“I mean, they’re pleasant to be around,” she backtracked. “And remember, I was there to determine what he does or doesn’t know. It was work, really.”
“Mm-hmm,” Elin said teasingly. “I’m checking if the world’s gone topsy turvy.”
“Come again?” Any warm-and-fuzzies Nena felt about confiding in Elin were quickly gone.
“Because that’s the only way my little sister is going to get a boyfriend.”
“Elin! He’s not my boyfriend,” Nena practically screeched, entirely unbecomingly.
“Oooh, listen to you,” Elin said. “Now I know it to be true. And it’s about damn time, sis. And well deserved.”
But was it? Nena had gotten herself involved with an American （which would irritate her dad, for one）， and a prosecutor at that. How could she ever share the Echo side of her—not that she’d want to—in a relationship built on lies? Even lies by omission. If she allowed it, Cort would lay himself bare to her while she’d keep a massive part of her hidden, all the while enlisting his own daughter to deceive him. Didn’t seem very fair of her.
“I am sorry I teased you about Oliver,” Nena said. The realization her sister might be serious about a man had a sobering effect. “I see now it’s a bit different with him, so I look forward to meeting him tonight.”
“And what about Mum?”
Nena snorted. “You do realize no one handles Mum, right? However, I will try,” she promised. “Relax and enjoy your evening. I’m almost there.”
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 . . .