by Pasha Malla
Silas sighed. "I'm fine."
"Why are you lying down?" Mary stroked his cheek, smiled. "Is the tour over?"
He touched her hand, breathed. "You know, Mary, my father is dying."
"He's what?"
"Dying. And I am next in line to carry on his practice and work."
"Oh, no, Silas. That's so sad. I mean," she added hurriedly, "about your father. And the practice? This is something you'll be happy doing?"
Silas ran his fingers up Mary's arm to her elbow. She took his hand, adjusted her skirts, reclined, and lay down beside him, resting her head on his chest. Inches away, the lantern flickered, casting washes of amber light over them.
"Oh, it's fine. But I just feel that there's more to life than seeing patients and finding antidotes for snake venom. All his life my father has dedicated every day to science, to a pursuit of the truth, and look at him - the man knows his maths and equations, but he'd never understand the sort of truth you'd find in poetry or art. And look at his relationship with my mother. She's a wonderful woman, but he treats her like she doesn't even exist."
Silas thought about this. He looked up at the Turk, looming above them: from behind it was considerably less impressive, just some tatty old robes hanging limply off a brittle wooden skeleton. A machine, heartless and vacant, useless without a human hand to guide it.
Mary leaned in and kissed Silas, then - fully, deeply, on the mouth. He closed his eyes, felt her climb on top of him, skirts swishing and falling, heavy and enveloping his legs as well as hers, and he kissed her back, ran his hands from her neck down the sides of her body, along the curve of her hips, farther down.
As her mouth moved over his neck he reached as low as he could, grabbing handfuls of fabric, tugging upwards, hitching. The layers amazed him; there seemed enough material down there to outfit a small orchestra. He grabbed her hips and flipped her; Mary giggled, beneath him now, then nibbled at his earlobe, her breath coming heavier, and the skirts were finally nearing their end, he could feel garters somewhere beneath a petticoat and -
Silas paused, sniffing. A smell, a familiar smell, came wafting into his nostrils from nearby, something acrid and sour that he knew only to associate with danger, with emergency. He opened his eyes. The hall was bright around them; an orange glow bathed the room. Was it dawn already?
"Fire!" screamed Mary, flinging Silas off her. He rolled down the steps, his head smacking off each one as he went. Mary, meanwhile, scuttled backwards, crablike, away from where the lantern had tipped and spilled and flames were spreading hungrily up onto the curtains and along the carpet, toward the Turk. "Fire!" she screamed again.
At the bottom of the steps Silas stood, trying groggily to focus. His head hurt; his vision swam. Mary appeared at his side. "Silas, the lantern! We've knocked it over!"
Silas nodded - slowly, ponderously.
"Come on!"
He looked up at the Turk: flames a foot high, gathering intensity, fluttered around it on the stage. Smoke came billowing off the fire in waves, the curtains flapping and urging it on. Quickly the cabinet was alight, catching the Turk's garments. Silas stood, mouth agape. It was beautiful.
A hand slapped him across the face. Mary stood before him, shoulders heaving. "Silas, the museum is on fire, and we need to leave. Do you hear me? What's wrong with you?"
But Silas was entranced by the inferno eating away at the cabinet, crackling and alive, and he felt himself saying to Mary, "Yes." He heard himself tell her, "We need to leave," but even as she took his hand and tugged him back down the carpet toward the exit, he still watched over his shoulder, saw the turban unravel in a shower of sparks, the face paint melt, the pipe crumble into ash. As they made their way back into the stairwell, Silas caught one last glimpse of the Turk's eyes, blue and sparkling in the firelight, before Mary pulled him away.
OUTSIDE THE Chinese Museum, Silas and Mary collapsed choking on the back lawn, she on her knees, he right onto his stomach in the grass.
"Silas," she said, once her fits of coughing subsided, "we have to run. The fire brigade will be here soon. They'll catch us and know we did it."
Silas sat up. He was smiling. "Let them come," he said. "We did do it."
Mary paused, then came over and smacked him again. "Don't be so foolish."
Behind them, smoke was beginning to waft out of the basement windows, but Silas just sat there, a grin on his face.
"Listen, you can go ahead and get caught, but if you think for a moment you're dragging me into this with you, forget it."
Silas looked up at her. "Mary, it's gone. It's over now."
"You're delirious. What are you smiling at? Get up!"
"Mary?" He pulled her down beside him. "I love you, Mary," he said.
"Silas, that's wonderful, but - "
"We can go, we'll go, but before we do, I just want you to know." She went to stand up, but he stopped her with a kiss, planted his lips on hers, both their faces smudged black with ash and smoke and joined together. Just as he released, an explosion came behind them as one of the basement windows was blown outwards. Glass came tinkling across the lawn, followed by the greedy roar of the fire inside.
Mary hauled Silas to his feet. "You okay now?"
"I'm okay," said Silas, wrapping an arm around her. They began to walk away, holding each other close. Behind them came another explosion; an orange glow stretched trembling across the lawn. Mary took Silas's hand and together they broke into a run. Very faintly, as they made their way off into the darkness, Silas was sure he heard a voice from deep amid the thunder of flames. It was a plaintive, desperate call. "Checkmate," said the voice, and then the roof of the museum came crashing down, a ball of flame rose into the sky, and all that was left was the rumble and hiss of the fire consuming the museum, devouring everything inside.
PET THERAPY
THE DAY EWING tried to bugger one of the goats, it went like this: Sujata Jain let Ewing outside and right away he started prowling around the pen, knuckles scraping the ground, breath whistling out through his nostrils, big simian head bobbing stealthily with each calculated step. There was something different about his movements, something dubious and predatory, and in that premonitory way in which animals can tell a storm is coming the goats staggered away from the lustful chimp, mewling. Before Sujata could intervene, Ewing scuttled over and mounted one of the poor creatures from behind and started humping away at its rear end.
it took a moment for Sujata to realize what was happening. For a moment, she stood watching, transfixed, before the screams of one of the younger patients - "The monkey's killing it!" - brought her to her senses. Rolling up her sleeves, Sujata rushed over, hauled the frenzied chimp to the ground, and then ushered him inside the playroom. By then the kids were hysterical and the dogs were howling and the goats huddled bleating in the corner of the pen, and a bewildered Sujata stood in the doorway, trying to figure out whom to console first.
Ewing, meanwhile, hammered off dutifully in the playroom. After ejaculating all over himself he waddled out back, where he sat, slumped in the corner of his cage, a white blanket pulled over his face, waiting to be locked in.
THE RAPE HAPPENED, a few days later the hospital's board of directors held an inquiry, and then, less than two weeks after that, Karel was hired as support staff - to "watch the horny chimp," as one senior official put it in the interview.
Sujata loved that horny chimp, though; she spent hours in meetings campaigning to keep him around. Karel's first day on the job, he walked into the Pet Therapy Ward and found her curled up on the floor with Ewing, stroking his furry back. Karel stood there for a moment, wondering if they shouldn't be left alone, before both woman and monkey looked up with the same curious expression on their faces.
"I'm Sue Jain," she said, standing up, extending her hand. Karel heard "Sue-Jane," which seemed impossible for this petite, chestnut-skinned South Asian; it was too Arkansas, too slapped together. "I'm in charge here."
Her palm felt greas
y. "Hi, Sue-Jane. Karel. The new aide."
"I'm sure you've heard about Ewing." Sue-Jane nodded at the monkey sprawled between her feet. "You ever work with a bonobo before?"
"Bonobo? That's not a monkey?"
Sue-Jane's face crinkled. "You have much experience with animals?"
"Animals, no. Kids, plenty."
"Animals, no?"
"No. But I worked at a daycare for years. Like, before."
Sue-Jane stared at Karel for a moment, then reached down, took Ewing by the hand, and led him cautiously outside. "Judith needs feeding," she called over her shoulder. "She's the pig."
PET THERAPY operated under the premise that sick children would get well from being around animals, petting them, holding them to their ailing bodies. It was set up in the basement of the hospital in a room that had previously served as the morgue, now redecorated in a circus motif. Mobiles made by patients dangled from the ceiling: cardboard lions and clowns and big-top tents. Two picture windows looked out onto an outdoor animal pen that had been, at one point, a little patch of trees beside the hospital. A few stumps remained clustered around the perimeter of the yard, sawed off into flat, perfect stools. Immediately, Karel preferred to be outside with Ewing; the air in the playroom always seemed so still, almost oblivious to the life and action usually whirling around in it.
That first day, after a harried eight hours of vomiting dogs and vomiting children and a runaway Judith and a surprisingly docile Ewing, who hung around in the pen with the goats as if nothing had ever happened between them, SueJane instructed Karel to join her for dinner. Had it been anyone else, Karel might have considered this a romantic invitation, but she seemed so pragmatic about it. Besides, the woman was forty or so, close to fifteen years Karel's senior.
Karel followed Sue-Jane in his Neon to an Indian restaurant near the hospital, one of those all-you-can-eat places with piped-in sitar music and statuettes of deities bronze and holy along the walls. Sue-Jane made straight for a table next to the buffet, nodding at the waiters as she breezed by. She slung her purse over the back of a chair, snatched up a plate, and stepped into line. Karel trailed closely behind.
"Hungry," she grunted.
They shuffled along, reaching out every now and then to slop curries onto their plates. "Not that one," Sue-Jane kept saying, steering Karel's hand away. "Take some of this."
Back at the table, their plates both heaped with identical, meatless meals, Sue-Jane sat down with a great, breathy exhalation and attacked her food.
"That's the stuff," she said. "Oh boy, that's the stuff."
Karel folded some eggplant into a piece of naan. "You a vegetarian?"
"Vegan."
"Oh yeah? No cheese, no eggs?"
Sue-Jane paused for a moment, her fork dripping. "Yes. Vegan."
"You find that hard?"
"Beg your pardon?"
"Sorry- I just, you know."
Sue-Jane shovelled a forkful of okra into her face. "Eat, eat."
Karel watched, marvelling at the silent tenacity, the icy resolve. He was used to meals with his parents hollering at each other across the table, occasionally roping him into diatribes on the decay of social values or the price of auto insurance. This absence of conversation now seemed wrong. He opened his mouth to speak, and as he did Sue-Jane looked up, meeting his eyes. She gestured at his plate with her fork. Karel ate.
WHEN KAREL GOT back to the trailer that night, his cousin Wayne was out, presumably off playing pool at some nearby tavern - how he spent most of his free time. Wayne was only two years younger than Karel but looked about eighteen, with a Frida Kahlo moustache and the spindly arms and legs of a prototypical heavy-metal enthusiast. The day Karel moved in, he brought his cousin a case of beer as a thank-you gift. "Shit, dude - we're family," Wayne said, smacking Karel on the back hard enough to leave a mark. "I'll take the brews, but if you can't count on your family when the chips are down, what the fuck? Am I right?"
The trailer park sat on a hill that overlooked the town, twenty identical little hovels made of plastic and glass, wheels lifted off the ground by concrete blocks. The inside comprised one long, narrow room: the kitchen by the front door, a small living space that housed the Tv; Wayne's waterbed was sectioned off by a curtain near the far wall. Karel slept on the couch.
Alone, the Indian meal a solid brick in his gut, Karel got out his laptop and spent a few hours on the Internet, looking up bonobos and relentlessly checking his email. Within the reams of spam promising him larger genitalia and smaller mortgage rates were two emails: one from the newspaper back home that Karel deleted without reading and another from his mother. This he opened with some trepidation.
Hi, Honey.
Just checking to see that things are working out. People here have been asking after you, if you're doing okay. Also, the lawyer dropped by with the paperwork for the countersuit. We all think you should really consider it. Let me know and I'll send everything to you at Wayne's.
Love, Mom
Karel read the message again and considered a response. With a sigh, he tabbed over to the Trash icon and clicked. Then he made his way to the couch, lay down, and, after masturbating efficiently into a sock, fell asleep.
That night Karel dreamt he was at the end of a chain of monkeys, meticulously picking burrs and insects from the chimp in front of him. His own back was thick with fur and alive with crackling, crawling things; but while he slaved away, fingers sifting, hunting, flicking, no one offered to take their turn and groom him.
THE NEXT DAY, Sue-Jane and Karel hardly had a chance to talk: the craziness began at nine in the morning with the first patient appearing pale and wide-eyed at the Pet Therapy door and ended when the last of the children were collected by nurses at a quarter to five. Sue-Jane was occupied pretty much all day, regulating the petting of dogs or the feeding of goats - younger children had this tendency to drink from their bottles - or monitoring the handling of two chinchillas on loan from one of the hospital's more prominent donors.
Meanwhile, Karel kept a supervisory eye on Ewing.
Karel found it difficult to imagine the lustful urges that had possessed the chimp that one unfortunate afternoon. Ewing did his routine for any kids who ventured outside - hooting, throwing things, jumping up and down - all in a carefree, charming way that from his seat on a nearby stump warmed Karel to watch.
At one point, he got up to join in. Ewing was in the midst of turning somersaults around the pen, but when Karel came near he stood up and shuffled nervously over to the playroom door.
"Whoa," Karel said, trying to sound jokey. "Guess I'm not wanted here."
He went back to his spot on the stump, smiling stupidly. Minutes later, Ewing returned to entertaining the kids, who squealed and clapped with delight.
When Sue-Jane made an appearance outside at the end of the day, Ewing clambered over, leapt up into her arms, and clung there like a giant, sinewy spider. The kids circled around cheering and Sue-Jane laughed. When the bonobo's penis began to engorge, Sue-Jane dumped him on the ground, scolding him harshly. Ewing slumped away, while Karel observed quietly from his spot in the corner of the pen.
THURSDAY OF KAREL'S second week Sue-Jane announced at a few minutes to five that they would be dining together again. After stuffing themselves in relative silence they tottered out into the parking lot, located their respective automobiles, and went their separate ways.
Driving home, Karel wondered if these suppers together weren't some sort of incentive set up by the hospital, part of Sue-Jane's job description. Or maybe they were friends? Karel felt himself figuring her out slowly, like a game of Clue, putting her together with little mental check marks, tick, tick, tick, hoping at some point it would all become clear - who, where, with what murderous implement: Sue-Jane.
THE FOLLOWING Wednesday produced another invite. As SueJane's customary assault on her dinner began, Karel brought up one particularly sad-looking girl who had spent the entire afternoon trying to teach Jiva the m
acaw to say, "I love you." The girl had stood there, index finger reaching through the bars of the cage, coaxing, repeating in a parrot voice: "I love you! I love you! I love you!"
"Man, wasn't she sad?" Karel said. "I think she was in for a marrow transplant."
"You want to talk sad?" Sue-Jane wiped some chutney from her face with her sleeve. "In my religion we are in a period of suffering of twenty-one thousand years."
"I didn't know you were religious."
"Well, I'm doing my best."
"And how much longer do we have to go?"
"About eighteen thousand years."
"Only eighteen thousand? And after that?"
"Twenty-one thousand years of even worse suffering. All hope will be wiped from the earth."
"Oh, fun."
Sue-Jane had somehow fit a piece of potato the size of a child's fist into her mouth. She sat with her cheeks ballooned out like a squirrel's, looking unsure what she might do next.
"So, what then," asked Karel, watching her, "after there's no more hope?"
Sue-Jane held up a finger and looked into her lap. Her jaw churned; she swallowed, gasping. "Rain for days and days, then everything is born again."
"And that'll happen when?"
"Forty thousand years. More or less."
"Oh, okay. I'll bake a cake." Sue-Jane shifted then, and Karel felt something - her knee or hand - brush his thigh. He looked at her and noticed, for the first time, the light dusting of fuzz that ringed her face. Leaning in, he lowered his voice to what he thought was an appropriately solemn tone. "So, if your entire life is just suffering, what's the point?"
"You do your best while you're here. You make your life worth living."
Karel felt it again, something warm against his leg. This time it stayed there. "By doing what? Like being good to others?"
"That's the idea."