The Virgin of Flames

by Chris Abani

Suddenly exhausted, Black sat on a bench in the shadow of a statue. Staring at the traffic streaming past, he tried to grab hold of the thought flapping about in his head like a piece of torn cloth caught on a barbed-wire fence. But it was moving too fast. With a grunt he got up.

  nineteen

  the slight drizzle was ash.

  Black guessed the brush fires outside of Los Angeles were still burning. A homeless woman turned a circle in the middle of the street, face to the sky, open as a child. In one hand she was holding an umbrella. The other was palm up, to catch the fall. Her face was a ghostly white from all the ash she must have wiped across it as though it was precious water, or the blessing of rain. Black stood watching her for a few minutes. Smiling, he got into his van and drove home.

  The Ugly Store was dark. Black paused outside. The faithful were still camped there on the sidewalk, waiting for the Virgin to appear. He almost wanted to give her to them. He was fascinated by their devotion. One of them, an old woman in a wheelchair, smiled at him. She had no teeth. He smiled back.

  “Why do you wait for a miracle that may be a lie?” he asked her. “This Virgin, if it is the Virgin, may not be able to heal you.”

  “I didn’t come here for the Virgin to heal me,” she said. “Besides,” she added, “all miracles are lies.”

  “Then why are you waiting?”

  “For my heart to open,” she said.

  When he turned away from her, she was still laughing. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw Gabriel sitting at one of the tables leaning up against the shop’s façade. But it was nothing. Just a shadow. To the left, a small whirl-wind picked up some garbage and spun it around. Across the street, the taco stand was doing a brisk business. Black could see Bomboy arguing with the owner, whom he guessed was Pedro. Calling him a mothafucker, no doubt, he thought, trying to read the slogan on Bomboy’s shirt in the orange glow of streetlights that made everything seem like a dream. TWO WONGS CAN’T MAKE A WHITE, it said just below the corporate logo.

  He opened the door and stepped in, trying not to look at the moa towering above him. Maybe that’s why we are such an ignorant species, he thought, because all humans do is turn away from their fear.

  Iggy was behind the bar making drinks. The hiss of steamed milk was a familiar and reassuring sound. She looked up as he came in and smiled at him.

  “Black,” she said, and it held all the comfort he wanted to hear. “Where have you been?”

  “Out.”

  “I’m making tea. Do you want some?”

  “Yes,” he said, then after a pause, adding, “please.”

  He walked over to her and slid onto a bar stool.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him. Her hair was growing out, about three inches of her natural blonde hair with purple tips. He hadn’t noticed it before, even though it must have been that way for a while. Her different colored eyes searched his face. It was a disconcerting feeling, as though she could read into all his hidden secrets. He thought it might be a good idea to empty his mind, so he focused on deciding which of her eyes he liked best, the purple or the green one. He was wondering why she never dyed her hair green when she said:

  “How is Black?”

  “Fine,” he said, not showing surprise at her use of the third person.

  “Talkative as ever.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Strippers wear you out?” she asked, putting a steaming cup of tea in front of him.

  “I object to that,” he said.

  “I notice you don’t deny it, though.”

  “But I still object. Okay, so I did go to Charlie’s earlier, but I’ve been working on Fatima too,” he said.

  “Oh,” Iggy said. “And she didn’t mind that you were wearing the musk of another woman?”

  “Jeez, Iggy, relax. How do you know I went to Charlie’s anyway?”

  “Psychic, remember?”

  He took a sip of tea. It was too hot.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For the tea,” he added. Sometimes around her, he found himself wanting to be exact, to be precise. On his best behavior even.

  “Sure. By the way, have you seen Bomboy?”

  “Yeah. He’s outside fighting with Pedro.”

  “He was in here earlier looking for you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and then as she turned to go he asked: “How did you know about Charlie’s, really?”

  She smiled. “I was up in the spaceship today,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “You gave it to me, didn’t you? It’s mine.”

  “I know it is,” he said. “But you’ve never really been up before.”

  “I went to see what all the fuss was about,” she said.

  He nodded. “You mean with Gabriel?”

  “And with the Virgin.”

  “And?”

  “I saw the pinboard with the photos.”

  “Yeah, I was playing around with the idea of the Virgin for a while. Maybe that’s how Fatima came to me,” he said, dropping his eyes.

  “And Sweet Girl?”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “It is written under the photos. Black, should I be worried?”

  He shivered at her tone. The implication in it was like a snake slithering over stones. He would never harm Sweet Girl. He wouldn’t. Iggy was looking at him, eyebrows raised, so he shook his head. She let out her breath.

  “I found something else.”

  “What?”

  “My wedding dress.”

  She sat down next to him and though she was holding her own cup of tea, she blew on his and leaned over to drink from it. He was holding the cup and he tipped it for her. She slurped some onto his hand. It burned but he didn’t flinch, glad for the distraction. Iggy put her fingertip to the wet patch and smeared it around.

  “And I found the makeup,” she said, after what seemed like an eternity. He took a gulp of tea, surprised to find it was still hot enough to burn.

  “You did?” he asked, in a voice that sounded like he had a mouthful of pebbles.

  “You know, Black, I’m not one to judge. I mean, how can I, right?” she said, indicating The Ugly Store with a sweep of her palm.

  “But?”

  “I don’t know. I mean I don’t understand what’s up with you, but it seems like you’re coming apart at the seams. What is it? Do you want to be a woman?”

  He looked into his cup.

  “Black?”

  “Why would you think that, Iggy?” he asked. “That I would want to be a woman.”

  “I don’t know why you would want it. But you have an obsession with a transvestite or transsexual stripper whose photos are plastered all over your spaceship, then I find my wedding dress and a makeup kit. What am I supposed to think?”

  He shrugged.

  “How do you know Sweet Girl is transsexual?”

  Iggy laughed. Black nodded.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot you’re psychic.”

  “No, it’s not that. Have you seen the wrists on her? There are things that no amount of hormones can disguise.”

  “I see,” he said. He wanted to laugh, but he was confused. He was partly angry because he felt that she had violated his privacy, and he was also disappointed because he expected that she of all people would understand what he was going through. Would accept him.

  “Black,” Iggy said, voice soft, the familiar Iggy. “What is going on?”

  He shook his head and drank some more tea. Outside the faithful were getting restless, several falling into the ecstasy of tongues as they called out in vain to the Virgin.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry if I sounded off a moment ago. I was just surprised.”

  He nodded. “It’s okay.” Then: “Do you think there is another explanation for it?”

  “Well, yes. Perhaps you are just going through a tough time and returning to the familiar safety of your childhood.”

  �
��You think so?” He sounded hopeful. Even though he’d considered it himself, it was comforting to hear it echoed back at him.

  “Yeah. I mean, how could you forget something like that?”

  He wanted to leave, felt the old panic at this particular discomfort rise. But he had pried the lid off the box that first night. Now he had to look inside. He rubbed the plastic pouch with the photo and letter for a pensive moment, then he took it off and put it on the bar top between them like the passkey to some secret government research lab.

  “Alright. Black, do you remember when I told you about Raul?”

  “Your fiancé? Yes.”

  “I wasn’t being entirely honest with you. I was never engaged to anyone called Raul. Truth is, I’ve never even dated a person called Raul.”

  Black was puzzled. “Where are you going with this?”

  Iggy sighed.

  “I bought that dress about five years ago. I bought it because I realized I was getting old and I was afraid to end up all alone. I bought it and pretended to myself for two whole years that I was getting married. I went on diets, I tried on the dress every night, alone in my office, I planned a whole fucking wedding: seating plans, menus—smoked duck and foie gras, which is weird because I hate duck.”

  “Why?”

  “Too oily, I think.”

  “Iggy!”

  “Sorry. I guess I needed to be needed, you know? At first I told myself, of course you’re loveable, of course you are desirable and, goddamn it, even though I am a strong and powerful woman, I wanted, I needed to be desired. To be seen as a woman and not some kind of freak always attending to others. But it was all a lie . . .”

  “But you are . . .”

  She waved him into silence.

  “Shut up and let me talk. It was a lie, at least the way I had done it, it was. It wasn’t even a kind of sympathetic magic. It was just foolish desperation. So I put the dress away and went back to living my life. But this time it was easier because I had lived out my desperation, acted it out as it were. Now I know what I want, what I need, and it does include love and desire and companionship, but I am happier. See? I gave the dress to Howie last year to clean and sell it.”

  “So, is this about paying for the dress?” he asked tentatively.

  “Fuck, Black! Even you can’t be that stupid. For once pay attention. Jesus! I figured out why I needed that dress and then I didn’t need it anymore, so I passed it on. You have to know why you need that dress, Black, so you can either pass it on or keep it, and for you, to know is to remember!”

  “The thing is, Iggy, I don’t remember,” he said, his voice so low she had to lean in to hear him.

  “What?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “But you have that thing,” Iggy said, pointing to the plastic pouch.

  “I don’t remember any of it, Iggy. The truth is I knew nothing about any of it until just before my mother died and I found this letter with the photo in it,” he said, pulling the letter out.

  She picked up the plastic pouch and stared at the photo that was still firmly ensconced in it. She turned it over and read the scrawled inscription: Little Black Angel.

  “Did your dad write that?”

  Black shook his head.

  “I don’t know, but I know the handwriting doesn’t match what’s in the letter. And that’s supposed to have come from him.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She said she didn’t write it.”

  Iggy played with the letter, spinning it round by flicking on its edges with her finger.

  “You can read it,” he said finally.

  She was as careful as she could be, given her excitement and haste. She unfolded it and read:

  Dear Son,

  If you receive this letter then it means that I am not coming home. I am sorry also to be blunt but if this war has taught me anything it’s taught me not to waste time. You probably won’t understand this until later, but it is important regardless. I know that I told you to believe only in the rational, in science. As a scientist it was important for me to give you that, Son, so you wouldn’t be held back by superstition, but after what I have seen here in two years, I urge you to find something to believe in that brings you comfort and when you find it to hold on to it with both hands. I won’t tell you about the death here, the blood, the endless mud of it and an enemy none of us can see, or the mosquitoes and the heat that covers everything with hopelessness. Instead I will confess one truth and one lie to you.

  The truth is that I love you more than you can possibly imagine and the enclosed photo, which I have carried with me as a talisman against harm, is of you at two in a dress. I figured carrying it in my breast pocket near my heart was as good as praying. I want you to have it as I have you in my heart.

  The lie is that I only believed in science. In fact, I have always believed in forces other than science. The reason you are wearing a dress is because our family has a curse, an evil spirit that kills all male offspring before they are six. So we have always hidden our sons, dressing them like girls until their seventh birthday. Forgive me for this lie, Son, but know that I did it out of love for you. Grow strong and make our name proud.

  Your loving father,

  Frank

  “Your father was a scientist?” she asked.

  Black shrugged. He still didn’t feel closer to either of his parents or any real truth about himself. What he did feel was closer to this ambiguity he was becoming; and all of it was tied into dresses and makeup, and it was a lie: he did remember, and he wanted to tell her about the time when he first wore a dress consciously. It was just before his mother died, when he was still taking care of her.

  They had only just found out what was wrong with her. It wasn’t like they had medical insurance or anything, and since his mother became ill they really only had Frank’s army pension. But Frank’s best friend in ’Nam, Eric, was a doctor now at the Veteran’s Hospital on Wilshire, and Black finally overcame his anger at Eric (he felt that his father’s best friend should have come round more, cared more) to go and find him. Eric came round to the house on Soto and took María away, his eyes sad, sadder even when he returned her after running tests.

  “You should have called earlier,” he said to Black. “If we’d found the tumor in time. These kind of brain tumors are genetic,” he explained. “But if we had found it sooner.”

  “Can’t you do anything?”

  Eric shook his head. “No, son. No. Now it’s just a matter of time. The medicine I prescribed for her you can come by and pick up for free at the hospital, but it’s mostly just for pain. I’ll send a nurse round from time to time.”

  Black knew the nurse would never come round. This was East LA.

  “Did the doctor explain?” Black asked his mother after the doctor left.

  “Yes, m’ijo. I am paying for my sins,” she mumbled.

  “No, I’m paying for your sins,” he said, realizing that he might soon have to do everything for her.

  But this day he had just fed her, a chore he hated because she spat the food everywhere, her eyes defiant, letting him know she was no baby, that this was a willful hate. Finally, in anger he pushed the plate of mushy rice into her face and left her sickroom, retreating to the living room. It was a hot day and he took off his shirt and lay on the couch. It was covered in plastic to protect the fabric and in the heat he began to sweat, his body sticking to it. At first it irritated him and then it slowly began to drive him crazy, and he swore that as soon as she died he would rip off that plastic and bury her in it, like her own personal freezer bag. But then something else began to happen to him as he lay there. He began to feel his body. Really feel it for the first time. Even then, at fourteen, he was already five foot eleven and two hundred plus pounds. He felt the soft fall of his body and the sticky plastic. Felt the sweat crawl down his back like curious fingers and smelled his animal smell. He took off his pants and lay there, feeling all of himself. Not sexually, but s
ensually, as body, as heat, as alive. Then he thought of his teacher, Mrs. Bovay, three hundred pounds and her voice all softness and kindness like her flesh and her hug that pulled him close into the smell of sweat and talc, all sweet like a baby and something else; the faint scent of pecan or nutmeg from the pies she baked for the class. She was everything his mother wasn’t.

  And then he thought of his mother’s wedding dress and went into her room, still naked, ignoring her hate and her bile, and pulled the dress on, tearing a deep gash in the side. He went back to the couch and lay there, pretending to be her, to be dead, to be lying in state, and all the while, the gash let in a cooling breeze. But he didn’t tell Iggy any of it, instead Black blew on his tea.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember,” he said.

  Iggy nodded.

  “Do you have any cigarettes?” she asked.

  He passed the pack. She lit one and took a long, deep drag, her brow furrowed from the effort and from the thoughts he imagined were racing across the screen of her mind. As she let the smoke out, she seemed to be smiling.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking about the dress and the makeup in the spaceship and I realize what that means. You are the Virgin. You’re the fraud these people have gathered to see,” Iggy said.

  He wanted to say, Well, duh, took you long enough. Instead he looked away and nodded.

  “Oh, Black. That’s wrong on so many levels.”

  “I know. I’ve been thinking of a way to tell them,” he said, indicating the loud faithful outside with a nod of his head.

  “You can’t. Not now. You can’t just snatch this away from them.”

  “So what do I do?”

  Iggy opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by Bomboy banging loudly into The Ugly Store.

  “Black, I came to see you,” Bomboy said, sitting at one of the stools and putting an alarm clock on the bar in front of him. Black set his cup of tea down.

  “Iggy, can I get a beer?” Bomboy said.

  Iggy shot him a look.

  “Please,” he added.

  She got up, went round the bar and fetched him a beer. Meanwhile, Black was watching her movements, the easy sway of her full thighs, while pretending to be studying the alarm clock. It was very ornate, with gold painted fleur-de-lis on it. There was also what looked like a banner with a message in Arabic inscribed at the bottom. Bomboy was studying Black.