City of Saints & Thieves(35)

I don’t mind the noise and the stink. It’s more private here, in a way, than many other dingy back rooms Donatien could have chosen to make our usual rendezvous spot. He won’t meet in places like that. He says there are too many bored waiter boys whose ears are too big for their brains.

Donatien is already seated at his usual table in a shaded corner of the patio. “Who’s this?” he asks, jerking a stubbled chin up at Michael before we even sit.

Donatien’s the only mzungu in here, unless you count Michael, but even with his pasty white skin singling him out, he still looks completely at home. Empty beer bottles are starting to gather at his elbow. A pile of whole fried fish sits in front of him, several already eaten down to the glistening bone.

“He’s not important,” I say.

“You know I don’t talk to strangers, Tiny.”

“He’s a friend. It’s fine. He’s no snitch.”

“You don’t have friends.”

“Jeez, thanks a lot, Donatien. He’s a new refugee. I’m showing him around.”

“Looks too soft to be a refugee kid.” Donatien means he’s too white, but he won’t say so.

“I know; that’s what I keep telling him,” I say.

“You’re a reporter and you don’t talk to strangers?” Michael asks.

I shoot him a dirty look to warn him to keep his mouth shut.

“Not ones I don’t know,” Donatien says. “But I’m not really a reporter. I’m on sports.” He says sports like it’s a dirty word.

“That’s still reporting,” Michael points out.

Donatien grunts dismissively and checks how much beer he’s got left. He raises his bottle to the waiter to signal for another. “Speaking of which, I can’t hang about long. I have a very important junior-league cricket match to cover in about an hour.” He waves at his fish. “You want something?”

“Just soda.”

Snapping his oily fingers, Donatien calls the waiter. “Sampson, leta Tuska baridi sana. Na soda mbili.”

A man brings a fresh Tusker beer. Cold, very cold, which Donatien tests by grabbing the bottle’s neck before allowing the waiter to pry the cap off. Two orange Fantas are placed in front of Michael and me. I kick Michael under the table when I see he’s about to use his sleeve to wipe the mouth of the bottle.

Donatien takes a grateful swig of beer, then digs into his fish again with his fingers just like any local dude. He uses ugali, white corn mash, to grab up flesh and chilies. After he wolfs the whole lump down, he belches without apology. “Your loss. Best fish in town.”

“Donatien is French,” I tell Michael. “He’s picky about his food.”

“Belgian,” Donatien corrects. “How many times have I got to tell you? I hate the effing French.” He regards me with bloodshot eyes. “So, half-pint? What’s up?”

I pull the photo out of my pocket. “Do you know who this is?” I ask, pointing at the girl beside my mother.

Donatien squints, wipes his hands, and picks up the photo for a closer look. “No idea.”

I try not to let my disappointment show. “Are you sure? It was on his computer.”

“What do you mean, his computer?”

“You know. His. Don’t give me that look.”

“Tina, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you? If you went—”

“What, you think I broke into his house?” I scoff, ignoring Michael’s twitch. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. Somebody hacked it for me. You sure you don’t know her?”

“When was this taken?” Donatien asks, looking back at the smiling girls. “Your mother’s young.” He glances at Michael, still suspicious of him. “They’re in school uniforms. It was taken before I met her.” He pushes the photo back to me and I carefully tuck it away.

I wait until he’s working on another big mouthful of fish before pressing my luck. “I keep wondering something. How did Mama know what she knew?” I go on, even though Donatien is giving me a warning look. “How does a nurse come to know someone like . . .”

“Tina . . .”

“. . . like you-know-who?”

Donatien’s hand creeps to the scar on his neck. “You want to talk, Christina, your new buddy has to scram.”

I look at Michael and jut my chin toward the door. He scowls, but stands up and makes his way through the restaurant and out the door, leaving us alone. Donatien watches him go.

I lean in. “Donatien?”

He runs his fingers along the little hash marks on his collarbone where the flesh was sewn back together. “You trust him? You gotta be careful who you talk in front of, Tina.”

“I know. You’re right. Don’t worry. He’s just some wet-behind-the-ears ’fugee. I don’t know why I let him tag along.” I wait until Donatien has another swallow of beer in him and then say, “So? How did she know Mr. Greyhill?”

Donatien sets the beer down slowly. Flies cluster around the eyeball of his fish, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “What are you doing, Tina? Why all the questions?”

“I just . . . Why won’t you tell me how she knew what Extracta was doing?”

I’ve tried this tack before, with little luck. Donatien will talk all day about the rebels who sell gold dug by slaves, and shady mining companies like Extracta who sell weapons to them, but any time I ask more about Mama herself, why she was willing to talk to him, or how she found out about the deals Extracta was making with militias, he goes all tight-lipped.