time to do anything stupid. Things are changing. New developments. You’d best keep your head down.”

  * * *

  Going from Jiang’s home to Kaito’s was a shock. The last time she’d been to visit her father it had been a beautiful day out, and the sunshine and blue skies had distracted from the dreariness of his apartment block. Lea picked her way over the broken bottles and plastic bags that littered the ground. The elevator was broken. As she made her way up the four flights of stairs, Lea wondered what she would do if her father was no longer there. She hadn’t picked up any of his calls in weeks. What if he had moved? What if he had left the city, or worse?

  Lea pushed the thought out of her mind, concentrating on the burn in her thighs. Finally she found herself standing in front of Kaito’s front door. She knocked.

  The door was so thin that she could hear him getting up. She visualized the small room in her mind’s eye. She could see it now—the bed, the kitchenette, the oversized dining table. The desk pushed up against the window, with the pile of letters on it. The Club invitation. Her stomach clenched. But it was fine, everything was fine. She could hear her father walking toward the door. He was still here, she had gotten here in time. She could put her proposal to him, convince him of her plan, change his mind.

  The door opened and there he was, standing there before her in an old T-shirt and pajama pants that ended some way above his bony ankles. For some reason the sight of her father’s bare feet, spotted and wrinkled and knotted like tree roots, roused a deep sadness in her. She thought of Ambrose’s feet, sheathed in shiny leather shoes, laces done with care.

  “Lea,” her father said. His voice was slow with sleep. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”

  She glanced down at her watch. It was past ten—she hadn’t realized how long it had taken her to get here.

  “I came to see you,” she said. “I—I was hoping we could talk.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  As she stepped into his apartment, Lea realized that the last time she’d seen her father had been at the party. She remembered the things she’d said to him then, the way they’d separated. Her cheeks flushed in shame.

  Never mind. Wasn’t she here now? Didn’t she have a plan, a suggestion, a solution to both their problems?

  “You came. I’m so glad you’re here,” he said again. He pulled a flannel robe off the hook behind the door and shrugged it on. It was green, with little pink flowers on it. Lea was reminded of the quilt on Anja’s mother’s bed.

  Kaito perched himself on the edge of his bed, gesturing to the dining table. “You’re familiar with the seating options,” he said, smiling.

  Lea felt her face crumple. The sobs came in heaving gasps, stilted, awkward, as if she didn’t know how to cry.

  Her father didn’t tell her to stop crying. He didn’t say anything. Instead he came over to where she was standing and placed one hand on her back. He paused, staring at her face. She wondered what he was thinking, if he thought she was weak, overwrought, an embarrassment. But as the thought entered her mind, he pulled her into a tight embrace, one that crushed the breath out of her lungs and stilled her sobs.

  He didn’t say anything, but she heard him. Heard his words from a long, long time ago, words that she’d never forgotten.

  Why are you crying? There’s my little girl. Don’t cry now.

  His arms were around her, tanned and solid as wood. She eyed the tiny black hairs tufting his forearm, familiar in the way that they stopped far before his wrist. The comforting specks of dark and light, varied in a way that her mother’s smooth veneer was not. The folds of skin inside his elbows.

  Shhhhh. That’s enough now.

  She breathed in the smell of him. There it was, that salty, human smell, different now, all these years later, but still some version of what it used to be. She would have recognized his smell anywhere.

  When her breathing was even again, he let her go. He pulled out a chair from under the dining table and guided her to sit. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her.

  Suddenly Lea was exhausted. The thought of explaining it all was too much, far too much to bear. So instead, she pulled out the key that Jiang had given her.

  “My boss lent me his boat for the day. Do you—do you still remember how to sail?” she said shyly.

  Her father’s face lit up. “Do I!” he said. “I haven’t in years—no, the last time must’ve been when I lived out west. Had a boat of my own then, secondhand and creaky, but a real beauty.”

  She smiled at his enthusiasm, and for the first time, the mention of his life away from her and her mother didn’t cause any spark of anger, any resentment. She would ask him to take her there. To take her to see all the places he had been and lived, to meet all the people he’d known, do all the things he’d done. She’d give him a reason to live.

  “Plus,” he went on, “you couldn’t have picked a better day. Not only is the weather supposed to be perfect—sixty degrees and not a cloud in the sky—but, and you probably don’t remember this, tomorrow is, well, my birthday.”

  The thirtieth of October. Of course. She hadn’t thought about it in decades, but the d
ate came easily. She knew it as she knew her own name.

  “Perfect,” Lea said. “A birthday present, then.”

  She would tell him everything tomorrow, Lea decided. It was too late at night now; they were both too tired. The weather was meant to be perfect, after all, and it was his birthday. There would be no better time.

  * * *

  Lea awoke before sunrise the next morning. She did not jolt awake, did not panic in the dark at the unfamiliar smallness of the bed she found herself in. Although she had slept, it had been a kind of waking sleep, a sleep in which she’d never quite lost consciousness of where she was and who she was with.

  Her father’s breathing was quiet and even, with the faint wheeze of congestion. But even that sounded healthy, innocent, like the breath of a child who had forgotten to blow his nose. He had insisted on giving her his bed, and so slept on a thin pull-out mattress on the floor next to her. She’d only accepted on the condition that he take the comforter, which he’d grudgingly said yes to. And so she slept with just a sheet now. It was soft and smooth to the touch, the sign of a hundred, a thousand washings. She wondered if her father had carried his bedsheets around with him on his travels, where these flat pillows and threadbare covers had been.

  Lea turned and dipped her head over the edge of the bed to look at her father. He slept curled on his side, with his mouth open, his hands close to his face. The picture was off in some way; she realized she’d always imagined her father sleeping on his back, taking up space, arms stretched out.

  She settled back into bed and shut her eyes. The sound of her father’s breathing moved through her body, steady and comforting, lulling her back to sleep. There was a sudden lightness in her soul, the feeling of coming home.

  * * *

  It was, as Kaito had predicted, a beautiful day. Cool, for even as Lea stepped out of the apartment building she felt the light chill seeping into the warm spaces between her fingers, in her joints, underneath her clothes. But dazzlingly bright, the sky aglow in a blazing, electric blue. The sea too was a shimmering, restless mirror. The glittering dark waves reflected the rays of the sun like the huge, scaly back of some ancient, rolling creature.