Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(48)

36


BEFORE


I have come this far. I did not die in my village. I did not die in the Compound or in the Hot Box. I have not died here yet with this monster. Still, I cannot help but question again what kind of hell this is. What god permits this? What did I do to deserve this? Oh, that’s right . . . I survived.

All is complete when I zip up the second bagful of the dead woman. I am now a coconspirator in her death and disposal. I am damned and want only to curl up on my cot with my thin sheets and die, but Monsieur is in a celebratory mood. He opens a bottle of his favorite whiskey and orders Chinese, which I find unbelievable since two duffel bags of dead American sit on the basement floor.

When the Chinese food arrives, we sit next to the filled and sealed bags. Monsieur pours himself a generous portion of whiskey, then downs the entire tumbler in a large gulp. He belches and pours another. With a grunt, he pushes the thick glass toward me. I dare not decline. My ear still rings from his earlier strike, a reminder of what any delay in following his commands brings me.

I take a tentative sip from the dark liquid that smells like paint thinner. The liquid leaves a blazing trail to my stomach, and I erupt in a violent coughing fit, thinking Monsieur has poisoned me. I retch, sputtering, to his enjoyment, evoking deep belly laughs. He always laughs at my expense.

“Jesus Christ, Souris, you can’t hold your liquor.” He looks at me as if he just had an epiphany. “Connais-tu Jésus?” Do you know of Jesus? “Or do you savages pray to the sun or wooden totem poles? Or water sprites?” He slides a white carton of food and two wooden chopsticks toward me.

He has traveled to my country enough times to know we Ghanaians are as Christian as he is supposed to be, but I temper myself. He might be in a playfully insulting mood, pretending we have suddenly bonded through the dismemberment of a human, but I still tread carefully. He can strike as quickly as a rattlesnake and is just as trusting. He takes another drink, straight from the bottle this time, because the cup from which I sipped has undoubtedly been tainted to him.

“Menim Yesu.” I know Jesus, I answer in my language.

The alcohol blooms a slow burn in my belly, and I do not care for how queasy it is making me feel. Monsieur’s movements are dulling. His speech comes out in a slow drawl. I do not trust him. He is testing me, like with the staircase. The food on the ground is a test. He wants to see if I will slip and lower my guard. Then he will do to me what he did to her and stuff my cut-up parts into another of those waterproof bags.

The psychological warfare he plays with me over the overflowing box of Chinese food is damning. My stomach cramps violently at the aroma wafting from the hot meal. The thin vegetable soup he gave me for lunch earlier is long gone.

He shovels long, thick noodles into his mouth, giving me and the carton he left for me sidelong glances. “Eh? Don’t you want this?” he says in French. “What is your problem?” he tries in Twi.

I wish he would stop speaking in my father’s tongue. Monsieur’s is not the last Twi I want to hear before I die. But luckily, he switches back to French, which I used to think was the language of love, but now . . .

“J’ai entendu dire que ton père était un porc. C’est vrai, Souris?”

My gut twists when he calls Papa swine.

He is becoming annoyed at my refusal to respond, but he is unable to see how my fists ball and unfurl with each passing second. Or how my muscles are tightening as I wish he’d shut up before I lose myself, death be damned.

The alcohol makes him meaner. “You understand me, stupid little cunt? I heard il a pleuré comme une chiffe molle quand il a été renversé.”

I look down at my hands. No, Papa did not scream like a little bitch when Paul had him run through.

“Your brothers also squealed like dirty pigs when Attah and his men fucked them. Est-ce vrai?”

Lies. Attah and his men murdered them. Took my father’s head.

He sneers. “La tête de ton père aurait été belle sur mon mur de trophées, non? Même si ce n’est pas moi qui l’ai tué.” Your father’s head would have looked nice on my wall of trophies, yes? Even if it wasn’t my kill.

Then Monsieur begins to laugh at me.

So far, nothing he’s said has moved me to act, not even when he grips my thigh so roughly a bruise immediately begins to form. A bruise on top of a bruise on top of a bruise. My molten rage at the lies about my family is white hot, otherworldly. It is a feeling I have never experienced, a feeling that is awakening me from the deepest of slumbers.

My family died honorably. They gave their lives for me, for me to live this damnable life as someone’s mewling pet. No, this cannot be what their deaths end up meaning. I, in this place, cannot be the legacy of the Asyms of N’nkakuwe.

My fingers grope the floor around my feet.

His laughter sends me back to the village, to the laughter of the men when they violated me. The sound of him drowns out all logical thought. He is all I hear when I snap.

I round on him, bringing up the wooden chopstick in a swirling rush.

“Ne parlez jamais de mon père ou de mes frères. Fils de pute.” Never speak of my father or my brothers. You son of a bitch.

His eyes are so huge they are nearly all white at my speaking in his language.

My arm arcs and, with all my might, drives the chopstick into the closest thing. Robach’s right cheek. The cheap wood pierces his flesh, snapping when it hits teeth. He is too surprised to react swiftly, and it is all I need.