She stands in the lobby for a moment, catching her breath, getting her bearings. It’s not a bad lobby. Although there’s a lot of murdered-animal furniture, she’s pleased to see that there’s a sort of vegetation altarpiece as well: dried flowers. And through the plate glass doors at the back there’s a courtyard with a fountain, though the fountain isn’t turned on. She likes to see urban space moving in a more natural direction.

Then all of a sudden she has a discouraging thought. What if Zenia has no soul? There must be people like that around, because there are more humans alive on the earth right now than have ever lived, altogether, since humans began, and if souls are recycled then there must be some people alive today who didn’t get one, sort of like musical chairs. Maybe Zenia is like that: soulless. Just a sort of shell. In this case, how will Charis be able to deal with her?

This idea is paralyzing. In its grip Charis stands stock-still in’ the middle of the lobby. But she can’t turn back now. She closes her eyes and visualizes her altar, with the gloves and the earth and the Bible, calling upon its powers; then she opens them and waits for an omen. In one corner of the lobby there’s a grandfather clock. It’s almost noon. Charis watches until both hands of the clock are aligned, pointing straight up. Then she gets onto the elevator. With every floor she passes, her heart beats harder.

On the fourteenth floor, really the thirteenth, she stands outside

1409. A reddish grey light oozes out through the crack under the door, pushing her backwards with palpable force. She puts her palm against the wood of the door, which vibrates in silent menace. It’s like a train going by at a distance, or a slow explosion far away. Zenia must be in there.

Charis knocks.

After a moment—during which she can feel Zenia’s eye on her, through the glass peephole—Zenia opens the door. She’s wearing one of the hotel bathrobes, and has her hair wrapped in a towel. She must have been taking a shower. Even with the terry-cloth turban on her head she is shorter than Charis remembers. This is a relief

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she says. “You were?” says Charis. “How did you know?”

“Larry told me you were on your way,” says Zenia. “Come in.” Her voice is flat; her face is weary. Charis is surprised at how old she looks. Maybe it’s because she isn’t wearing any makeup. If Charis didn’t know better by now than to leap to such conclusions, she would think Zenia is ill.

The room is a mess.

“Just a minute,” says Tony. “Go over that part again. You were there at noon and the room was a mess?”

“She was always messy when she lived with me, that time, on the Island,” says Charis. “She never helped with the dishes or anything.”

“But when I was there earlier, everything was really neat,” says Tony. “The bed was made. Everything.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” says Charis. “There were pillows on the floor, the bed was a wreck. Dirty coffee cups, potato chips, clothes lying around. There was broken glass on the coffee table, the rug too. It was like there’d been a party all night.”

“You sure it was the same room?” says Tony. “Maybe she lost her temper and smashed a few glasses:”

“She must have gone back to bed,” says Roz. “After you left.” They all consider that. Charis goes on:

The room is a mess. The flowered drapes are pulled half shut, as if they’ve been closed recently against the light. Zenia steps over the items strewn on the floor, sits down on the sofa, and picks up a cigarette from the dozen or so that are scattered around in the broken glass on the coffee table: “I know I shouldri’t smoke,” she murmurs, as if to herself, “but it hardly matters, now. Sit down, Charis. I’m glad you’ve come.”

Charis sits down in the armchair. This is not the charged confrontation she’s been imagining. Zenia isn’t trying to evade her; if anything, she seems mildly pleased that Charis is here. Charis reminds herself that what she needs is to find out about Billy, where he is, whether he’s alive or dead. But it’s hard to concentrate on Billy; she can scarcely remember what Billy used to look like, whereas Zenia is sitting right here in the room. It’s so strange to see her in the flesh, at last.

Now she’s smiling wanly. “You were so good to me,” she says. “I’ve always meant to apologize for going away like that, without saying goodbye. It was very thoughtless of me. But I was too dependent on you, I was letting you try to cure me instead of putting the energy into it myself I just needed to get off somewhere, be alone so I could focus. It was—well, I got a sort of message, you know?”

Charis is amazed. Maybe she’s been misjudging Zenia, all these years. Or maybe Zenia has changed. People can change, they can choose, they can transform themselves. It’s a deep belief of hers. She isn’t sure what to think.

“You didn’t really have cancer,” she says finally. She doesn’t intend it as an accusation. Only she needs to be sure.

“No,” says Zenia. “Not ‘exactly. I was sick, though. It was a spiritual illness. And I’m sick now” She pauses, but when Charis doesn’t ask, she says, “That’s why I’m back here—for the health care system. I couldn’t afford treatment anywhere else. They’ve told me I’m dying. They’ve given me six months.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” says Charis. She’s looking at Zenia’s edges, to see what colour her light is, but she’s not getting a reading. “Is it cancer?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” says Zenia

“It’s okay,” says Charis, because what if Zenia is telling the truth, this time? What if she really is dying? She does have a greyish tinge, around the eyes. The least Charis can do is listen:

“Well, actually, I’ve got AIDS,” says Zenia and sighs. “It’s really stupid. I had a bad habit, a few years back. I got it off a dirty needle.”

Charis gasps. This is terrible! What about Larry-then? Win he get AIDS, too? Roz! Roz! Come quickly! But what could Roz do?

“I wouldn’t mind spending a little time, somewhere peaceful,” says Zenia. ‘Just to get my head in order, before, you know. Some place like the Island:’

Charis feels the familiar tug, the old temptation. Maybe there’s no hope for Zenia’s body, but the body isn’t the only factor. She could have Zenia over to stay with her, the way she did before. She could help her to move towards the transition, she could put light around her, they could meditate together ...

“Or maybe I’ll just check myself out,” says Zenia softly. “Pills or something. I’m doomed anyway. I mean, why wait around?” In Charis’s throat the familiar sentiments bubble up. Oh no, you must try, you must try for the positive ... She opens her mouth to issue the invitation, Yes, come, but something stops her. It’s the look Zenia is giving her: an intent look, head on one side. A bird eyeing a worm.

“Why did you pretend to me, about the cancer?” she says. Zenia laughs. She sits up briskly. She must know that she’s lost, she must know that Charis won’t believe her, about having AIDS. “Okay,” she says. “We might as well get this over. Let’s just say I wanted you to let me into your house, and it seemed the quickest way.”

“That was mean,” says Charis. “I believed you! I was very concerned about you! I tried to save you!”

“Yes,” says Zenia cheerfully. “But don’t worry, I suffered too. If I’d had to drink one more glass of that foul cabbage juice it would’ve finished me off. You know what I did when I hit the mainland? First chance I got, I went out and had a big plate of fries and a nice raw juicy steak. I would’ve inhaled it, I was so starved for red meat!”

“But you really were sick, with something,” Charis says hopefully. Auras don’t lie, and Zenia’s was diseased. Also, she doesn’t want to think that every single one of those vegetables went to waste.

“There’s a trick you ought to know about,” says Zenia. “Just cut out all the vitamin C from your diet and you get the early symptoms of scurvy. Nobody’s expecting scurvy, not in the twentieth century, so they don’t spot it:”