Photo by Heather D'Augustine
'Veronica Street' is a novel of Los Angeles by Jenny Burman, serialized here at LA Observed. Read previous chapters.
Henrik could feel it, an awareness of himself. Coming from the big house--but not contained by it.
It was only a question of when Ayla would come to him.
He was lucky to be white. That's why he was here, in this comfortable assignment. The young, healthy whites were assigned, when possible, with upmarket supervisors (who were white, brown and otherwise--it was even better for the program's image better when the masters weren't Caucasian). The white incarcerateds were an argument for the program. See, it isn't racist, their presence said. See, it's modern, progressive punishment. There was a time limit, set by law. Mistreatment would not be tolerated. You served your time, you pruned some roses, you went free. You rejoined your fate. The upmarket keepers, they showcased the program, made it socially acceptable. Or so was the hope.
He stood in the nighttime shade of a lemon tree and took a slender, girlish joint out of his pocket and lit it. He'd lifted it earlier in the day from the master bedroom. Not because he wanted it so badly: He had his own very fine plant quick-growing behind the pool house. Or he could buy it--all he had to do was ask any of the service people who arrived at the house. One of them would have a connection. No, he took it because it was in Martin's rosewood box, next to the bed he shared with Ayla, where he kept his watch and an old car key and a couple of silver rings.
The match made its ripping sound, like a sheet being torn up for rags--it was such a pleasurable sound, the sulphur aroma reaching him a moment later.
The missing joint would irritate Martin. Henrik inhaled and followed with his eyes the upper edge of the San Gabriels off to the northeast. Sometimes waiting wasn't so bad. He exhaled.