Page 13 of Royal Pain
Belinda smiles at the server. “A woman’s prerogative, right? I’ll have the same.”
“Great. Alcohol is sometimes the perfect companion for a sad story,” I say quietly.
“Anything else?” the server asks.
“No, that’s it for now.”
As she walks away, Belinda does a surprising thing. She raises my hand to her lips and gently kisses it.
“A kiss can be a perfect companion too. Now continue.”
“As I said, we were fishing that afternoon. And we were about oh, I’d say four hundred yards from the three-story hotel that stood along the road. It was the only building around. My father was the day manager and my mother was assistant to the owner. Fishermen would stay there, or tourists who wanted to be off the beaten track. It was for the whites. I never saw a black man staying there. Not once. They were the cooks and the staff. Anyway, that afternoon we heard an odd sound. Pop pop pop. And then a woman screaming.”
“From the hotel?”
“Yes. My friends and I froze in the moment. I can still see the face of the boy I was next to. We just listened for a few beats. One boy yelled, ‘gunshots’. That’s when we ran.”
“How horrible.”
“The gunshots increased. They were using automatic weapons on the staff and the guests.”
Her free hand squeezes my arm. “Who were they?”
“Boko Haram. Are you familiar?”
“Yes, of course. I know they’re a militaristic African Islamic group. They commit atrocities in the name of their god. And theirdivine purposeas they put it.”
“That’s right. On that day they committed an act of terror against people they identified as affronts to their religion, and innocents as well. They are not discriminating in that way. Whoever gets in the way is collateral damage.”
“Is that how your parents died?”
“My father was shot where he stood. My mother was raped first by how many I don’t know. Then they shot her in the head.”
A tear streams down Belinda’s face.
“You haven’t heard the worst of it yet,” I say quietly.
“Really?”
There’s a look on her face I remember from years back. Both the king and queen had it when first we met. It’s made of equal parts horror and pity.
“We first saw the shooters when one of the housekeepers came running out of a room on the top floor. There was no place to hide. She should have tried to hide in the room. There was a man at the bottom of the stairs and when she saw him she started screaming. He quieted her with a volley of gunfire. Sometimes in my dreams I see her body jumping with the bullets’ impact.”
Our drinks arrive just in time for us both. I know how heavy this story is. This out-of-context moment is welcomed.
“Thank you,” she says as the martini is placed in front of her.
The waitress can’t help but catch a look at our pained faces. She takes her leave quickly.
“Let me take a sip,” I say.
“Me too. Never have I wanted a drink so much.”
“Is this all too much for you, Belinda? I’d understand completely.”
“I want you to tell me. I’m just responding appropriately. Like any feeling person would. Please continue. We’ll just stop every so often for liquid courage.”
I lean in to her ear and kiss it softly. She rests her face against mine in response.
