Dead Souls (10 page)

“You look tired,” Alejandro says to me. He's tense. Probing.

“I
am
tired.” The words come out harsher than I intended.

“You need to align your chakras,” says Jasmine—a yoga instructor—without irony.

“I highly doubt aligning my chakras will solve my problems. Or yours.”

Where people sit is a source of endless fascination for me, the things people gravitate to without awareness. Jasmine—black, Portuguese, and Japanese, in that order—always,
always
sits directly opposite Renata, a strange friction hovering constantly between them, although even Alejandro doesn't know why.

“It's not about solving your problems,” says Jasmine. “It's about accepting them as wisdom.”

Did Renata just snort?

“Here she comes, here she comes,” says Jeb. And then up comes the waitress, carefully taking the spiral staircase in heels, a foaming glass of dark Guinness balanced on a small tray, along with a coaster, and, praise Jesus, someone's ordered fresh, hot pretzels.

Jeb and Dan settle their faces into a poor attempt to seem disinterested, which immediately the waitress catches wind of. She neatly avoids them altogether and places my drink in front of me.

The next part is always extraordinarily fascinating.

Not everyone chooses an ability, or so Alejandro says. Probably half choose wealth; the next quarter is an even divide between fame, revenge, and good looks; with the rest of us creating a hodgepodge of miscellaneous talents. The first time I met doppelgänger Dan, his had quite the effect—there was a celebrity air about him, like a young and more irascible Johnny Depp—and I started to have thoughts, impure ones, although
the desire waned quickly that first night at the New Parish and never came back. Apparently our tainted dead souls develop immunity to the talents of others.

“You . . . work here?” asks Dan (his eyes are blue, I should make a mental note of that), and the waitress, startled, almost blows him off—“No, I'm volunteering”—but then it descends over her like an invisible wave, every physical tell radiating her newfound interest. She relaxes into her hip, slides the tray under her arm, and it caresses her left breast. Even starts to play with her hair.

“Have we met?” she asks, not even realizing she's just dropped a pickup line she'd normally laugh at.

It really isn't fair. It's like watching a farm animal make its way through the paddock to the slaughterhouse.

“I'd have remembered that,” says Dan, leaning back in his chair, a king. Jeb's sneakered foot
tap, tap, taps
in anticipation next to him. “But I'd like to get to know you. You got a pen so I can write down your number?”

At this, her face considerably brightens.

“
Gentlemen
,” says Alejandro.

Dan sighs but turns his attention back to Jeb, and just like that the spell is broken. The waitress blinks a few times, unsure, and then leaves, casting a wary glance over her shoulder, obviously spooked.

It's not clear why, but through some silent election process, we have nominated and voted Alejandro as leader of our little tribe. Maybe because he found us, was the first person to give us some context of what happened and a place of refuge. He never misses a Saturday at the New Parish, and sometimes I wonder if that's so we don't compare notes. He's the only
one who seems completely and utterly comfortable with his decision to sell his soul, isn't particularly concerned about when Scratch might make a reappearance, takes great joy in his present life, and shares its spoils generously with all of us. In his perfected Victorian, a large portrait of Édith Piaf hangs in his living room, splashed with the phrase
Non, je ne regrette rien
.

No, I regret nothing
. A thought that itches.

“On the way out,” says Jeb quietly to Dan, but Dan just shakes his head, looking into his beer like it might have an answer.

There is always this moment after you've used your unfair advantage, a feeling of triste. There's no way for Dan to tell anymore whether a girl genuinely likes him; every interaction is shaded by this, his dark gift. Ultimately everyone wants to be seen, known, and loved for who they are, and the extent to which that can't happen makes for a rather lonely experience.

Except for Alejandro. Alejandro feels no triste.

I raise my glass, sip my Guinness, and take a long look at the Jesus entombed in stained glass above the space where the altar's been replaced by the bar. He's hanging on the cross, arms outstretched, blood trickling from the wounds in his hands, watching over us, triste. Two thousand years is an impressive campaign by anyone's standards. Talk about viral marketing.
Jesus wept
. Whoever wrote that, was fucking brilliant.

I feel someone looking hard at me, turn to find Alejandro staring—he can sense it, my doubt. He drops his gaze to the table, reaches out a long arm, picks up one of the soft pretzels. His every motion shows restraint, a carefully thought-through refinement.
Why?

“—and the teacher, I
knew
him in high school,” says Jasmine.

“Dead soul?” asks Ellen.

I tune into the discussion, a school shooting in Novato, five dead. I'd wondered the same thing myself.

“I don't know,” says Jasmine. “We didn't keep in touch. He was . . . strange. His locker was always stuffed with newspapers.”

“So it doesn't mean anything,” says Renata.

“It
could
,” says Jasmine, and there it is again, their taut frisson.

“
Could
isn't definitive. Anyone see him on TV?”

No one has—just a photo, the usual kind, school yearbook portraiture, and video is hit or miss for seeing the telltale dead-soul darkness. Sometimes shadows are just shadows. But thinking that we can somehow decipher the truth from a bar in Oakland is what draws us here, makes us believe we have some control over the future, which we don't.

Unless.

God, the damned pull of it—hope. It's like the vortex at the bottom of a whirlpool, sucking you down, no escape. Because the real reason I'm tired—beyond tired really, walking the fine line between utter exhaustion and near-dementia—is that the more I read and reread my copy of the book of dead souls, the more one set of initials stands out,
S.B
., who seems, if not to have discovered a way out of the deal, the trail of one who may have.
Prior of the Dominican Convent of Santa Cruz, Segovia, 1477–1498. Double deal???—6/24/96. —S.B.

I've combed through the book several times—no mention of S.B. in the list of debtors—which would make him the oldest of recorded old-timers, at least thirty years without Scratch
collecting his favor. Alejandro denies knowing anything more about him.
Before my time
, he'd written in a text. Something I have a hard time believing.

“So,” says Jeb (brown eyes, definitely Jeb). He pulls a quarter out of his pocket. “Who's up for a game of Paranoia?”

For the first time since I've met him, Alejandro looks unsettled. Games are another form of chance, putting what happens next in the hands of that bitch called fate. But how can he prevent us, the ultimate gamblers, who put all our chips on black?

Yes. Oh yes, I'll play.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

“E
VERYONE KNOW THE RULES?”

Ellen raises a hand, cradling her large belly with the other. “I don't.”

Mike winces.

“What?” she says. “You know I went to a Catholic all-girls school.”

“Yes, so you keep reminding me.” Mike casts a glance at his cell phone, checking the international stock markets. Ever since Gary launched his IPO, Mike's been consumed by jealousy, hell-bent on increasing his net worth so he can have the biggest castle again. Nothing gets his full attention anymore; part of his mind is always on his portfolio.

“Why do you have to
be
like that?” she says.

“Like what?” Something he sees causes his eyebrows to furrow.

She turns to us, exasperated. “It's not just me. Right? You see this?”

This makes him look up. “You can't drink anyway. Just watch and sip your ginger ale.”

“I'm pregnant, not dead.” She gives Mike a look he ignores,
but he says nothing else. Ellen goes for a pretzel, her fifth. Apparently she now gets pregnant at the drop of a hat, even
on
birth control, and there's a school of thought that poor Mike is going to soon be in the abstinence doghouse, if he isn't already. Half feel sorry for him; half don't. He's not an easy guy to warm up to.

“All right.” Jeb claps his hands. “For those who don't know, here's how it works. You whisper a question to the person next to you. Like
Who's probably going to share something embarrassing?
That person names one of us out loud.”

“Jeb!” says Dan with a smirk.

“We're not playing yet.”

“You
will
share something embarrassing though. Like the time you hacked a Defense Department server and did a file search for
penis size presidents
.”

“I was
obviously
leaving a big trail so they would plug the gap.”

“Sure thing.”

“That's a really homophobic kind of implication,” says Renata. “I mean, seriously?”

Clarissa sighs. “Can we please just play?”

“Yes, back to the rules.” Jeb reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a quarter. The right side of his face is tinged red from the light streaming in through the stained glass window. “Whoever you name gets a choice. They can find out what the question is and take a drink, or choose
paranoia
, not drink, and forever wonder what the question was.”

Renata's eyes lock on to Jasmine. “Sounds fun. Are we starting right or left?”

Oh, this is definitely going to be a lively night
.

“Heads right, tails left.” Jeb flips the coin. It lands heads. “Okay, I'll start.” He leans over and whispers something into Dan's ear, and Dan grins, shakes his head.

“No choice, brah,” says Jeb.

Dan, still grinning, coughs into his hand. It's amazing how we're expectantly hanging on to what he says next, how a game has smoothly returned us all to fifth or sixth grade. Next we'll be passing notes—
Do u like me? Y/N/maybe
.

“Jasmine.”

Our eruption of claps, catcalls, and whoops causes more than a few in the crowd below to look our way, but fuck it.

Jasmine, playing the moment for all it's worth, slowly reaches for her drink, a cosmopolitan. It strikes me that I don't know what she asked Scratch for. Damn, I should know that.

She gives her drink a swirl with a languid wrist. “All right,” she says. “What's the question?”

Dan coughs into his hand again, a blush starting along his cheeks. “Who'd you like to . . . sleep with, tonight?”

“
Really
,” says Jasmine with a Cheshire grin. “You sold your soul to score women, but a lesbian, I'm the one you want?” She takes a sip of her cosmo. “That's so, so sad.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Renata, burning.

“I didn't say it made any sense,” says Dan.

“Wanting what you can't have makes every kind of sense,” says Clarissa quietly.

I'm the only one who notices her eyes flit to Alejandro. All kinds of plots thickening. Now it's Dan's turn to whisper into Renata's ear, which he does—Renata with her arms folded over her chest, like nothing about this is interesting.

“Fiona,” she says.

But I need to keep my wits about me, at least until I get to whisper my question.

“I choose paranoia.” No drink for me.

“Really?” asks Dan. “You sure?”

“Sure as shit.” Something about hanging around Jeb and Dan brings out phrases from my college days—never flattering at an age when crow lines are starting to form. Some words, ideas, people, are best left behind to those in their twenties. They'll find out soon enough.

Renata, not wanting to play but not wanting to be the only spoilsport, leans over to my ear.

“Fuck this bullshit,” she whispers. “Just say
Jasmine
.”

“Jasmine,” I say out loud, and what Jasmine would call prana prickles. No way to politely mask the tension now; it's thick as smoke, and for a few, long moments, Jasmine and Renata engage in some kind of end-of-worlds staring contest, until finally Jasmine places an elegant hand over the rim of her glass.

“I choose paranoia,” she says.

Always did
, mutters Renata under her breath, although I don't think anyone hears.

So now, here we are. My turn. Why do I get the strong feeling that Alejandro is expecting it, knows what I'm about to say? Maybe because a shade of something like triste finally flits across his face.

I whisper my question into Clarissa's ear. There's a roar of sudden laughter from below, the clinking of glasses—I can feel a draft of cold air skirt along the floor from someone either walking in or out the door. Clarissa leans in farther, unsure, puzzled. I note the soft fuzz of her earlobe, like a peach. Repeat the question.

She looks at me, at Alejandro, me again. “Alejandro?” A tentative lilt.

Alejandro meets my eyes, dead soul to dead soul, shade to shade. He raises his shot glass—bourbon, dark as molasses—and toasts me.

“So,” he says slowly, gathering us all in. “I will break a rule and guess my question.” He swirls his bourbon once, twice, then drains it in a gulp. Places the empty glass on the round table, rim down.

“Who,” he says, “is S.B.?”

ANOTHER CLINK OF GLASSES
from the bar below, a shriek of laughter from a drunk girl. I cast an uneasy glance down, half expecting to see Scratch himself chatting her up, for him to raise a glass in my direction, a toast. But I don't.

“S.B.? Who's S.B.?” asks Ellen.

“That's what he just said, honey,” says Mike. Dark circles under both their eyes, obviously sleep-deprived.

“I know. You think I don't know that? Christ, I have to pee,” she says. “I hate how I always have to pee.”

Clarissa fidgets with a strand of yarn unraveling from her sweater, turns to me. “Is that someone you know?”

“No. Those are the initials of someone in the book of dead souls.”

“He was a man with a false hope, a myth, a poison,” says Alejandro so quietly we all have to lean in to hear. “The kind of idea that can drive someone from just losing their soul to losing their mind as well. As he did.”

“Is that why his favor hasn't been called in after more than
thirty years? 'Cause he's crazy?” There, now it's out, an accusation that's been building in me for months. So why does it feels like a dagger pointed inward?

Click
,
click
,
click
, just like that I can see the thought light in everyone's mind,
Why didn't Alejandro mention him before? And what else isn't he telling us?
How quickly a mood, and a group can turn, incite true paranoia. The marketer in me notes this.

“Saul,” I say. “His name was Saul Baptiste.”

“Is,” says Alejandro.

There's a hush at that small word,
is
.

“His initials first appear in 1976 in the book of dead souls, referencing Torquemada,” I continue. “So I did a search for articles written about Torquemada in the seventies, and one author came up consistently.”

I had planned to confront Alejandro later and in private, but the moment is here, now. I pull out the paper from my back jeans pocket, flatten it, place it on the round table. An edge touches the water left by Clarissa's snowball, pink with a line of shredded coconut along the ring. She only drinks things that look like they were poured by fairies.

Clarissa picks up the paper and her plucked eyebrows furrow. Alejandro, meanwhile, watches me with a frozen intensity.

“The Spanish Inquisition?” says Clarissa.

“Yes,” I say. “Torquemada was—”

“The grand inquisitor,” finishes Alejandro. Something about the way he says it feels like a dare to me. A double dare.

“Oh my God,” says Clarissa.

“Let me see that,” says Renata—an order, not a request.

Clarissa ignores her, holds up a hand—the international call sign for
hell no
—and reads part of it out loud. “ ‘
Nothing
in all the universe is ever permanent. How could heaven and hell, God and the Devil, be an exception?'
Strange words to come from the deathbed journal of Spain's most effective, and ambitious inquisitor, which leads one to wonder about the true nature of those interrogations, and whether some other agenda was at play
.”

“Saul's initials are all over the book of dead souls, but nothing else,” I add. “Not a copy of this article. No record of his trade.” Stab, stab, stab goes the knife.

Alejandro is as still as a marble statue. “Saul had certain . . . beliefs he couldn't be swayed from.”

I'm not letting him off so easily. “So what happened to his record?”

For a moment he doesn't say anything, just looks at his empty bourbon glass with a strange intensity. Finally he says, “I removed it. I removed all his notes, which would have been enough to make a separate book. I would have erased him entirely if I could have.”

Everyone present is collectively stunned. Removed a record from the book of dead souls? But I thought nothing is ever thrown away or reordered.

Mike stares hard at Alejandro. “So Saul's favor still hasn't been called in?

“As far as I know,” says Alejandro slowly, reluctantly. “No.”

Electric, the entire group. Alejandro's stock as leader is viscerally plummeting.
Only the cold survive
, Alejandro had counseled me, back in the early days when I trusted him implicitly.
You must prepare yourself
.

And I have. He looks at me with what seems like a mixture of disappointment and pride.

Jasmine eagerly turns to me. “So you think Saul made a double deal.”

I say nothing.

Mini-conversations start to take place, heated exchanges, like excited small children in the midst of a sugar rush. Our small group indelibly fractured.

“But that's not—”

“Let me see—”

“When did—”

The paper is grabbed, shared, pulled in different directions, strains from being wet.

I'm apparently not the first to wonder whether our contracts with Scratch can be renegotiated, and there's even a term for it,
the double deal
, which is the Holy Grail for dead souls—equally mythical and unattainable, an urban legend that will not die. It's nothing short of a soul-trading second mortgage, the idea being that you get out of your favor by offering Scratch something better than your soul alone, like, say, the souls of others. Many, many others. The trick is how to get that buy-in from the people you're betraying. It's the conspiracy theory to end all conspiracy theories, and many a night at the New Parish has gone long, exploring the possibilities. Ellen thinks Hitler had all his SS officers agree to sell their souls, which is why he could finally kill himself. Renata is fond of pointing to the Salem witch trials—
Why were they forced to sign their confessions?
—which would also explain how a small group of Puritans with bad footwear were able to take over a populated continent. Mike thinks that the subprime mortgage crisis was a neat way to sell souls, because the original mortgage, bought by other nefarious companies, could be adjusted without the signer's knowledge.
Think of all
the mad money that traded hands in 2008, who
else
could be behind it?
he'd said.

All empty speculation, but what's igniting
this
fire is the year: 1976. Nearly four decades. All those years without a favor being called in, who knew what ability or wealth was achieved, walking scot-free through the world, untouched, unscathed. A life, a
real
life, unencumbered by the consequences of hanging your children in the closet or poisoning the water cooler at work. Selling the souls of others could almost be palatable if the consequences were distant, removed. Like the executives who decide it's cheaper for the plant five thousand miles away to keep dumping PCBs into the watershed, even if they get sued, even if people get cancer and die. Death by spreadsheet hardly feels like a crime.