by Yasmin Angoe
Then a slither of unease followed when Nena remembered her promise to her father, her sister, and Witt—find out what Cortland Baxter knew of the Tribe. Now, she had the way in.
30
BEFORE
Which is worse? The physical or psychological cruelties Robach inflicts on me? I do not know. What I do know is once I arrive at Robach’s home in Paris, it does not take long for his sadistic nature to show itself. He enjoys small tortures, needling me with instruments or repetitive irritants, like flicking the tops of my ears until they sting so badly I shrink whenever he raises a hand, like a dog trained to stay away from an electrified fence.
I have easily memorized the parameters of my prison. The cellar is belowground. No windows, just a large square box. Across from the staircase is a hidden door, the entranceway to the tiny dungeon where I reside. The entrance to this room is behind a shelf of Monsieur’s gadgetry. When he is gone, my door is closed, and the shelf is secured in front of it. No one knows it’s there. Therefore no one knows I am there either. When I am allowed out, there is a tiny bathroom consisting of a shower, sink, and toilet where I can clean myself.
One day, Robach opens the door to my dungeon and announces I may leave. I can walk out. The first day he does this, I eye him. My mind whispers, He lies, but hope for freedom overcomes the voice. He moves away, freeing the pathway to the steps that lead up to the kitchen and beyond it, to the world and freedom. Freedom I have not known in who knows how long. Time, for me, is one endless stream.
I take a few tentative steps. His expression is apologetic, and he holds his hands out as if promising not to touch me. I take another halting step. My hackles rise, but my need to flee overcomes my fear. I move faster so as not to tempt fate with slowness. My footsteps on the first stair. My fingers grasping the edge of the railing.
Behind me, he is blubbering, “Due,” sorry, in broken Twi, butchering my language. “Fa me bɔne kyԑ me.” Forgive me.
A bit more courage pushes me to climb. The taste of freedom is sweet on my tongue, permeating every fiber. Each step brings me closer to liberation and farther from him. My arm extends toward the cellar door, which is open a tiny sliver of a crack. The bright, natural light I almost forgot existed beams through radiantly, energizing me.
I am barely aware the blubbering apologies have stopped behind me. The tips of my fingers graze the inside of the door. It feels odd, padded like stiff Styrofoam. Later, I learn it is material to mask the screams that come from his cellar, cries sometimes from others, sometimes from me.
Another step. My fingers push the door ever so slightly, widening the crack. There is a window and, beyond it, a bright, shining, sunny day. A kitchen where wonderful aromas of baked bread waft in the air. My stomach growls its response, and my eagerness to leave this wretched place blots out all caution.
Initially, I am not aware when rough hands as thick as sausage and strong as steel grab me by the back of my neck, so focused am I on the door and the world beyond it. They yank me off my feet. The apologetic butchered Twi switches to angry, vitriolic French, a barrage of horrible names and a multitude of curses. With his free hand, Robach grabs the door handle and slams the door shut. The sound reverberates in the stairwell, ricochets like a bullet in my ears. The cutting off of freedom, literally, figuratively. The impending of my doom.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out because terror has paralyzed me completely. With the door now secured, Robach turns his full attention on me. He lifts me off the stair by my neck. His strength is nearly inhuman, the way he can hold me up as if I am a limp doll. Perhaps it is not that much of a feat. I have not eaten well since I arrived here. The bottom of the staircase pitches precariously under the harsh recessed lights. My feet sway lightly, my toes dangling in the air, trying to gain purchase on a bit of step, somehow.
Then he throws me.
I am airborne, still reeling at how quickly he came upon me, how quickly freedom was just within my grasp and snatched away. I still have not entirely come to terms with the fact I have not freed myself until I crash near the bottom step, my right shoulder taking the brunt of the force. It is when my body tumbles head over heels onto the cold cement that I realize what he has done to me. The side of my head whacks the floor. Silvery-white firecrackers explode. The pain is beyond excruciating. My teeth sink deeply into my tongue, filling my mouth with a geyser of blood.
“Stupid cunt,” he says in a mixture of giddiness and disgust that I fell for his ruse. I lie crumpled, helpless, with waves of pain paralyzing me. The wooden stairs vibrate from his heavy footfalls as he bounds down them. He grabs my ankle and tugs. My body twists horribly when he spins me around. My screams flow freely now. But as he pulls me, kicking and screaming, toward my dungeon, they are of no concern to him. He is laughing. Each scream makes him laugh harder.
This is my first significant encounter with Monsieur’s true nature. It is not the last. We play this game a few times more because my need to flee overcomes my want to remain healthy every time.
Monsieur is the chat, cat.
I am Souris, his pitiful trained mouse.
And so he renames me Souris, one name among many. One of the kinder ones he uses. And eventually, Monsieur and I fall into our dangerous game of jouer au chat et à la souris. Cat and mouse.
The things I learn with Monsieur:
He prefers to watch.
He likes prostitutes, lots of them; the gender is of no consequence. He brags to me about being an equal-opportunity employer. And by employer, I mean monster and murderer.
He tells me I am lucky he does not like “Blacks” in that way, for which I am grateful to him. I have never been happier to encounter bigotry than when it is the factor that keeps Monsieur from raping me.
Whenever he complains about “my kind,” I want to ask, Why, then, did he buy me? But I bite my tongue, choosing my battles. Does it matter why he has me—to be his pet on which he can unleash his most unconstrained anger? He has his sexual proclivities, and it is a gift I am not one of them.
He likes to inflict pain on everyone he brings to visit. His house is a cockroach trap; some check in and never check out. I have yet to witness this visually, but I have heard plenty.
He likes to hunt—no surprise—big game, exotic animals, rabbits in the forests, people.
But most of all, his enjoyment comes from tormenting me, from promising me a slow and painful death when he tires of me.
“I jest, Souris,” he says in the next breath. “I shall keep you as my souris for eternity. You would like that, oui?”
A true answer would incur his wrath, so I refrain.
Monsieur has several CCTV screens lining an entire wall, monitoring various areas of the house, the grounds, and the street. He watches them always. He does not record the screens, except sometimes when there is a visitor he wants to visit a couple more times after the visitor is gone from the world.
My job, when Monsieur is at work on his workbench, where rows of instruments, tools, and knives gleam in the lighting, is to clean. I scrub the floors from his hunts. I throw hot water on the concrete, brushing the gore-filled mess into the drain in the middle of the floor. I clean his many tools under his watchful eyes. While I do, he smirks, daring me to use the tools on him.
Sometimes he speaks on the phone, always in French, because he still thinks the language is unknown to me.
Whatever he does for business is bad, evil. He discusses his distance from the airport, from the train station, from Paris. I commit all this information to memory because maybe one day I can use what I secretly learn from him.
He’s sometimes gone for days at a time. And when this happens, he locks me in. It means endless time in my dungeon, but it also means I have peace from him, though not from my mind. I had never been alone for so long until Monsieur brought me here. At least in the Compound, there were other girls. Before then, I had a village. The time alone forces me to contemplate all that has happened. I am ashamed of my failings. A
nd I agonize over the deaths of my family due to my cowardice. I should have fought harder. I should have died with them. But maybe this place is my penance, my hell I am eternally doomed to.
It becomes so long since I have heard my given name that I start believing my name is Souris because I lost the right to be called by any other.
He leaves rations when he is on one of his excursions so I do not starve, and because my room is hidden when closed, no one can hear or see me—the way he wants it. No one knows I am here. But no one comes down here, except Monsieur.
That is, until the woman appears.
31
AFTER
Later that night, Nena was seated at the Baxter table, the turtle and key lime pies she’d brought waiting patiently on the kitchen counter for their turn on the plate. Nena had been pleased to learn that both were favorites of father and child.
“I hope you like it,” Cortland said shyly, placing a warmed plate piled high with lasagna in front of his guest. He watched anxiously as she scrutinized the pasta bake before picking up her fork to take a small bite. Nena could sense his nervousness. Georgia looked back and forth, finding immense pleasure in his awkwardness. It was like a National Geographic episode, the mating rituals of a single father.
“If you don’t like it,” he added, “we could order Chinese.”
“You always tell me if I don’t like it, I can starve,” Georgia pointed out.
He shot her a silencing look, the dad look. Nena and Elin had received the very same kind of look from their own father.
“No,” Nena said, raising a hand. “This is good. Delicious. And I kind of hate Chinese.”
Cortland and Georgia shared a look. He said, “That’s a . . . rather strong word.”
Georgia’s nose wrinkled. “Never heard of anyone hating Chinese.” She dug into her food. “It’s good, Dad, cheesy, the way I like it. Pass the parmesan, please?”
Nena passed the container of grated cheese. “I had a very bad experience with Chinese food.” She glanced up at him, again transfixed with a spatula in hand. “Cortland, sit and eat?”
“Call him Cort.”
He sent Georgia a warning stare and said, “Or Cortland. Whichever is fine.” He ignored Georgia’s look of incredulity.
Georgia reached for the remote control and turned the TV on. She flipped through the Guide channel until something caught her eye. “Look, Dad, Jaws. Just in time.”
“Peach, maybe Jaws isn’t Nena’s type of movie.”
“I love Jaws,” Nena said between mouthfuls. “It’s one of my favorites. Love Pet Sematary too.”
“She’s a keeper,” Georgia deadpanned.
“Peach,” Cort admonished, with a mixture of embarrassment and horror at her inappropriateness.
Nena’s mouth quirked, taking a delicate bite. They ate in silence as the movie’s ominous theme music played in the background.
“What do you do?” Cort asked, sitting back from his nearly empty plate. Nena waved away his offer of wine. No Chinese, no alcohol.
“I’m an assassin,” Nena replied simply, with a bland expression to match.
Georgia erupted in a coughing fit, choking on her food. Her fork clattered to her plate. Her eyes bugged, watering as she tried to take in air. Her dad jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair to reach her. She waved him away.
“I’m okay,” she wheezed, reaching for her sweet tea and taking deep gulps.
He hovered above his seat, ready to aid his daughter should she need it.
“Are you well?” Nena asked, an amused glint in her eyes as she watched Georgia choke.
She nodded, giving both a thumbs-up and a pointed look of her own at Nena. Her dad finally took his seat.
“That’s a good one, Nena,” Georgia said, one last cough forcing its way out. “Assassin. Ha ha.” She looked anything but amused.
“Definitely not something one hears every day. Hope you’re good at it,” Cort said, playing along with the joke.
Nena returned her attention to him, studying him with a hint of a smile. There was a time when smiling had come so easy to her, until there had no longer been reason to.
“I am the best,” she answered. When she caught Georgia’s wild-terror-filled expression, Nena pivoted. “We’re a family business. My parents deal with trade and commercial real estate. My sister and I oversee our American operations.”
“You’re from the UK? If I’m placing your accent correctly? And a little something else.”
A quick nod. “Born in Ghana and grew up in the UK. Have you ever visited either?”
He shook his head.
“Dad and my mom backpacked through Europe in college,” Georgia informed her.
He nodded, sipping from his glass. “It was a great experience. I hope to return one day.”
“Maybe one day, you might.” Nena looked at him, her head angled.
“Maybe,” he said modestly.
Not for the first time, she found herself enjoying the way Cortland—Cort—looked at her, like she was desirable, more than a commodity or someone’s pet or a killer.
She’d never seen herself with a man in any romantic capacity. Usually shied away from their attention. But with Cort, she didn’t mind so much. Curious.
She asked for the restroom.
“Down the hall, to the left,” Cort replied. “Want me to show you?”
She didn’t. She demurred and excused herself, walking down the hall as if she were on tour in a museum. She studied the photos of Cort and Georgia, always happy, laughing, in various places and at various ages in Georgia’s life. She saw the photo of Georgia’s mom sitting on a white bench in a park, floppy hat and book in hand—a beautiful honey-toned woman with a smile like Georgia’s staring straight into Nena’s soul as if to say, Protect them. They’re yours now.
Nena had nearly blown up this family’s world, leaving Georgia with nothing. A pang not dissimilar to guilt nicked at her, and she pried herself away from the photo. The door to Cort’s room was open. It was immaculate, not a paper or dirty sock in sight. The bed was made. Impressive.
Nena quickly moved down the hall, passing Georgia’s door—slightly ajar—and then another room. Looked to be both a guest room and office? She checked the hall in case either had come looking for her, but Georgia and Cort were in a highly energetic conversation. She went in, going for the desk by the bay window. She gave it a cursory look. Not much and hard to see in the dark with only the light from the hall to guide her. She couldn’t risk turning on any lights here. But she spied something on the floor next to the desk chair. Cort’s attaché, maybe? She went to it, finding it open with a manila folder peeking out. She looked at the door again while synchronously pulling the file out. She took out her cell, turned the flashlight on, directing it to the pages. Quickly she rifled through. Nothing she knew and nothing that jumped out at her. The last page was stamped EVIDENCE. It was a photocopy of a business card reading The Lotus Flower.
Didn’t stand out to her. Good. It was also time to get back.
When everything was put back where she’d found it, Nena went to the bathroom as she’d asked, returned to dinner, and enjoyed the conversation between a daughter and her father, hoping she could do as Georgia’s mother seemed to ask from the photo. Protect them.
32
BEFORE
The sharp clicks of the unlocking door alert me Monsieur has returned. I am tense, not knowing how I shall receive him. Thoughts of what kind of torture or psychological terror he will dole out nearly loosen my bowels. I hate the way I cower, the way I am so weak at the sight of him.
My dungeon opens, revealing him in a bathrobe and house shoes. His hair stands on end, a funny picture I am too scared to find amusing. He holds a pitcher of liquid in one hand and a crate beneath his other arm of what I hope is hot food. He looks satiated. Either his business was successful or he has had a visitor. Whatever it is, he will soon tell me, as he always does.
He sniffs. “Jesus, Souris, you
smell horrible.”
My head drops. I try my best to keep as clean as possible. During his stretches of absence, I must choose between cleanliness and survival. Therefore, the container of water he leaves is for consumption. There is also a bucket for my waste that cannot be emptied until he lets me out of my little room. So yes, there is a smell. I am now accustomed to the debasement Monsieur subjects me to. Me, the daughter of a chieftain, a princess. It is almost laughable.
He places the crate of supplies on the floor, uses his foot to push it into the room, and beckons me to come out. He holds a bar of soap and a rough towel. I take them quickly in case he changes his mind, but again he is in decent spirits, so he lets me be. I quickly pass him to enter the small bathroom, noticing the door atop the stairs is ajar. I eye it longingly.
“Eh, Souris, you forget something, oui?”
The bucket. I cannot forget. Anything can ignite his wrath.
“Apologies,” I murmur, rushing to get my bucket of shit and piss I will empty into the toilet. He goes to his workbench, where the surveillance monitors are up and running.
I rinse the bucket and use my bar of soap and water to make suds, then let it soak while I bathe. The bathroom has no door. And while he says he would never lower himself by being with me, I do catch him watching me on occasion. If that is as low as he will go, I can live with it.
Neither of us hears the creak on the steps until it is too late. I am readying the shower, wanting the water to be as hot as it can. Fortunately, it is very hot.
The gasp behind me makes my heart skip a beat. It is not from me and surely not him. I spin around at the same time Monsieur looks up from his worktable. His face is a blank canvas.