About Sunny. This morning when I am coming in the taxi my heart it is very cold. And when I see you here, I already know.”
“You saw Sunny in a dream? Last night?”
“Yes, Mr. Nick.”
Exley feels as if he is looking down on himself from on high. Part of him realizes how absurd this conversation is, how dumb he is to be grasping at this simple woman’s superstition. The other part speaks before he can stop it.
“What did you dream?”
“She is coming to me. Crying. And the way she is looking I know she has passed.”
Madness, of course. Primitive hocus-pocus. But he feels dizzy with loss.
“In our culture the death of a child is a very bad thing,” Gladys says, “and the child must be protected from the bad spirits, must be guided to the ancestors on the other side. You understand?”
He nods. Crazy as it may seem he does understand. There is a whacked-out symmetry between what this Xhosa woman is saying and the teachings of the self-styled guru on the ashram he fled as a teenager, where his mother still lives. These teachings (tales of souls wandering lost in an endless maze of hellish afterlives) terrified the living shit out of him.
“What can I do?” asks a man who is not quite Nicholas Exley.
“We believe that the spirit of the person stays where it dies for a few days, before it crosses over. Only the love of a parent, Mr. Nick, is getting Sunny to the other side.”
Then she sets off, heavy and slow across the sand, and into the house. Later he will see her sitting on Sunny’s bed, singing in Xhosa, weeping without shame.
A movement in the house draws Exley’s eye. Caroline watches him from an upstairs window, smoking. Then she turns away and disappears.
Exley goes inside, tramping water and sand across the tiles. He considers climbing up to the bedroom, but is too raw to deal with Caroline’s anger, so he ducks into the studio and slumps down in his chair, triggering the mo-cap loop of Sunny. He feels a disturbance in the air and swivels as Caroline steps into the room, dressed in dark tights, an old sweater baggy on her slight frame. The sweater is her security blanket, the wool mottled from years of use and scarred by cigarette burns.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Nothing,” he says, pausing the loop, his fingertips stroking the smooth rectangular spacebar.
“Is this how you’re going to handle it?” she asks. “Locked away in your bloody hobbit hole?”
“I’m just watching her.”
“That’s not her. That’s not Sunny. That’s nothing but a collection of zeros and ones.”
He doesn’t rise to this. “What did you say to Gladys?”
“Not a word. I just buzzed her in. Then I saw the two of you having your little pity party on the beach. Why, what did she say to you?”
He shrugs, eyes on the frozen wireframe figure on the monitor. “She knew Sunny was dead. Said that she had a dream about her last night. Something about water.”
“Jesus, what a load of voodoo bollocks.”
“How did she know, then, if you didn’t tell her?”
“The bloody bush telegraph, how do you think? The taxi would have been full of it this morning when she came up.”
“She doesn’t strike me as a liar.”
“Oh, come on, Nicholas, you don’t seriously believe this nonsense, do you?” He stays mute. “You know these bloody primitives and their conceit that they are born with a connection to some greater power. A connection that we have somehow lost. It’s just a form of spiritual one-upmanship.”
Caroline sees his face and laughs. “Shit, how pathetic,” she says. “You want to believe it, don’t you, to lessen your guilt? To believe that Sunny is out there in some cozy afterlife, instead of lying dead in the mortuary? My God, despite your protestations of rationality, you’re your mother’s son, after all.” Exley does what he always does when she gets like this: retreats into silence. “Well, sorry to piss on your parade, darling, but Sunny’s dead. Gone.
“You saw Sunny in a dream? Last night?”
“Yes, Mr. Nick.”
Exley feels as if he is looking down on himself from on high. Part of him realizes how absurd this conversation is, how dumb he is to be grasping at this simple woman’s superstition. The other part speaks before he can stop it.
“What did you dream?”
“She is coming to me. Crying. And the way she is looking I know she has passed.”
Madness, of course. Primitive hocus-pocus. But he feels dizzy with loss.
“In our culture the death of a child is a very bad thing,” Gladys says, “and the child must be protected from the bad spirits, must be guided to the ancestors on the other side. You understand?”
He nods. Crazy as it may seem he does understand. There is a whacked-out symmetry between what this Xhosa woman is saying and the teachings of the self-styled guru on the ashram he fled as a teenager, where his mother still lives. These teachings (tales of souls wandering lost in an endless maze of hellish afterlives) terrified the living shit out of him.
“What can I do?” asks a man who is not quite Nicholas Exley.
“We believe that the spirit of the person stays where it dies for a few days, before it crosses over. Only the love of a parent, Mr. Nick, is getting Sunny to the other side.”
Then she sets off, heavy and slow across the sand, and into the house. Later he will see her sitting on Sunny’s bed, singing in Xhosa, weeping without shame.
A movement in the house draws Exley’s eye. Caroline watches him from an upstairs window, smoking. Then she turns away and disappears.
Exley goes inside, tramping water and sand across the tiles. He considers climbing up to the bedroom, but is too raw to deal with Caroline’s anger, so he ducks into the studio and slumps down in his chair, triggering the mo-cap loop of Sunny. He feels a disturbance in the air and swivels as Caroline steps into the room, dressed in dark tights, an old sweater baggy on her slight frame. The sweater is her security blanket, the wool mottled from years of use and scarred by cigarette burns.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Nothing,” he says, pausing the loop, his fingertips stroking the smooth rectangular spacebar.
“Is this how you’re going to handle it?” she asks. “Locked away in your bloody hobbit hole?”
“I’m just watching her.”
“That’s not her. That’s not Sunny. That’s nothing but a collection of zeros and ones.”
He doesn’t rise to this. “What did you say to Gladys?”
“Not a word. I just buzzed her in. Then I saw the two of you having your little pity party on the beach. Why, what did she say to you?”
He shrugs, eyes on the frozen wireframe figure on the monitor. “She knew Sunny was dead. Said that she had a dream about her last night. Something about water.”
“Jesus, what a load of voodoo bollocks.”
“How did she know, then, if you didn’t tell her?”
“The bloody bush telegraph, how do you think? The taxi would have been full of it this morning when she came up.”
“She doesn’t strike me as a liar.”
“Oh, come on, Nicholas, you don’t seriously believe this nonsense, do you?” He stays mute. “You know these bloody primitives and their conceit that they are born with a connection to some greater power. A connection that we have somehow lost. It’s just a form of spiritual one-upmanship.”
Caroline sees his face and laughs. “Shit, how pathetic,” she says. “You want to believe it, don’t you, to lessen your guilt? To believe that Sunny is out there in some cozy afterlife, instead of lying dead in the mortuary? My God, despite your protestations of rationality, you’re your mother’s son, after all.” Exley does what he always does when she gets like this: retreats into silence. “Well, sorry to piss on your parade, darling, but Sunny’s dead. Gone.
Similar Books
