While this was happening the somewhat alarmed mother had made a move to approach the kid but the man restrained her.
The boy in turn approached Kinjia and passed the small hand on the skin of the girl's arm and as she bent to stand at his height touched her curly hair. Obviously the boy had wanted to do that with other black people but he had not dared until Kinjia took the initiative. The contact with the white skin and the straight hair had activated certain hormones inside the girl that normally remained asleep.
After a long negotiation with the head of the village Nkwame the visitors withdrew. Kinjia later learned that they were missionaries, although it was not clear what that meant.
Once they were gone, Kitwana, who had carefully followed the whole scene, took her protégé's hand and led her to a grove where a baobab prevailed. They both sat on the tree roots.
"You like white men." Kitwana said suddenly and without preamble. The girl looked at him in dismay.
“What do you say? He's just a kid.”
"I do not mean the child, but the way you looked at the father and your reaction to their skin and hair. I have never seen you like this with the young people in the village who are always hanging around you.”
"I think you're making all this up from little evidence."
Without answering, the shaman extracted the necklace of varnished seeds that he used for his divinatory practices. Kinjia became tense because she believed in the predictive power of the device that nevertheless had never been used to shed light on aspects of her person.
The old man was a long time manipulating the accounts and paying particular attention to the way the beads fell. Finally he picked up the necklace and returned it to his backpack.
"Well?" Asked expectantly the girl.
Kitwana answered in a soft voice.
"You will marry a white man and have him at your mercy. But before and after that many things will happen that will put you on trial.”
Chapter 1
New York- Current time
Shantaya had carefully tidied up her desk. After her hapless childhood and chaotic youth, the pursue of order and cleanliness had become predominant features of her personality. When she had finished the task, the woman stood up, looked at the state of the glazed surface and once satisfied with what she had accomplished walked a few steps and displaced a bit the curtain of her office window. She looked onto the street from a third floor and the morning sun filtered for a short time before being blocked by the buildings of the opposite side of the street. The beams on her face warmed her skin and at the same time brought sweet memories of her childhood in temperate Louisiana, where she had been born thirty-four years earlier, at a time when still blacks were despised and segregated in schools, means of transportation and restaurants.
The woman smiled, her hazardous life had granted her revenge and she had learned the rules of white American society so that with her tenacity she had pursued challenging goals and succeeded in everything she had undertaken. She now had white women under her direction and had obtained all the white men she had desired, whom she threw aside afterwards ... with one exception.
Mira, her Harlem-born secretary opened the door and pulled her out of her thoughts.
“Shantaya, Mr. Murphy is at the reception floor.”
"Show him in." Replied Shantaya, sitting behind her desk.
Jack Murphy, if that was his real name, was a burly man in his mid-fifties, with red hair beginning to turn gray and the typical complexion of an Irishman.
“Mrs. Washington, nice to meet you.”
In a studied gesture, Shantaya rose and emerged from behind the desk, revealing her spectacular silhouette enhanced by a tight-fitting jacket and skirt neither too short nor too long, which allowed her shapely legs to be seen. Murphy stood with his mouth open for a moment until the woman finally shook his hand. She was almost as tall as him.
After showing him the catalogs and a certain negotiation they both got up and the lady accompanied him to the door of the office. The secretary stood up and Shantaya said.
"Mira, please accompany Mr. Murphy to the living room below. Tell Adhiambo to meet him there.”
Then turning to Murphy’s he added.
"Adhiambo is the lady from Kenya whose photo I showed you.”
Then she shook hands again with him and went back to her office. When she closed the door behind her, Shantaya smiled, satisfied with her knowledge of psychology applied to her profession, which enabled her to handle men, and particularly whites ones, at will.
Instead of sitting in her chair she returned to the window, checking with regret that the sun had already hidden behind the buildings depriving her of its warmth in the cold New York fall. The woman was about to turn away from the window when she saw a youthful figure walking toward the door of the building. Her heart leapt with joy as she recognized the light-colored hair and slender figure of William, her son. Shantaya adored the eighteen-year-old boy who had given her so much satisfaction and in fact produced the only tender feelings of her life, dominated by the harshness of the kind of business she was in. The woman loved her son, despite or perhaps even more because of the fact that he was the result of rape. Because of a genetic whim William had inherited most of his physical appearance from his father although African-American features were visible. She called the secretary on the internal phone.
"Mira, my son William is now coming in. Send him to my office when he arrives and leave us alone until he leaves. If a client comes, make him please wait. Then lead William into the room and tell Nguyen to prepare for him.”
Since William did not have a father or uncle in sight, Shantaya had also to take care of his sexual initiation. So far she had left it in the hands of black women but now wanted to have him try an Asian. Anyway, being the boss's son she knew that the girls would treat him like a prince.
Once her son had retired the woman looked at her thin diamond-studded wrist watch, gift from one of her clients in her previous business, and jumped.
She sighed as she recalled the boy's long, slender silhouette, his red hair and his clear eyes. Again she communicated with the secretary, the only person who had all her trust.
"Mira, Federico is coming ... yes, the Argentine boy. I want you to receive him personally. Then take him to my private room on the second floor. Ask him to wait for me there.”
The young man was staring absently through the window when he heard that the door of the room behind him was opening. He turned his face and when he saw the woman an exclamation came involuntarily out of his mouth. Shantaya wore a tight red leather vest that left her long arms at sight while her beautiful black legs were covered in red stockings that left her sensual thighs exposed. As she approached, her hips swayed provocatively. Federico tried to approach the woman but she stopped him by placing a kind of jockey whip in his chest. With a wave of her hand she indicated a narrow bed, telling him.
“Lay down.”
Then she had him lay on the bed so that his head was on the edge of one of its sides. Federico watched with excitement as the prominent black bare bottom came down over his face and prepared to receive all its pressure on his face, depriving him for moments of air to breathe. Then his face was immersed in darkness and he began to perceive the scents and tastes he knew so well, and to feel the moisture on his lips.
Chapter 2
As she had heard a noise from the apartment across the hallway the girl quietly opened the door and looked out into the corridor whose light had been turned on for a moment. Just as she had supposed her neighbor was returning home. The wo
man had stared at him since he had arrived at the building a week earlier. Despite seeing just his back she could not help breathing a sigh. His general appearance and his youth were extremely attractive and she could not deny herself that she wanted to contact him. Perhaps alerted by some sixth sense that he was being watched the boy turned around and for a moment their gazes crossed. The woman thought she saw in his face a gesture that she instantly associated with a certain physical pain whose origin she could not discern. Then, in a reflex act produced by being discovered she closed the door and leaned back on it, feeling the blush covering her cheeks. She was willing to open her door again and directly face the young man and start a conversation but then felt that he was not ready and that is was not the right moment.
Zahra decided not to wait any longer and consult her cards. She took the deck from the dresser drawer where she remembered having kept them long ago and spread three cards on the table. Seeing the result her frown creased so she decided to throw the cards again. The verdict of the decks was practically the same so that the woman decided to carry out the consultation in another way. After several attempts she sat down in a chair with a dejected gesture. The cards were warning her of a problem associated with the boy but the reasons were rather confusing and obscure. Zahra held her head between her hands as she rested the elbows on the table and began to stare at the last hand of cards. After a while of profound introspection the data of the decks began to make sense in a certain twisted way
Federico Ferrari had been staring for a moment at the door of his neighbor that had closed rather abruptly. He had already seen the woman before and had been struck by the exotic beauty of her features and the curves of her body. Federico had a definite predilection for black women, particularly for pure African women.
As he turned to his door and proceeded to open it the wounds on his back and chest produced him a sharp pain. He entered the apartment and immediately took off his sports jacket and shirt. The latter showed clear stains of blood. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, the only one throughout the modest apartment, and saw the new still bleeding wounds on his back, which intersected his skin with older, partially healed ones. A series of questions about the meaning of his life in the last months raised again in his mind, but when his thought flew to Shantaya he mentally toured body once again, remembered the feelings that invaded him when she covered his countenance with her flesh and paradoxically everything returned to be clear for him, once more he found a sense in his actions. After practicing an emergency cure he lay down on the bed and fell asleep.
Zahra dressed and left her apartment heading for the flower shop she owned in Harlem. The trip in the subway lasted about twenty-five minutes but she could freely choose the time to go to the store to avoid the rush hour as her two employees always opened it at nine o'clock without problems since they lived in the neighborhood.
Seeing that she was loaded with packages Kafil ran to open the door to his employer, even though he was wetting the plants with a watering can. His wife Imani was in the background putting together orders from regular customers, generally roses to give to wives or lovers on their anniversaries. Imani and Kafil were a couple of about thirty-five, both born in Tanzania and recruited by Zahra years before when she offered them work and helped the recently arrived couple to settle in Harlem. Both were extremely grateful to their patroness and were unconditionally loyal to her, which Zahra appreciated for the nature of their duties. In fact the Tanzanian couple collaborated with her in her other activity ... actually the main activity from the point of view of profitability, since it complemented the income of the flower shop.
Zahra waited until Imani finished taking care of some customers who had approached the counter and once they left closed the door of the shop in a transitory form and the three met to interchange the news of the day. In fact, Imani and Kafil informed Zahra of the tasks that had been entrusted to them.
"How is the couple of the Ugandan girl's with her new husband working out?" Asked the owner.
"Up to now very well," Kafil reported. "The man is an old Chinese who seems very much in love with her. I talked to the girl and she assured me that he does not mistreat her like the previous one, on which she has now placed a restraining order. Anyway, I think the blows I gave the guy the day she left him have been more effective.”
"And what about Busara, the girl from Tanzania related to you?" The question was addressed to Imani.
"She's very happy. She has become pregnant with the Italian, also a rather elderly man.”
Thus Zahra progressively learned of the status of the girls she had brought from Africa in recent times, knowing that often the unions with the men they had carried out were not the most convenient and that she would have to find them new partners after a while.
Zahra brought beautiful young women from Africa, particularly from Kenya and Tanzania, and tried to find suitable couples but made a follow up on them until she was sure they were not abused or abandoned. Men who constituted their clients, generally white and of a certain age, financed the entire search cycle and left a significant gain. Some errors had to be corrected firmly and without delay. The most serious case had been that of an African American from Harlem who turned out to be a pimp and forced the girl into prostitution. Kafil proceeded to break his legs and leave his two thugs out of action, which had given him a certain reputation as a strong man in the neighborhood.
Zahra detested criminal trafficking organizations that brought young women, particularly from Africa and Asia, but also from Latin America, to the United States, and sold them to other sinister characters that prostituted and exploited them, often taking off their passports and taking as hostages the children whom the unfortunate women gave birth. For that reason she wanted to differentiate her activity from such traffic and was careful to ensure that the girls she introduced into the country were integrated into the social fabric.
After the exchange of information Zahra called Kafil aside and showed him a photo on her cell phone.
"What are you showing me? Who is this boy?" Asked the man.
“His name is Federico Ferrari. I learned his name from the mailbox of my building because he lives in the apartment that is right in front of mine so that you can locate him easily.”
“He´s very young and good-looking.” Said Imani who had joined the conversation. “Do you have a particular interest in him?”
Zahra did not expect the intrusion or the direct question and blushed but finally thought she should show her game and answered firmly.
"For now it's just a man I'm interested in. I've never spoken to him.”
"And you want to know if there's another woman?" Insisted Imani.
The blush on Zahra's face increased but she actually reasoned that they were logical questions and that both Imani and Zafir had enough intimacy with her to make them.
"Yes, and all the information you can get me about his work and friends will be appreciated.”
“I get it.” Said Kafil. "Leave it in my hands." Then he retired to continue his floral ordering tasks. Imani waited for her husband to walk away, approached Zahra and tenderly stroking her cheek, whispered.
"I have already told you that I cannot understand how a beautiful woman like you can remain alone, without a man. I hope the news Kafil brings will be good, you deserve it.”
"I do not know ... there's something strange about this boy, and I want to be sure.”
"As my husband said, leave it in his hands. You know he's very good and discreet in these ...detective tasks.”
Chapter 3
After the conversation ended Shantaya hung up the phone. The call had caused agitation and some uneasiness, to her, something no other man did. The woman did not expect the reappearance of this shadow from her past, just from that part of his past that was an open wound and had actually tempered her character. In fact Shantaya had become who she was to overcome that specif
ic episode of her life, when she was sixteen years old, although she had to recognize that the basic features of her character already existed before it and had manifested from that moment.
"Mira." She called her secretary. "Come a moment, please.”
The woman appeared at the office door and closed it behind her.
"Tell me Shantaya."
“I'm leaving now. I'm going to be in my house, but do not bother me if it's not very important ... in fact, do not bother me at all." Her tone was nervous.
“I get it ... Shantaya ... Are you okay?”
"Yes, thank you." Saying this, she pulled on his coat, took her purse and headed for the elevator without looking back.
The fateful bell rang and produced a shock to Shantaya, who was deeply immersed in her thoughts and memories. With a slight tremor she headed for the door of her luxurious apartment. In doing so she could barely control her nerves.
The man was standing in front of her and they looked at each other without a word. Finally the visitor said with his heavy Russian accent.
“Hi Shantaya. May I come in?”
Without a word she moved away and let him pass closing the door behind him. The man walked a few steps and stood quietly in the middle of the living room, then turned around and both looked into each other's eyes.
At forty-five years Boris Krupin was still an imposing man. Six feet tall and a with muscular physique, deep blue eyes and a crew cut trimmed blond hair he produced a magnetic effect on women. His hazardous life had started in elite units of the Russian army, in which he had fought in various parts of Asia until he was wounded and then immigrated to the United States. He had settled in Brighton Beach, New York, where he ran a business whose purpose was not very clear to Shantaya although she presumed it was related to the hiring of mercenary soldiers from the former Soviet republics acting in various conflict settings in the world.
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