Graceland by Chris Abani Page A

thought, as he admired himself. This was the closest he had come so far to looking like the real Elvis, and he wished he had a camera.
    Pushing back from the table, he began to dance around the room. By the time the record had come to an end, he was perspiring heavily. Not wanting the makeup to run, he sat on the bed and put on the table fan he had bought from Redemption, a recent acquisition made possible by his job at the construction site. He let his fingers linger over the buttons as the truth of this day returned to him. From the bed, he could see himself in the mirror on the desk, and he stared hard. What if he had been born white, or even just American? Would his life be any different? Stupid, he thought. If Redemption knew about this, he would say Elvis was suffering from colonial mentality. He smiled. It spread across his face in fine tendrils that grew wider as he laughed until his skin showed through. I look like a hairless panda, he thought. Without understanding why, he began to cry through the cracked face powder.
     
     
    Elvis stepped out of his room onto the front veranda and looked around, rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes with a couple of knuckles. He wiped his hand down his face and realized he had slept with the makeup on. After that heavy lunch with Okon, he had napped for a couple of hours.
    Across the street, in the weak shade cast by the odd tree or veranda canopy, a few women lounged like melting toffee on the stoops. They sat with bored eyes, fanning themselves with magazines, newspapers or raffia fans. One or two chewed on sugarcane stems, mandibles crunching slowly, pausing only to spit sucked-out husks into the street, peppering the black asphalt in yellow-white blobs like tired snowflakes. A couple sat plaiting hair and chatting brightly as though to dispel the heavy air. A few very young children chased a football halfheartedly across the street, upturned empty paint tins serving as goalposts.
    Taking a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, Elvis shook one out and lit it, his movements slow and deliberate. He scanned the street slowly from behind hands cupped around a flaming match, knowing he too was being watched, studied even. Smoking was a rediscovered pleasure for him, a way to make the day go faster. The smoke felt harsh against the back of his throat and he coughed discreetly. He had not smoked much since he was a kid watching old movies in the motor parks.
    Pitching the still-smoldering stub into the street, he walked through the house and out into the backyard, which was walled in by the low building that housed the bathrooms, toilets and kitchens. To his left stood the iron staircase that led to the upper floors. Built in the fashion of an American fire escape, it looked rickety and unsafe and was covered in a rash of rust. Several stairs had been eaten away by the rust, giving the illusion of a gap-toothed mouth. The doors to the toilets stood open, aerating in the heat, walls adorned by drowsy bluebottle flies.
    With a tired sigh, he sucked in his breath and slammed into one. As he squatted, he wondered how long he could hold his breath. On one wall of the toilet, the landlord, in an attempt to clean things up years ago, had painted a mural. Faded now from years of grime and heat, the river scene, with a mermaid holding a baby in one hand and a staff of power in the other and a python draped around her neck, was still discernible. A crown hovered over her black hair, and stars gleamed in the air around her blue body. Her face, however, was scratched out. He wondered who had done that, and how they could have endured the stench long enough to do it.
    Grabbing a pail of water from the water drum, he headed into the bathroom to wash. He washed his face first, watching the makeupcolored water run onto the concrete floor. The water was pleasantly hot from the sun, and he felt refreshed when he got out. He returned to the veranda and waited for the sun to set while he flicked through his