The Last Twilight (18 page)

Everyone stared when Amiri and Rikki were led into the village. He saw no men, only boys in their teens. There were no elderly, though several of the women had gray in their hair, despite the smooth youth of their faces. They watched Amiri with haunted eyes, and for the first time in his life he felt like a monster simply for being a man. Carrying the sins of his gender.

Rikki stayed close. Her scent was carved into his body, deep as blood and bone. His skin tingled. He could taste her still on his lips. Feel her mouth, her kiss. Shot down, crippled, mind lost and wild—he did not know whether to be ecstatic or ashamed. Years of struggle, fighting his instincts, lust…and in one moment he had lost himself. He had wanted her and so had taken her.

And she had taken him. Taken him as surely as death would. He was hers now. Even the cheetah could not resist.

Some of the women from the stream—those with children—split off as they entered the heart of the village. The rest, still armed, guided Amiri and Rikki to the edge of the potato field. Another woman met them there. She carried a hoe, and wore a white blouse and yellow-checkered wrap around her lean waist. A gold cross glittered against her throat, and her skin was so dark it was almost blue. Her lips were full, her nose straight and broad. Hair shorn to the scalp. Gaze sharp as a knifepoint.

She rattled something off to the women—listened to their responses—then fixed her gaze once again on Amiri. She leaned close to examine his eyes, a furrow forming in her brow. He did not like the way her expression faltered, ever so slightly.

She spoke to him in Bantu, then Lingalese.

“I speak only French, English, or Swahili,” he replied, and repeated himself in all those languages.

The woman frowned, and looked at Rikki. Studied her, then examined once again their held hands. Her scowl deepened.

“Excuse me,” Rikki began, but the woman jammed her hoe into the ground and fixed her with a distrusting look.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she asked in heavily accented English. Her voice was as cutting as her gaze, and Rikki’s spine straightened, a stubborn light kicking into her eyes.

“We were attacked,” she lied stiffly. “Near the river, several days ago. We ran, and got lost.”

“Lost.” The woman sucked in her cheek, chewing thoughtfully, and again examined Amiri. “You are her guide?”

She said it with some disdain, and Amiri raised his chin. “I am her protector.”

She raked her gaze over his nearly naked body. “You must not be very good, to have had all your clothes and weapons stolen. Or were you too busy fucking to notice they had gone missing?”

Amiri did not take the bait. Rikki gave the woman a dirty look. “We need a phone or radio, if you have one. Otherwise, we’ll leave.”

“There is no phone here. Close, but not here.” She tapped the handle of her hoe, still thoughtful. “You … your clothing. I worked in a hospital once. Are you a doctor?”

Rikki almost lied; Amiri could taste it in her hesitation. But they were obvious enough as it was, if someone came looking for them, and he was unsurprised when she said, “Yes, I am.”

“And are you skilled?”

“That depends on what you need.”

“What I need is competence.”

“Then you’ll get it,” Rikki said in a hard voice.

The woman grunted, eyeing her. “A white doctor and her bodyguard, appearing from the jungle without supplies, or clothing. Escaping from an attack. I do not think I like the sound of that.”

“So, we will go,” Amiri said. “And you will not be troubled any further.”

“Unlikely,” replied the women, and said a sharp word in Bantu.

Guns lowered. Amiri did not feel much safer. The woman handed her hoe to a young girl, who carried it into the field. No one spoke. Everyone watched. He felt like he was back in Russia, sitting in the cage. All those eyes, as claustrophobic as bars and walls.

Rikki squeezed his hand. The woman said, “I am Mireille.”

She led them a short distance away to a small collection of tents that had been erected on the edge of the banana grove. Made of tarps and canvas, some were adorned with small belongings; others, devoid of any decoration. Hastily built. It was eerily reminiscent of the refugee camp he and Rikki had left behind.

Seated in the shade, and on cots, were more than twenty hollow-cheeked women and children; quiet, listless, eyes dull. No energy to care for themselves, or even react to the appearance of two strangers. Compared to the bustle, the brief bursts of laughter from the rest of the camp, it felt like a death zone.

Indeed, up close a foul scent filled the air; rotten, wet, like a body had perished in some dark hole and was slowly decomposing. The women, he realized. Several were quite ill, indeed.

“What happened to them?” asked Rikki, though she looked as though she already knew.

“They were raped.” Mireille gazed steadily at Amiri, as if he had been the one to inquire. “Almost all the women in this place have been degraded, often and repeatedly. Some still suffer severe internal injuries.”

Rikki knelt in the dust, eyeing a little boy sitting some distance away, his clothing ragged, his arms clutched around a brown sewn ball. “Do you have any medical supplies?”

“Some.”

Rikki gave her a sharp look. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You can see for yourself, Doctor.”

“My name is Rikki.” She turned back to the look at the boy, her gaze drifting over the tents. “You organized this?”

“Someone had to.”

“Where did you get the supplies?”

“Donations.”

Rikki frowned. “And these people? How long have they been here?”

“Long enough.”

“Where did they come from?”

Mireille remained silent.

Amiri said, “This camp is completely isolated. There are no roads. How did they find you?”

“People find what they need most, when they need it,” she replied cagily, and then said, “You. What are you good for, beside fucking women and losing guns?”

Amiri set his jaw. “I used to be a schoolteacher. Or if you need meat, I can hunt. Take your pick. But I would like to know the location of that phone.”

Rikki and Mireille stared at him.

“The phone,” he said. “Where is it?”

“A teacher,” Mireille said, ignoring him. “What are your subjects?”

“Literature, mathematics, history.” He glanced at Rikki, and found her staring at him with a faint, somewhat amazed, smile. “I taught for seven years.”

“And now you play with guns,” said Mireille, and there was a trace of sadness in her eyes that was at odds with the sharpness of her mouth. “These are bad days for men.”

“The days have always been bad,” Amiri replied. “It is what we make of them that matters.”

The woman grunted. “Come with me. I will show you the children. They could use a proper lesson. Normalcy.”

Amiri hesitated. “It has been days since the doctor had a proper meal. Do you have any food to spare?”

“All I need is water,” Rikki said. “And some help if you want any progress made with these people.”

Mireille nodded sharply. “I will find you extra hands. As for the rest, there is bottled water in the central tent, along with the medical supplies. You will find some food there, as well.”

“Bottled water,” Amiri said dryly. “Evian, perchance?”

Smart-ass,
Rikki mouthed, over Mireille’s shoulder.

The woman frowned. “Take it or drink from the pump at the center of the village.”

Amiri inclined his head. “Later. First the phone.”

“That will take time. There is a man with a phone, but he does not live here. I must send someone for him.”

“How long will that take?”

“Hours, at the very least.” She raised her eyebrow. “Time enough for the children.”

If you are telling the truth,
she might have added. Amiri was quite willing to prove his worth.

“Take this little fellow with you,” Rikki said, holding out her hand to the boy holding the ball. Silver flashed around his neck: a whistle, hanging from a cord covered in American flags. Rikki looked troubled when she saw it, but she said nothing as the boy took her hand, gripping his toy in the other like it was a lifeline.

Rikki gave him to Amiri. He thought he must seem a monster to one so small; dangerous, intimidating, unsettling. But the boy did not turn away, and after a moment, Amiri picked him up. He looked like he needed to be held.

“Your name?” he rumbled in French, noting scratches on the boy’s face, the red rims of his haunted eyes. His scent was odd, almost metallic. Like he had been riding in a machine for some time.

“Kimbareta,” said the boy. “Kimbareta Adoula.”

“That is a good strong name, Kimbareta. I am Amiri.”

“Amiri,” echoed the boy, in a soft voice.

Rikki watched them. Her expression was peculiar, inexplicable. Soft. It made his throat full, seeing her look at him like that. Made him ache and feel so full of emotion he thought every breath, every word he spoke for the rest of his life would be full of his heart.

His father had been a fool. And maybe Amiri was, too, but he would take this way over the alternative, any day. No matter the danger.

Amiri leaned in and brushed his lips across Rikki’s cheek. Her smile was soft, almost shy, and it made him warm like a lazy splash of sunlight on some golden summer day. Rikki was not a shy woman. This was a smile for him alone.

There were words he wanted to say. Strong words. Powerful declarations. But he held them tight, wore them in his eyes. Rikki looked deep, searching his gaze. Nodded, just once.

Amiri left with Mireille and Kimbareta, to go and teach the children.

Teaching felt like coming home again. It was the first time in years. Holding a book to a child. Feeling the child inside him bloom and swell. Even if he had never taught the alphabet with armed women breathing down his neck.

There were ten in his impromptu class. Varying ages, but all of them were clean, moderately well dressed. They had books. A veritable library, surprisingly new—with letters in both English and French. A diversity of choices, some quite advanced, though nothing the children could not easily handle. Someone had been working with them.

The boys and girls also presented him, with some pride, with pens and clean paper, rulers, calculators, new boxes of crayons—a treasure trove of school supplies so fresh and new they could have come straight from the aisle of an American grocery store. Amiri raised a pen to his nose and drew in the scent of cardboard and untouched plastic. New, indeed. It had hardly been unpacked from the box.

“Who gave these to you?” Amiri asked the children, in French. It was the end of their second lesson, the third hour. Mathematics. Kimbareta leaned against his leg, still tracing numbers in the dirt with a stick. His other hand held the hem of the dark green wrap tied around Amiri’s waist. Mireille had practically thrown it at him, with orders to cover himself up.

Amiri still held up the pen. One little girl, her hair pulled away from her face in neat narrow braids, reached out and took it from him.

“The
mondele,”
she said, twirling the pen in her fingers. “They always brings gifts.”

“Mondele,”
echoed Amiri. “What does that mean?”

Even Kimbareta looked at him like he was an idiot. The girl rolled her eyes. “The white man.”

“And the man with the golden eyes,” said the boy, pointing. “Eyes like yours.”

“Unnatural
eyes,” Mireille said, speaking over Amiri’s shoulder. Her approach had been no secret. Neither were his questions. He turned, meeting her gaze. Letting her see his eyes.

“Golden like mine?” he asked, as something hard squirmed in his gut.

Mirielle’s mouth tightened. “I think you have taught the children enough for today. They can learn the rest on their own.”

“They are gifted,” Amiri said, tearing his gaze from her to look at the boys and girls. They beamed at him, shuffling their feet. “All of you, quite brilliant.”

“Doctors and lawyers,” Mirielle said, with the first real kindness he had seen since meeting her. It did not last, though. Her face hardened, and she clapped her hands. Children scattered. All except Kimbareta, whom Amiri hefted up into his arms. The child squirmed slightly, reaching down for his ball, left alongside the numbers written in the dust.

Amiri picked it up. Handed it to the boy, who held it high. The sewn hide came quite close to the shape-shifter’s nose and he caught an unusual scent, like monkeys. Blood.

Again, something cold settled in his gut. Amiri steadied his breathing and began walking back to the tents, scanning the jungle border, which loomed impenetrable: the fields, with those long straight lines and soft soil, which he realized now had been plowed with machines; and the women, all the women, armed with guns. Watching the jungle as he did. Watching him, as well.

Mirielle kept pace. She was the only unarmed woman he had seen in this place. He said, “You have foreign aid?”

“One or twice a month,” she said, with some stiffness, fingering the cross at her throat. “They come with the
mondele,
their employers. They bring us supplies, protection, more refugees. And sometimes, they take women. For immigration to Europe and North America.”

“They tell you this?” Amiri could see Rikki in the distance, bent over a prone figure resting on a cot. She seemed to be administering a shot. “Have they told you why they are helping?”

“Goodwill,” she replied carefully. “They have interests in this region.”

“Interests,” he muttered, and picked up his pace. He was almost running when he reached Rikki, and when she turned and saw him the raw relief that filled her face rocked him hard.

He walked straight to her, ignoring the eyes scrutinizing him, the whispers, the child in his arms. He walked a straight line, unfaltering, and Rikki held her head high, watching him like a queen.

He walked to her and he kissed her. Hard, full on the mouth. She leaned into him, her hands crawling up his ribs, and he felt somewhat delirious, like he was running through fire, on the edge of death, on the verge of the profound. The cheetah rumbled.

Rikki broke off first, blinking hard. Breathless. Amiri’s heart pounded so violently he could hardly hear himself as he murmured, “We must leave this place. Now.”

She did not look surprised, which told him something. A strained smile touched her lips—a grimace—and she looked down at Kimbareta. Touched the whistle around his neck.

“Sweetie,” she said, in French. “Who gave you that?”

“Doctor,” said the boy. “For my friend.”

“A doctor.” Rikki exhaled slowly, like something was hurting inside her.

“Does that mean something to you?” Amiri murmured, conscious of Mireille listening.

She sucked in breath, eyes hard, distant. “Nickel-plated, brand new, shining like a mirror. Attached to a shoestring covered in the old Red, White, and Blue? Yeah, that means something. There was a box of them on a doctor’s desk back at the camp. Never seen so many whistles.” Rikki turned toward Mireille. “And your medicines. I found coolers full of antibiotics, antimalarial drugs, anti-retroviral treatments for HIV…not to mention enough brand-new over-the-counter medication to kill a horse. You can’t get that here. Even the Red Cross jumps through hoops for some of what I found.”

Mireille’s jaw tightened. “I will not deny help when offered.”

The back of Amiri’s neck prickled. “Who offered? Who brought these new refugees to your camp?”

“Ask them yourself,” she said coldly.

“I did,” Rikki snapped. “They don’t remember how they arrived, but they sure as hell recall the camp they were dragged from. People started getting sick there. Men arrived. Foreigners. UN peacekeepers. They grabbed a handful of women and children, and put them in trucks. Administered shots. Next thing they knew, they had been relocated here.”

“Were they sick at the time?” Amiri asked.

“Not from the disease. They were the only ones standing at that point. Easy to find.”

“What are you talking about?” Mireille asked sharply. “What is this?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Rikki replied, cheeks flushed. “This place isn’t just any refugee camp or hidden fucking village.”

“It is a holding ground,” Amiri finished, feeling Kimbareta twitch. “The men who help you are not doing so out of goodwill. They are using you.”

Mireille’s gaze darkened, filling with a sharp weariness that was old and drawn. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Rikki stared. “I told you. We were ambushed.”

“No,” she snapped. “Who sent you?”

Amiri set his jaw. “No one.”

Mireille’s raised her chin. “You lie.”

“So do you,” Rikki said. “You knew where these people were from. You knew everything. You just didn’t give a damn.”

The woman shot her a scathing look. Amiri heard movement behind them. Turned, just enough to see the guns pointed at his head. Kimbareta’s eyes widened. Rikki said, “Shit.”

Mireille took the child. The boy resisted her, but Amiri made him go. Rikki moved close. He grabbed her hand, spinning slowly. Five guns. No escape. Everyone was staring.

“I will go and find that phone,” Mireille said. “And
then
we will see.”

And then we will fight,
thought Amiri, squeezing Rikki’s hand.
And you will die.