Street. We could handle a new pain now.
I asked, “How is Robert holding up?”
“He still has nightmares.”
“Same thing?”
“He had it real bad before he was brought to London.”
Robert concerned me as much as Steven. He had grown up in Europe, London mostly, his African mother a working woman who was always on the move, but she had homeschooled him well, his education much better than the public schools in Georgia. That told me that she had once had a better life, had an education, and had been derailed. Before London, Robert had witnessed the horrors of Africa. His mother had traveled in areas occupied by non-Arab Darfurians, had seen armed Janjaweed—the devil on horseback—in government-issued military uniforms, places where the governments used rape and murder as the tools of terror. He’d told Catherine that he was hungry most of the time, depended on agencies for food, lived in a camp that was more like a prison than a place of comfort. Had told Catherine that he had seen a village burned by the Janjaweed, said he remembered the gunshots, the terror, his mother taking his hand and fleeing, being chased and caught. He’d witnessed his mother being dragged, her clothes torn from her body as armed African men wearing military pants and boots raped her.
That was part of the way Robert saw the world. As a place filled with devils.
He had moved from an area of murder and rape, had escaped a tribal warfare that, centuries ago, made black slavery possible. He was living a life his mother never had a chance to have.
I said, “Robert.”
“What about him?”
“Any idea who his father might be?”
She paused. “His mother never said. Why do you ask?”
“Was wondering if he had family out there somewhere. I wonder the same about you.”
“There is nothing to wonder about, Jean-Claude. I have no family. There is no reason to wonder. I have told you I have no family. Robert has no one. His mother was murdered by a madman. Robert is here because his mother was murdered. He had been left homeless, an orphan begging for money and food. What matters is that he is not living on the street.”
She said that with controlled anger, as if everything that had gone wrong was my fault.
I asked, “Should I send him to talk to somebody?”
“I will let you know if that is what he needs. Right now he needs to adjust to his mother never coming back, to being in America, to the culture and isms that exist in the South.”
“He should talk to someone. He’s been traumatized.”
“We’ve all been traumatized.”
I was going to tell her it was time to open that FedEx box and close that issue.
She paused. “It was great to hear from you. We will see you soon.”
I told her that I would see her and the boys soon, then we hung up.
I could travel around the globe, could kill without hesitation or remorse, but when it came to this, I had become passive-aggressive. I could gun down men on a crowded boulevard, but when it came to opening that box, I had created resistance, had become my own obstructionist, had become stubborn and let that stubbornness give seed to a new layer of resentments.
It was a defense mechanism.
I was trying to dodge an unpleasant mission the same way I had dodged many bullets.
That box was another Achilles’ heel. That box added heat to my personal hell.
I’d stick to my plan. I’d do it the way I had decided it should be done.
I’d surprise Catherine. Wouldn’t give her any advance warning.
We’d do it face-to-face. Wouldn’t give her another fucking chance to lie.
Then the heat in my hell magnified.
The Motorola phone the blond Lebanese had left rang.
Capítulo 10
treinta y uno
Gun in both hands, Medianoche waited in the chilling rain. Thirty minutes had passed since the massacre that had ended in their favor.
Cars zoomed by, doing twice the speed limit posted on the highway. The car he’d been driving was parked on the side of the autopista , emergency flashers
I asked, “How is Robert holding up?”
“He still has nightmares.”
“Same thing?”
“He had it real bad before he was brought to London.”
Robert concerned me as much as Steven. He had grown up in Europe, London mostly, his African mother a working woman who was always on the move, but she had homeschooled him well, his education much better than the public schools in Georgia. That told me that she had once had a better life, had an education, and had been derailed. Before London, Robert had witnessed the horrors of Africa. His mother had traveled in areas occupied by non-Arab Darfurians, had seen armed Janjaweed—the devil on horseback—in government-issued military uniforms, places where the governments used rape and murder as the tools of terror. He’d told Catherine that he was hungry most of the time, depended on agencies for food, lived in a camp that was more like a prison than a place of comfort. Had told Catherine that he had seen a village burned by the Janjaweed, said he remembered the gunshots, the terror, his mother taking his hand and fleeing, being chased and caught. He’d witnessed his mother being dragged, her clothes torn from her body as armed African men wearing military pants and boots raped her.
That was part of the way Robert saw the world. As a place filled with devils.
He had moved from an area of murder and rape, had escaped a tribal warfare that, centuries ago, made black slavery possible. He was living a life his mother never had a chance to have.
I said, “Robert.”
“What about him?”
“Any idea who his father might be?”
She paused. “His mother never said. Why do you ask?”
“Was wondering if he had family out there somewhere. I wonder the same about you.”
“There is nothing to wonder about, Jean-Claude. I have no family. There is no reason to wonder. I have told you I have no family. Robert has no one. His mother was murdered by a madman. Robert is here because his mother was murdered. He had been left homeless, an orphan begging for money and food. What matters is that he is not living on the street.”
She said that with controlled anger, as if everything that had gone wrong was my fault.
I asked, “Should I send him to talk to somebody?”
“I will let you know if that is what he needs. Right now he needs to adjust to his mother never coming back, to being in America, to the culture and isms that exist in the South.”
“He should talk to someone. He’s been traumatized.”
“We’ve all been traumatized.”
I was going to tell her it was time to open that FedEx box and close that issue.
She paused. “It was great to hear from you. We will see you soon.”
I told her that I would see her and the boys soon, then we hung up.
I could travel around the globe, could kill without hesitation or remorse, but when it came to this, I had become passive-aggressive. I could gun down men on a crowded boulevard, but when it came to opening that box, I had created resistance, had become my own obstructionist, had become stubborn and let that stubbornness give seed to a new layer of resentments.
It was a defense mechanism.
I was trying to dodge an unpleasant mission the same way I had dodged many bullets.
That box was another Achilles’ heel. That box added heat to my personal hell.
I’d stick to my plan. I’d do it the way I had decided it should be done.
I’d surprise Catherine. Wouldn’t give her any advance warning.
We’d do it face-to-face. Wouldn’t give her another fucking chance to lie.
Then the heat in my hell magnified.
The Motorola phone the blond Lebanese had left rang.
Capítulo 10
treinta y uno
Gun in both hands, Medianoche waited in the chilling rain. Thirty minutes had passed since the massacre that had ended in their favor.
Cars zoomed by, doing twice the speed limit posted on the highway. The car he’d been driving was parked on the side of the autopista , emergency flashers
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