“Ben,” he says. He extends a hand.
Riya Natrajan ignores it and keeps her forehead pressed against the window as they speed along Beach Road. Her mind ebbs and flows like the blue-green waves of the Indian Ocean crashing against the rocky shore, wondering if she’s been blessed or cursed. As they pass the harbor, she looks back toward Benjamin, unable to stomach the sight of towering industrial robots loading the ships docked there. She makes the mistake of catching his eye.
His brows raise. “You are her.”
“I’m not.”
“Ag, man! Asemahle is not going to believe this. You know we just bought tickets to your concert for my brother-in-law.”
“Taxi, could we get some music back here?” Riya Natrajan snarls. Anything to drown this guy out. The first few melodic bars of her title track “Midnight Seersucker” fill the backseat of the taxi. She grits her teeth, refusing to acknowledge Benjamin’s rabid smile. “Taxi, kill the music and let Mr. Wells out right here. He’s decided to catch another cab.”
“Taxi, ignore that request,” Benjamin says, reaching forward and slapping the bot on its cylindrical torso, then turning back to her. “Okay! Allergic to small talk. I get it. Won’t hear another peep from me.”
“Please refrain from further contact with the driving mechanism,” says the bot with its mono-eye trained on Benjamin, flashing an intimidating shade of red. “Any damage incurred will be charged against your account.”
Benjamin pulls a face at the bot, then leans heavily against the backseat. Riya Natrajan rolls her eyes. The chill is starting to get to her. She shivers, rubbing feeling into her arms as the cab pulls up against the curb, under the shadow of twin mammoth buildings.
“Well, this is me,” Benjamin says, patting his alphie. “It was nice meeting you, ma’am.” He smiles and tips his head. As an afterthought, he offers her his gray wool blazer. “Here. I suspect you need this more than me.”
Riya eyes him suspiciously.
“Take it. I just figure, you know, someone of your stature taking a junky bot taxi this early on a Sunday morning, running away from that rather hulky gentleman back there—I thought you could use a little help. If I’m wrong . . .”
Riya Natrajan snatches the jacket. “You’re wrong. I was out for a jog and got a little winded, that’s all. So whoever you think I am and whatever you think I’m up to, I want you to forget about it, okay?”
Benjamin recoils, gives her a dirty look, then pats his alphie on the head and slams the door as soon as they’re both out on the pavement. Bitch, he mouths from the other side of the window.
She shoots him her patented Riya! don’t-give-a-damn pouty lips, then leans forward and knocks on the delta bot’s dome.
“Could I use your phone?”
The bot stares back at her. “Please refrain from further contact with the driving mechanism—”
“Yeah, yeah. Put it on my account. Now let me use your phone or I’ll have you decommissioned.”
With what Riya Natrajan swears is a frustrated sigh, the bot returns its gaze forward. The pay pad screen switches to a phone interface. She dials Adam Patel, and he answers immediately, dark circles still under his eyes, but fully alert this time.
“Riya! Where are you? Turk and Robert say you ditched them. Is something wrong?”
“No, I just need a little time to myself. I’ll be back for rehearsal this afternoon. I’ll be off the grid for a bit, but don’t worry, okay?”
“You pay me to worry, Riya.”
“I promise. I’ll be fine.”
“At least tell me where you’re going.”
“You know I would if I could, Adam. Love you.” She moves her hand toward the end call button, then says, “Oh, hey. Do me a favor and get a couple backstage passes for Benjamin Wells’s brother-in-law.”
“Benjamin who’s what?”
“Oh, look him up. You can figure it out. That’s why I pay you the big bucks, right? Kisses.”
And she hangs up, then gives the bot her destination and watches as the towering buildings of downtown Port Elizabeth turn to smaller commercial buildings, then homes, then brush.
As the bot taxi pulls into a long dirt driveway, the fare reads out eight hundred fifty-three rand. She confirms the payment, then orders the bot to leave the meter running. She gets out and unlatches the gate, then stares up the gravel path that leads to the house she hasn’t seen with her own eyes since she’d stopped being Rhoda Sanjit. The yard has gone to weed, but the house itself looks well maintained, minus a much overdue paint job.
Her knuckles rest against the wood of the front door. She can’t bring herself to knock. She watches shadows pass through the front window, like ghosts of another life. A wind chime plays in the breeze, a song composed of metallic notes. As a child she used to put words to them, spending entire summer days singing about boys and kissing and faraway lands. Her father had taken it down one evening, tired of hearing her voice through his office window.
Rhoda Sanjit had stopped speaking to her father that day. Didn’t say a word to him the entire week, until one morning she woke up feeling like she’d been run over by every wheel on a very long train. Her vision blurred. Even her very breath sent excruciating pain up and down her spine. “Daddy!” she’d cried out.
“May I help you, ma’am?” interrupts the mechanical voice of a house bot from behind her. Memories of that other life fade away.
“Um, yes. I’ve come to see Dr. Sanjit.”
The bot’s mono-eye flashes bright red. “Apologies. I see no appointments on Dr. Sanjit’s schedule. Is this visit of a personal nature?”
“It is,” Riya Natrajan says. “Please tell him that his daughter has come for a visit.”
“Apologies. Dr. Sanjit does not have a daughter. Unless you are referring to an alternate use of the term besides the designator for female offspring. Please define.”
Riya rolls her eyes and holds back the urge to slap the bot upside the head with her running shoe. “I’m his daughter. As in he’s my father. As in he knocked up my mother, and I was the result. Just tell him Rhoda Sanjit is here to see him.”
“Apologies. Rhoda Sanjit departed from this earth on 24 May 2056. Unless you are referring to a different instance of Rhoda Sanjit. Please specify your personal identification number.”
She feels a lump well up in her throat. “Departed from this earth? You mean, you think I’m dead?”
“Dead. Deceased. Passed on. No longer with us. Logic error: Vital statistics indicate that you are alive. Therefore, you cannot be Rhoda Sanjit.”
“I’ll show you a logic error,” Riya Natrajan says, taking off her sneaker, just as the front door opens.
“Hello. Can I help you?” says the stern voice, her father. His eyes flash with recognition, face cycling through the five stages of grief in the course of half a second before settling on resentment.