her out, which is not the usual way. Spirits are supposed to be thinner, hungry-looking, parched, and Zenia appears to be quite well. Especially, her breasts are larger. The last time Charis saw her in the flesh, she was skinny as a rake, a shadow practically, her breasts almost flat, like circles of thick cardboard stuck against her chest, the nipples buttoning them on. Now she’s what you would call voluptuous.
She’s angry, though. A dark aura swirls out from around her, like the corona of the sun in eclipse, only negative; a corona of darkness rather than of light. It’s a turbulent muddy green, shot through with lines of blood red and greyish black – the worst, the most destructive colours, a deadly aureole, a visible infection. Charis will have to call on all her own light, the white light she’s been working so hard at, storing up, for years and years. She will have to do an instant meditation, and what a place for it! Zenia has chosen the ground well for this encounter: the Toxique, the chattering voices, the cigarette smoke and wine fumes, the thick breath-filled air of the city, all are working for Zenia. She stands in the doorway, scanning the room with a scornful rancorous glance, pulling off a glove, and Charis closes her own eyes and repeats to herself: Think about the light .
“Tony, what’s wrong?” says Roz, and Charis opens her eyes again. The waitress is moving towards Zenia.
“Turn your head slowly,” says Tony. “Don’t scream.” Charis watches with interest, to see if the waitress will walk right through Zenia; but she doesn’t, she stops short. She must sense something. A coldness.
“Oh shit,” says Roz. “It’s her.”
“Who?” says Charis, doubt beginning to form. Roz hardly ever says “Oh shit.” It must be important.
“Zenia,” says Tony. So they can see her too! Well, why not? They have enough to say to her, each one of them. It isn’t only Charis.
“Zenia’s dead,” says Charis. I wonder what she’s come back for, is what she thinks. Who she’s come back for. Zenia’s aura has faded now, or else Charis can no longer see it: Zenia appears to be solid, substantial, material, disconcertingly alive.
“He looked like a lawyer,” says Charis. Zenia is coming towards her, and she concentrates all her forces for the moment of impact; but Zenia strides right past them in her richly textured dress, with her long legs, her startling new breasts, her glossy hair nebulous around her shoulders, her purple-red angry mouth, trailing musky perfume. She’s refusing to notice Charis, refusing deliberately; she’s passing a hand of darkness over her, usurping her, blotting her out.
Shaken and feeling sick, Charis closes her eyes, struggling to regain her body. My body, mine , she repeats. I am a good person. I exist . In the moonlit night of her head she can see an image: a tall structure, a building, something toppling from it, falling through the air, turning over and over. Coming apart.
11
T he three of them stand outside the Toxique, saying goodbye. Charis isn’t entirely sure how she got out here. Her body has walked her out, all by itself, her body has taken care of it. She’s shivering, despite the sun, she’s cold, and she feels thinner – lighter and more porous. It’s as though energy has been drained out of her, energy and substance, in order for Zenia to materialize. Zenia has made it back across, back across the river; she’s here now, in a fresh body, and she’s taken a chunk of Charis’s own body and sucked it into herself.
That’s wrong though. Zenia must be alive, because other people saw her. She sat down in a chair, she ordered a drink, she smoked a cigarette. But none of these are necessarily signs of life.
Roz gives her a squeeze and says, “Take care of yourself, sweetie, I’ll call you, okay?” and goes off in the direction of her car. Tony has already smiled at her and is going, gone, off down the street, her short legs moving her
She’s angry, though. A dark aura swirls out from around her, like the corona of the sun in eclipse, only negative; a corona of darkness rather than of light. It’s a turbulent muddy green, shot through with lines of blood red and greyish black – the worst, the most destructive colours, a deadly aureole, a visible infection. Charis will have to call on all her own light, the white light she’s been working so hard at, storing up, for years and years. She will have to do an instant meditation, and what a place for it! Zenia has chosen the ground well for this encounter: the Toxique, the chattering voices, the cigarette smoke and wine fumes, the thick breath-filled air of the city, all are working for Zenia. She stands in the doorway, scanning the room with a scornful rancorous glance, pulling off a glove, and Charis closes her own eyes and repeats to herself: Think about the light .
“Tony, what’s wrong?” says Roz, and Charis opens her eyes again. The waitress is moving towards Zenia.
“Turn your head slowly,” says Tony. “Don’t scream.” Charis watches with interest, to see if the waitress will walk right through Zenia; but she doesn’t, she stops short. She must sense something. A coldness.
“Oh shit,” says Roz. “It’s her.”
“Who?” says Charis, doubt beginning to form. Roz hardly ever says “Oh shit.” It must be important.
“Zenia,” says Tony. So they can see her too! Well, why not? They have enough to say to her, each one of them. It isn’t only Charis.
“Zenia’s dead,” says Charis. I wonder what she’s come back for, is what she thinks. Who she’s come back for. Zenia’s aura has faded now, or else Charis can no longer see it: Zenia appears to be solid, substantial, material, disconcertingly alive.
“He looked like a lawyer,” says Charis. Zenia is coming towards her, and she concentrates all her forces for the moment of impact; but Zenia strides right past them in her richly textured dress, with her long legs, her startling new breasts, her glossy hair nebulous around her shoulders, her purple-red angry mouth, trailing musky perfume. She’s refusing to notice Charis, refusing deliberately; she’s passing a hand of darkness over her, usurping her, blotting her out.
Shaken and feeling sick, Charis closes her eyes, struggling to regain her body. My body, mine , she repeats. I am a good person. I exist . In the moonlit night of her head she can see an image: a tall structure, a building, something toppling from it, falling through the air, turning over and over. Coming apart.
11
T he three of them stand outside the Toxique, saying goodbye. Charis isn’t entirely sure how she got out here. Her body has walked her out, all by itself, her body has taken care of it. She’s shivering, despite the sun, she’s cold, and she feels thinner – lighter and more porous. It’s as though energy has been drained out of her, energy and substance, in order for Zenia to materialize. Zenia has made it back across, back across the river; she’s here now, in a fresh body, and she’s taken a chunk of Charis’s own body and sucked it into herself.
That’s wrong though. Zenia must be alive, because other people saw her. She sat down in a chair, she ordered a drink, she smoked a cigarette. But none of these are necessarily signs of life.
Roz gives her a squeeze and says, “Take care of yourself, sweetie, I’ll call you, okay?” and goes off in the direction of her car. Tony has already smiled at her and is going, gone, off down the street, her short legs moving her
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