The Bitter Side of Sweet

by Tara Sullivan

  For a moment I’m confused because I’ve never hit a pisteur, and I’m pretty sure that this soft little kid has never met one in her life, but then I realize Khadija has changed the subject and is talking about Moussa. I pick at the dried blood on my face until it flakes off under my fingernails. I don’t know what to say. I never thought I’d hit Moussa either. Since disrespect is treated harshly, I always figured a physical attack would be the same as committing suicide. I rub my face again. Really, for what I did, Moussa didn’t hurt me very much at all. He must be feeling bad.

  “He cut off Seydou’s arm,” I say. The image of the firelight flickering off Seydou’s upper left arm and then being swallowed by the bloody bandage below his elbow assaults me as I say it.

  That’s all we say until after the sounds from outside stop and we hear them lock the sleeping hut door. The rev of the truck engine fading tells me the bosses have gone home for the night too. Beside me the tension goes out of the chain. With the departure of the bosses, Khadija has relaxed again.

  But I tense up. Though I wasn’t expecting the door to open for food, I was expecting them to put my brother in with us for the night so I could look after him. His absence is like a physical pain, a lack where there should be feeling. Who will hold him if he cries? How will I know if he makes it through the night?

  “He’ll be fine,” says Khadija. I wonder how much of what I was thinking I muttered out loud.

  “How do I know if I can’t see him?”

  “The others seem to like him. He’s such a nice little boy.”

  My cricket.

  “But how do I know?” I ask again. A pause.

  “You don’t. For tonight you’ll just have to trust that they’ll do the right thing, I guess. It’s not like you have much of a choice. And if you spend all night worrying you’ll drive yourself crazy and you won’t get enough sleep to be able to help him tomorrow if he needs you.”

  It’s good advice, but hard to swallow. I’m haunted by images of Seydou the way he was the last two nights, tossing around in pain, but I force myself to remember Yussuf’s soft apology and take a deep breath.

  “You’re right,” I say, “he will need me tomorrow.”

  “Of course he will,” she says soothingly. But I shake my head.

  “No,” I say, my voice hard, “not like that.” I’ve been trying to take care of Seydou in little ways for years, and clearly, today showed that it’s not enough. Now it’s time to take care of him in a big way. Because when I really think about it, Khadija was right all along. Living here is nothing more than killing Seydou slowly. I turn to her. “He’s going to need me tomorrow because I’m going to get him away from here. We’re getting off this farm.”

  There is a brief second of complete silence.

  “It’s not that easy and you know it,” she says bitterly.

  “I know,” I say.

  “So what makes it different this time?”

  “A couple of things.” I smile into the darkness. “For one, I finally understand that I have nothing to lose by running.” My voice falters. “It’s hard to work here. I don’t think that, even if he gets better, Seydou is going to survive very long with just one arm.”

  Beside me, I feel Khadija shiver.

  “For another thing, I know a lot more about how the farm works than when I was new. Plus, I have you to help me.” I say it half as a joke, because, really, what can a weak thirteen-year-old girl do to help me? But Khadija takes me seriously.

  “Me? You’re crazy. Three are so much easier to catch than one! No, thank you, Amadou. The next time I run I’m going to make it. When I run, I run alone.”

  “It was a joke,” I say coldly, masking my disappointment. “I wouldn’t expect help from someone as selfish as you.”

  I turn away from her and try to think.

  Slowly, I feel a giddy excitement building in me, so different from the empty place I’ve put myself into for the past two years that it feels odd. Like stretching old muscles that haven’t done a certain job in a long time and finding out that they still work, still remember what to do.

  “One way or another,” I say, holding up our chained wrists, “whether you’re coming with us or not, the first thing we need to do is get this off.”

  “Awó,” she agrees. Her tone is off, but I don’t have time to care.

  “Let’s see what we can find in this shed to help us.”

  And so we shuffle around the small space in the dark, on our hands and knees, using our fingers to try to figure out what everything is.

  “Machetes,” I report.

  “Rope,” she replies.

  “A box.”

  I’m trying to figure out a way to open the latch when Khadija gives her next update.

  “Metal barrel.”

  “Don’t touch that!”

  At the end of the chain, I feel her recoil.

  “Why?” she asks. “What is it?”

  “Poison.”

  I remember when I was first here. It was one of the two months of the year when we weren’t harvesting. Instead, it was cleaning season. The time of year when the main job for the boys is to take pump-cans of pesticide and spray the trunks and branches of all the trees in the grove. Moussa had brought me into the shed and showed me the great one-hundred-and-fifty-liter drums of pesticide. These, he had said, are poison. They are a very special kind of poison, one that kills the insects that would eat my trees. But you should never forget for one minute what you’re carrying. Don’t drink it. Don’t let it get in your food. Don’t let it get near fire. Don’t touch it and then rub your eyes. Do you understand? And I had said, Yes, I understand, and as soon as we got out into the grove I had strapped both canisters on and made Seydou stand far away from where I was working. And I tried not to show him my fear as the poison mist settled onto my skin.

  “Pesticide,” I clarify. “For the trees. It kills the bugs, but it’s bad for you too. Don’t touch it.” I feel her carefully put distance between herself and the drums, so I know she’s taking me seriously. “Come look in this box.”

  When we pry the lid open with a machete, what we find inside makes the whole night of searching worthwhile. Because inside are tools. Real tools. Strong tools. Screwdrivers and hammers and clippers. I look at the dark form in front of me that must be Khadija and a smile splits my face.

  “We’re free,” I say.

  It’s too dark to tell for sure, but I think she smiles back.

  It’s difficult to do it in the darkness, but I get Khadija to wedge the tip of the screwdriver into the latch of the manacle on my left hand.

  “Now hold still,” I say, hefting the large hammer in my right.

  “What if you miss and hit me?” she asks.

  “I’ll try not to,” I say, “but if you let go and that screwdriver goes sideways, it will go into my wrist and probably kill me.”

  There is a pause while she processes this information.

  “All right,” she says finally, “even if you hit me, I won’t let go.”

  “I ni cé.”

  I take a few practice swings with the hammer, bringing it slowly over my head and tapping it onto the top of the screwdriver. I miss a few times but I keep doing it until I’m consistently hitting the handle. I’m going to need to use a lot of force and what I said to Khadija is the truth: if I miss, it’s likely one of us will get seriously hurt. After a few minutes, I feel my muscles relax into the new pattern. Hammering a point in the dark is not so different from splitting pods with a machete. I turn to Khadija.

  “Okay, this time for real.”

  I feel her grip tighten on the screwdriver and I try not to change the angle of my body as I lift the heavy hammer.

  The blow sends my wrist shooting sideways. The screwdriver is wrenched out of Khadija’s hands and scrapes against my leg, and the hammer h
its her knuckles. I hear her gasp in pain. But mingled in with all those sounds is the sound of a snapping clasp, and when I feel the manacle, it now has a large gap in it.

  “Are you okay?” I ask the darkness.

  “Awó.” Her voice is muffled because she’s sucking on her knuckles.

  “Did I break any bones in your hand?”

  A pause.

  “No. I can move all my fingers. It just hurts.”

  I let a breath out, relieved. Pain is something we can handle.

  “Are you out?” she asks.

  I shove my hand against the gap in the metal, twisting my wrist painfully and scraping the skin.

  “Awó!”

  “Good,” says Khadija, handing me the screwdriver. “Now me.”

  I pick up the hammer again.

  “Use your other hand to hold it steady,” I say.

  This time, since I can grip the handle of the screwdriver in my left hand, it’s much easier. After only two swings, the lock gives and we’re both free.

  “Now what?” A twinge of breathless excitement has crept into her voice.

  I still don’t know whether she’ll stick around or run on her own once we’re free, but I know she’ll help me until we’re out of this shed.

  I walk to the rear of the shed, toolbox still in my hands, and put it by the wall closest to the forest and farthest from the fire. The one that, hopefully, no one will notice has been tampered with until it’s too late. I hand her the screwdriver.

  “Help me loosen these boards,” I say, and we set to work. Though our movements are slow and clumsy with exhaustion, neither of us talks of sleeping.

  It takes much longer than I think it will to loosen the boards to the point where the hole is big enough for us. By the time we’ve crawled out, the crescent moon is past the midpoint of the sky.

  It’s eerie to stand at the edge of the camp in the half-light and see places that are usually filled with people. The fire pit is a darker gray hole in the middle of the light gray clearing, like a cigarette burn in a piece of cloth. The fermenting cacao seed piles are ghostly lumps in the landscape. The drying racks, shadowy skeletons. In front of us, the sleeping hut looms, quiet and still; you’d never guess there were more than a dozen boys inside. And over everything, a hush, filled only by the haunting night sounds of la brosse.

  I clutch the toolbox to my chest and we creep across the packed earth of the empty yard to the sleeping hut. I shuffle around until I find a splintered piece of board. I press my lips to the crack and whisper-shout, “Seydou!” Then, realizing that Seydou is probably in no condition to answer me, I switch to, “Yussuf!”

  After what seems like forever, but is probably only a minute or so, I hear a tired scuffle on the other side of the planks.

  “Amadou?” My name is half a yawn.

  “Yes! Who’s this?” I ask, splaying my fingers on the wooden boards as if it will get me closer to my brother.

  “It’s Yussuf.”

  “Yussuf! How’s Seydou? Is he all right?”

  There’s a brief pause.

  “What do you mean?” asks Yussuf. “He’s not with you?”

  “What? No!”

  Another pause, then Yussuf’s voice again, this time very much awake.

  “Amadou, I don’t know what to tell you. He’s not in here with us either. There are only twelve of us in here tonight. I counted.”

  For a brief moment I feel an odd kinship with Yussuf. I never knew anyone else was counting the things that mattered. But then I remember my real kinship—Seydou—and the fact that he’s in neither of the places he should be. I shake off my daze and realize that Yussuf is still talking.

  “. . . at their house, but really, Amadou, you should get back into that shed. I don’t even know how you got out, but you should go back. It won’t do you or Seydou any good in the morning if the bosses don’t find you in there. I’ll figure out where he is tomorrow, okay?”

  “I ni cé, Yussuf,” I say, and ease away from the sleeping hut. I’m thanking him for offering to help, not saying I plan to accept it, but Yussuf doesn’t know that and I hear him shuffle to his sleeping spot and lie down. I feel like I’ll never be able to sleep again. I have to find Seydou. Why did the bosses not put him with the other boys or in the toolshed with me? Where is he? I feel as if my soul has been hacked to pieces with a machete. What if he’s dead? What if the reason he’s not in the sleeping hut is because he’s in a new grave somewhere, dug by the bosses while Khadija and I played around at escaping?

  A hand on my elbow makes me jump.

  “Mun kéra?” Khadija asks.

  My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I clear my throat and try again.

  “Seydou’s not there,” I manage.

  Khadija looks as stunned by the news as I am.

  “Where is he, then?” she asks. She whips her head from side to side, her oval face creased with concern, scanning the camp as if Seydou might be somewhere there, sleeping out in the open.

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t know, but I have to go look for him.” Aside from the storage lean-to, there’s only one other building that has a roof: the bosses’ house. I’ve gone ten paces down the beaten-earth track that leads over the hill to their house before I realize that Khadija isn’t beside me. I turn and see her standing exactly where I left her, facing into the forest. A cold finger of fear traces my spine as I imagine being entirely alone.

  “Khadija?”

  She glances in my direction.

  “I could go now,” she says softly. The finger turns into an icy hand that grips my heart and squeezes.

  “You could,” I admit.

  She looks away over the hills again. Then she turns around. She walks to me as if every step hurts. When she’s level with me, she speaks.

  “Going to the bosses’ house is the stupidest thing I could possibly do if I’m really trying to escape,” she says.

  I wait.

  “But”—she sighs—“the only reason you weren’t with Seydou the day he got hurt was because you were tied up. The only reason you were tied up was because I ran.” She takes a deep breath. “You called me selfish a while ago. I guess I am. If I had the chance to do that day again, I would probably run again. But, I will do this thing now. I owe it to Seydou.”

  With that, she pushes stiffly past me, spine straight, and leads the way up the moonlit track. Grateful beyond words, I follow her, staying one step behind all the way, just in case she changes her mind.

  11

  As we walk along the track, the trees around us change. There are some cacao trees like the ones we spend all year tending and harvesting, but I see many more green banana trees and even a few fruit trees. I know where the green bananas go since that’s sometimes all we get to eat for weeks on end, but we’ve never been given any papayas, mangoes, or coconuts. I guess the bosses keep those for themselves.

  I’m just wondering how much farther we have to go when the track ends and there, sitting in a clearing, is the bosses’ house. The thin moonlight shoves the house’s blocky form forward and shadows what might be a vegetable garden off to the left. The house has a good tin roof and looks plenty big enough for a family, let alone three men. When I think of how so many of us are crammed into the sleeping hut every night, it makes me want to go over there and tear that nice tin roof off with my bare hands.

  I stand for a moment, taking it in and letting the unbroken night noises of the bush soothe my nerves. Khadija is a shadow rooted to the spot beside me. I reach out and take her hand and pull her forward. Once she’s moving, I let go again.

  We slink to the side of the house and slowly creep around it. I wave my hand in a circle in front of her face, trying to tell her that I want to look around the house before we do anything else. I don’t know if she understands, but she nods and we set off.
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  The short grass and little rocks are prickly under my bare feet. I try to sneak without a sound, but I’m not doing a very good job of it. With every step, I knock loose some pebbles, or scuff my foot on a chunk of masonry hidden in the grass. I cringe, but don’t stop. Other than the vegetable garden, a pit latrine, and a small generator, there’s nothing on the outside of the house. Definitely no Seydou. I steam quietly to myself in frustration.

  “What now?” Khadija’s whisper in my ear is so soft even I can barely hear it.

  I shrug angrily. Then I lean my face into her ear and whisper, “Only thing for it is to check the windows. Don’t get caught.”

  We circle the house again. I push my face against the bars covering the first window and see a central living area. In one corner there’s a propane tank and a little stove. On a crate in the far corner, a television sits next to a car battery. The bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling shows that the bosses could even have light if they wanted to use the generator.

  “Wow, what a dump,” whispers Khadija beside me.

  I turn to her, eyebrows arched in surprise, because I was just thinking that this is one of the best-built houses I’ve seen. I guess even in the low light, Khadija is able to catch my expression.

  “Well,” she says defensively, “it is. There’s hardly any furniture. They don’t have doors to the bedrooms, there’s no glass on any of their windows, and they’re using a car battery to run their TV. I mean”—she crosses her arms and looks around again—“I kind of thought that, being in charge and all, they’d have a nicer place.”

  I wonder what on earth she’s comparing it to. It’s so much better than my family’s house in our village. Glass in the windows? Either she’s richer than I thought or her mother worked in a rich person’s house as a maid. I decide the mystery can wait until we’re not in so much danger. She wouldn’t tell me her story when I asked her before and even if she would tell me now, this is not the place for storytelling.

  “Come on,” I say.

  The next two windows we look into are bedrooms. They’re almost identical: a gray, hollow-looking mattress sits on the floor with a boss sprawled across it, asleep. The walls are bare except for a few pictures ripped from magazines and newspapers. There’s only one window left and it must be Moussa’s bedroom. I lift my face slowly over the sill, heart hammering, and peek in.