Lights Out

They climbed over a furrowed sand dune and down to an oasis-date palms, soft breezes, a pool of still water. Chairs and tables ringed the pool. Beyond lay the casbah, with a bar at the bottom and a restaurant behind the battlements on top. There was a minaret too. An oil-smeared man wearing Ali Baba pants stood in it, swallowing fire.

Sookray sat at an empty table, kicked off her shoes, dipped her feet in the water. She patted the chair beside her. Eddie sat.

“Care for a swim?” she said.

“Had one.”

A harem girl appeared with champagne. Sookray sent it back. The harem girl returned with a different brand.

“Salud,” said Sookray, raising her glass.

Eddie drank. It was bliss: more than the equivalent of Holesome Trail Mix, infinitely more. His mind returned at once to the dinner at Galleon Beach.

“We can have sex later, if you want,” Sookray said. “It’s all paid for.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Really. I don’t mind. You’re kind of attractive, except for that shaved-head shit. I just hate that look. You might as well wave your cock around, you know?”

Caviar came next, followed by a spicy pie made with pigeons, and other dishes Eddie didn’t know. He ate every scrap. Then there was more champagne. Music played, very loud. People danced on the battlements.

“Dance?” said Sookray.

Eddie shook his head. He had a good buzz going, but he was still too sober to want to shake around up there in gray sweats, next to all those fancy people. He refilled their glasses instead.

After a while the music stopped. The dancers returned to the restaurant, the bar, the tables around the pool. One of the dancers approached theirs.

He was a fat-faced man in a dark silk suit. He sat down uninvited and patted his forehead with a white handkerchief. A big diamond nested on his hairy pinky. Sookray took her feet out of the water and put her shoes back on.

“This is Senor Paz,” she said. “Mr. Nye.”

Senor Paz nodded but didn’t offer his hand. He took out a cigar, cut off the end with a gold cutter, lit up with a gold lighter.

“Having a good time, Mr. Nye?” he asked after he had the cigar burning nicely.

“Till Rommel rolls through with his panzers.”

The corners of Paz’s mouth turned briefly up.

“Is that the new band?” Sookray asked. “I heard they were hot.”

Paz ignored her. “Enjoy,” he said, waving his hand around the oasis. “It will all be gone tomorrow, nothing more than an alcoholic dream.”

“Why is that?” said Eddie.

“Business. We do a redesign every two years. Frankly, it can’t come too soon. I’m so sick of climbing that dune I cannot tell you. We’re going with virtual reality next time. The name will be either Synapse or Neuron, I can’t decide.”

“Do you run the place?”

“Own it, actually. Although I’m a surgeon by profession, training-and inclination.”

Sookray frowned. Paz noticed and said, “You don’t look well, my dear. Would you like to rest for a while? Some aspirin, perhaps?”

“I’m fine,” said Sookray, sitting up straighter.

“Good. More champagne, then.” He snapped his fingers. A harem girl arrived at once. “Champagne,” he said. “Krug Grande Cuvee.” She went off. “The only champagne worth drinking,” he said to Eddie. “For a man. All the rest are just fizz, suitable for women and children.” He looked at Sookray. She looked down.

The harem girl arrived with new glasses and a new bottle. She popped the cork and poured. Paz covered his glass when she came to him. He rose and knocked a cylinder of cigar ash into the pool.

“Glad to have met you, Mr. Nye. And glad we’ve cleared up our little misunderstanding.” He started away.

“Who is we?” Eddie said.

Paz stopped, turned, smiled. “And especially glad it was just that-a misunderstanding.” He went away.

Eddie emptied his glass. “He’s right.”

“About what?” said Sookray.

“Krug. It’s the best.” He refilled his glass. Two days ago-or was it three? — he’d been eating shit and drinking swill. Now he was eating caviar and drinking the best champagne in the world. A thrill went through him, strong and physical: he felt his freedom through and through. It made him want to move.

“Who are the Panzers?” asked Sookray.

“They were hot in their day,” Eddie replied. “How about that dance?”

Sookray shook her head.

“I thought it was paid for.”

“If you insist,” she said.

Eddie gave her a closer look: he’d only been joking. He saw that the mockery had gone out of her eyes; they were dull and tired. Her body too had lost its vitality. She sagged in her chair.

“I don’t insist,” Eddie said.

Sookray smiled at him, a little smile, almost shy. “You can come home with me, if you keep it a secret.”

“A secret from who?”

Sookray’s eyes darted in the direction Paz had gone but she replied, “Just a secret in general.”

Eddie smiled back. “Forget it.”

“You don’t want me?”

“It’s not that.”

“Because I’m a whore.”

“No,” Eddie said, although that was probably part of it. The rest of it had to do with Paz; and El Rojo.

“How do you know El Rojo?” Eddie asked.

Her eyes narrowed and all at once were wide awake. “Who said I knew him?”

“He’s our mutual friend, remember?”

Sookray said nothing.