“See you at rehearsal,” she says sharply, then disconnects.
Inspiration hits hard, a new song welling up from inside, deep. A song of hope, of love, of movement. She grabs a pen and jots some lyrics, hums a few bars, but the notes catch funny in her throat. Riya Natrajan clears it, then tries again:
Breezy, breezy, listen to my heart at play,
Feel me, ooh boy,
Simple as seduction.
Reaching, reaching, living for another day,
Feel me, ooh boy
Live forever, sweet seduction.
She sounds like a canary with a sinus infection, and no, not in a good way. Riya Natrajan scrambles around her suite, makes white tea with honey and a warm compress for her throat. In thirty minutes, when her voice has downgraded to the likes of a rooster choking on a kazoo, she starts to panic. Gargling with salt water doesn’t help a lick, and in an hour, she’s become so hoarse she can barely speak at all.
Side effects. Side effects of that stupid drug, that’s what this has to be. What if her voice is ruined? Forever? Manic thoughts surface—she wonders if her pain was what made her an artist. Without it she’s lost everything that defines her. She’s got no one to turn to. No one to tell her it’s going to be okay.
Well, there is one person.
She slips into oversized sweats, tucks the godsend vial safely away in the pocket, throws her hair up into a messy bun, and heads out into the hall. She starts a brisk jog as her half-asleep bodyguards rouse from their post.
“Ma’am!” they call after her.
“Just going for a jog,” she croaks like a frog with a mouthful of marbles.
“Not by yourself,” Robert, the bulkier of them, says.
“Well, no one’s stopping you from coming. That is, if you can keep up.”
She’s been so wobbly lately, Riya Natrajan can’t remember the last time she’d run anywhere, but after nine years of obsessing over dance moves for hours on end, she’s got thighs like a cheetah, and there’s no stretch of pavement that can intimidate her now. Her bodyguards, on the other hand, they’re bent over and huffing by the end of the fifth block. Robert calls a limo for rescue, leaving only Turk, slightly more athletic, but definitely not the brains of this operation. She needs to lose him fast.
It’s too early for shops to be open, but she knows a place down on the beach where merchants set up early on a Sunday morning and where tourists riding on their jet lag highs don’t care much about rising before the sun. It’s crowded already with artists selling shweshwe printed scarves and purses, intricate beadwork jewelry, and clockwork animal figurines made from recycled Fanta cans. Turquoise crested waves break against the seawall in slurred hushes, and the blood orange sunrise hangs lazily on the ocean horizon. Down shore, the twinkle lights from the Boardwalk glow dimly against the new day. She weaves through the crowd, accents from across the globe prickling her ears. A German man haggles over the price of a hand-carved tribal mask, and an American couple bicker about the social irresponsibility of buying NuIvory sculptures despite the fact that the last true-born elephant had walked the savanna nearly four decades ago.
Glancing back, Riya Natrajan catches a glimpse of Turk’s smooth, bald head popping up through the crowd like an anxious meerkat. Quickly, she ducks into the stand of a man selling wooden figurines. She sheds her bright green sweatshirt and ditches it behind a display rack so that she’s just in her sports bra, her tan skin blending in with the warm wood tones.
She doesn’t look, but feels the wind as Turk runs past. A chill sets in. Riya Natrajan ignores it and wedges deeper into the man’s stand. As she waits, she admires one of the figures, a delicate piece of a young woman. An angel.
“Is there something I could interest you in, ma’am? A gift for that special someone?” the artist says smoothly. “Or perhaps a treat of your own?”
Riya shakes her head quickly. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t got any money on me.”
“She’s not for sale, that one,” the man says. He smiles wide. Knowingly. “I cannot part with her just yet. Soon enough, though, she’ll need a good home. Why don’t you take a look at her face? A close look.”
“She really is beautiful,” Riya Natrajan says, eyes tracing along the wood. The grain plays against the shape of the girl’s calves, accentuating her hips, highlighting her face.
“She’s not an angel. That’s what most people think. She’s a precious thing, a child of man and god, but I fear she won’t have the chance to be loved by either.” The man shakes his head, then fixes Riya with eyes that pierce her soul. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was talking about a real girl, and not a piece of wood. A shiver surges through her, quick, yet violent. She smiles politely, then shuffles away.
Back on the street, she hails a bot taxi, then sprints across the street as one pulls over. She goes to open the door, but a man in a gray suit has already thrown his briefcase in from the other side. They lock eyes over the expanse of the backseat, and something primal wells up within her. She can’t chance sticking around on the streets like this much longer.
“Mind getting the next one?” She breaks eye contact and settles into the seat.
“Actually, I’m already late to a meeting.” The man speaks mostly into the uni-boob of her sports bra, of course. He thumbs the pay pad. His name lights up on the display—Benjamin Wells—then flashes green to confirm a fifty-rand hold against his account balance.
The bot’s bullet-shaped head spins around to face them. Its mono-eye displays a neutral shade of yellow. “Destination?”
“Triamyd Industries. Vann-Bosley Building. Theale Street and Govan Mbeki Avenue.” He taps Riya on the shoulder. “We can split it if you’re heading my way.”
“Out of the question.” Don’t you know who I am? Riya Natrajan almost says, but then tilts her head away so he won’t notice. Outside the taxi, she sees Turk across the street, momentarily held at bay by a sudden stream of traffic. “Fine! Just drive!” she commands. Anything to get away from here. She swivels the pay pad away from him and presses her thumb in the designated area. Her name lights up, and for once she’s glad about the bot labor laws and the one provision that allows bot taxis to operate without an overseer. To this dumb bot, Riya Natrajan is just a fare like any other fare.
The taxi bolts out into traffic and Turk is left stranded in its vapor exhaust. Benjamin’s alphie settles on the seat between them, offering a buffer of privacy, one that Benjamin’s sure to overstep. There’s silence. Way too much of it. She feels his eyes running over her.
“Hey, I’m sure you get this a lot, but did you know you look an awful lot like—”
“No. I don’t.”
“But—”
“I don’t!”