The Doll 06（文稿）

英文有声《第43条疤痕》三部曲

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chapter 6

Boniface Akambe was a large man.

Not only in his height and girth but in that he wore fine clothing, drove a new four-wheel-drive Land Cruiser, and owned several successful businesses.

He was also a good-looking man with soft skin and a desirable-size gap between his top front teeth.

Akambe had twelve children borne by three wives, two of whom lived in Douala while the third, the youngest, kept house in Kribi.

His situation had improved since Munroe had seen him last.

He’d been younger then— they all had been— and he’d had only one wife, though if he’d had his way, Munroe would have soon become the second.

It was Akambe’s family name and political connections that bought him protection and helped the businesses that fed his large lifestyle,

but it was a lesser-known enterprise that had compelled Munroe to make this trip.

Kribi was exactly as she remembered— a small and lazy town with only a few main streets connecting the parts of the whole and far too many hotels for its size.

Several new buildings had been added, but otherwise little had changed, and it took only a few minutes for the taxi driver to find the place Munroe had described.

The office was nondescript, on the ground floor of a three-story structure with peeling paint on the outside walls and water condensation dripping in a steady flow from an air-conditioning box that protruded over the sidewalk.

Inside the office it was cool and fragranced by the lingering smell of mildew, and in several places the linoleum on the floor turned up its corners.

A receptionist sat on a wooden chair behind a metal desk worn of its paint and showing makeshift repairs done over the years.

In front of her was a manual typewriter and to the right of it an arrangement of manila folders, haphazardly stacked.

In the nine years that Munroe had been away from Africa, not once had the Fang language rolled off her tongue, but it came now in a familiar burst.

“Hakum ayen Akambe,” she said. “Please notify him that I am here.”

She didn’t need to provide more information, that she spoke in Fang was her calling card.

With a look of surprise, the woman stood and went for a door on the opposite wall.

And then from behind came the rumble of Akambe’s voice. “Es-sss-sa,” he said, drawing her name into three syllables.

He exited the door of his office, arms wide in welcome and a huge grin spread across his face. “Essa,” he said again.

He clasped his hands together and then placed them on her shoulders and, holding her at arm’s length, said, “It could only have been you. How have you been? How many years now?”

“It’s been a long time,” she said, returning the smile and relishing the warmth. “A very long time.”

“Come, take coffee with me,” he said, and then barked a few phrases to the woman who had returned to the desk.

He stepped aside so that Munroe could pass into his office.

In contrast to that of the front room, the furniture here was new, the flooring and paint clean, and his wooden office desk so large it nearly filled the back wall.

Akambe sat in the oversize chair behind the desk and Munroe on the sofa that rested perpendicular to it.

“Essa,” he said again after the coffee had been served. “Where have you been hiding yourself all of this time?”

“I’ve been across the ocean, studying and working.”

“Ah,” he said, and he leaned back and placed his hands on his wide midsection. “You went to your people.

“Quite the trouble it made when you left. Francisco spent a small fortune trying to find you. He finally stopped when he knew for sure that you were alive and had left the country.”

A stab of guilt and the hollow ache that followed brought on a chorus of voices, chanting and calling her name, fighting for attention.

She held eye contact with Akambe and, when the internal din had ebbed, said softly, “Have you heard from him?”

“I see him when he is in town, every few months.”

“He hasn’t left Africa, then?”

“He remains.”

She winced and took another sip of the sweet coffee. “How is he?”

Akambe stirred another spoon of sugar into the creamy brown liquid and said nothing for a while, then looked up.

“He’s different. He works harder and plays harder, spends more time with women, drinking, behaving less like you and more like me.”

He gave a hearty laugh and continued. “And then he leaves for periods of solitude. He built himself a place near Ureca on the island.”

He paused, adding another spoon of sugar. “Time ages a person’s soul,” he said. “And they leave him alone as long as he supplies them now and then.”

Akambe was quiet for a moment. “You should make a point to see him, Essa. He deserves at least that.”

She shrugged and put down her cup. “I will if I have the time. As it is, I am here for work and am pressed. I need your skill. Do you still make papers?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” His head tilted right and left as he spoke. “What do you need?”

She handed him passport photos of herself and of Bradford. “I need two sets of residency cards for each of these.”

“That I can do,” he said.

“For both Cameroon and Equatorial Guinea.”

“Ah,” he replied, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Equatorial Guinea will take longer. And cost more.”

“Preferably diplomatic status,” she said, placing the rest of the photos on the desk and then laying a wad of cash on top of them. “If it’s not enough, I’ll pay the remainder when I return.”

He flipped through the bills. “It’s enough,” he said. “Where are you staying? I’ll have your papers delivered in five days.”

“Hotel Parfait Garden,” she said, and she stood to go.

Akambe raised his hand for her to pause and, full of importance, said, “Essa, I am looking for a wife.”

She smiled at the predictability and then attempted a straight face. “Boniface, maybe one day I’ll take you up on your offer, but not today.”

In the taxi she allowed herself an audible chuckle. Wife number four.

From Akambe’s office the driver took her south of Kribi and turned onto the narrow dirt road that went past the beach house.

A thick hedge ran the length of the property, blocking the view from the road, and the driver stopped beside the metal gate that was the single visible entry point.

Munroe stepped onto the gravel driveway and stood, staring at the barrier that divided what once was from life as it was now.

Voices from the past rose in unison, and she pushed back the screams into silence, fought the urge to ring the gate bell, and instead returned to the car.

They drove north to Douala. By the time Munroe reached the hotel, it was dark.

She purchased a bottle of water, headed for Bradford’s room, and let herself in.

Dim street light filtered through the curtains, and Bradford’s breathing was steady and rhythmic against the hum of the air conditioner.

She poured water into a glass, knelt beside the bed, and leaned forward to lift his head.

She touched the back of his neck, and his hand snapped around her wrist, a movement swift and exact.

He pulled her close until her face was inches from his and in a whisper said, “You ever do that to me again and I swear I’ll radio tag you.”

She smiled and relaxed into him, and he let go. She slipped a hand under his head, raised him up, and put the glass to his lips; he drank greedily.

When he had finished, he lay back on the pillow with his eyes open a sliver and said, “Why the hell did you do it?”

“I had some things I needed to do. Alone.”

“Next time just ask. I’ll give you space.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll ask.”

She stood and turned toward the door. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she whispered, and with the click of the latch, waves of internal tumult boiled over.

…Cry for sorrow of heart and howl for vexation of spirit…

With deliberate footsteps she walked across the hall, opened the door to her room, and, for Bradford’s ears, made the effort of both closing and locking it.

…leave your name for a curse unto my chosen…

There would be no sleep tonight, not after Kribi, not after the gate and the beach house.

…the Lord GOD shall slay thee…

Munroe followed the staircase upward until she could go no farther and from there located the door that led to the rooftop.

…and call his servants by another name…

The air was cool with the relief of night, and in the darkness there was solace.

She found a spot, dry and open to the sky, and lay back, face to the pattern of stars, familiar as they had been once before, as they had been on that night.

In the silence the voices in her head chanted and rose in crescendo: The way of the wicked is death.

She didn’t fight them, didn’t try to shut them off— there was no point.

Tonight they were strong; tonight they would take her, and she would allow her mind loose to follow where they led, inevitably to where they had begun: the night she’d killed Pieter Willem.

That night the camp had been temporary, the structures quickly thrown together.

The spot was well concealed and had access to the water and to the boats hidden in the mangrove swamps not far from the tributary that would carry them to the Muni River.

There were six in their group, and the thatched-roof shelters that acted as home were spaced unevenly in the small clearing.

The plan had been to remain until the delivery and then move back to Francisco’s house in Kribi while they waited for the next shipment to come in.

Voices had carried in the stillness, and she’d crept closer to listen.

Francisco and Pieter were arguing. Dusk was settling, and the pitch-black would follow in less than an hour.

She could smell a storm coming and felt the change in the air. When the rain started, it would be impossible to overhear,

and so she crab-walked until she could lean up against the shaky walls that held Francisco’s shelter together.

Life had been good until two and a half years earlier, when Jean Noel and his mercenary buddy Pieter Willem had been added to the team.

Jean wasn’t bad; he saw her for what she was, a barely fifteen-year-old kid stuck out in the jungle, way out of her league but a necessary component to getting the job done.

He was kind to her in his own way. When he wasn’t working, he taught her how to make rope, tie knots, set traps, poison darts, and hunt noiselessly in the dark.

He also showed her how to take care of a gun and how to use it. It was Pieter who taught her to kill.

A small man of hardened muscle, Pieter was charming and a master of words that endeared him to the listener.

It was his eyes that she couldn’t trust; from the day he’d arrived in Kribi, she had avoided him.

With Francisco’s approval Pieter had taken it upon himself to train her to fight— “to defend herself” were the words he had used when presenting the idea.

Even if Pieter had returned to South Africa, he still would have been too close.

Yet she was forced into his presence for hours every day. She couldn’t refuse.

Francisco had given the order, and she worked for Francisco— more, she revered him.

Eleven years her senior, Francisco was the older brother she’d lost when she was barely old enough to understand why.

Pieter’s training had started as he promised— as training.

Away from the rest of the camp, he set about teaching her to fight.

The location of the camps changed, and sometimes so did the country as the crew moved nomadically with the pickups and deliveries, but her being in Pieter’s presence remained constant.

She didn’t know where he’d learned his technique or what exactly he taught; he claimed to be a master in several martial arts, and she wouldn’t have known one way or the other.

She knew only that no matter how much she learned, she would return to her shelter bruised, bloody, and aching.

And nobody at the camp would say anything about it. Those were the good times.

As her skills progressed and she learned to fight back, Pieter would keep at her until she was spent and unable to move.

Every day it ended the same, with her flat on her back, held down with a knife to her throat as he raped her, whispering taunts into her ear while his sweat dripped into her face.

He threatened to hunt down her family and kill them if she left camp— she had no doubt he would make good on his promise,

and no matter what she felt about her family, death and torture by a sadistic madman was not what they deserved.

They had no idea where she was, and even if they had, there was nothing they could do.

The only person who would care if Pieter slit her throat would be Francisco, and physically he could never best Pieter— none of them could.

Then Pieter brought the knives into the training session.

Each time the sparring began, she wasn’t sure if she would live through the fight.

Pieter deliberately cut her and regularly threatened to kill her.

She fought to win, she fought to make him bleed, to end it, for the hell to be over.

When her knife would connect with his flesh and the red liquid of life would smear across the blade, a shock of euphoria would go through her,

always followed by the pain of his knife slicing another part of her body, and still it would end the same.

The better an opponent she became, the more Pieter tormented her.

In an attempt to escape him, she refused to fight and then announced to Francisco— within earshot of Pieter— that she was trained and didn’t need more.

Pieter came to her that night and gagged her.

He pinned her down on the ground and slit one of her wrists, mocking her as she struggled against him.

After she had lost considerable blood, he pulled her out of the dirt and bound her wrist to stanch the bleeding.

He stroked her face gently, kissed her, and told her that if she ever defied him again, he would slit both her wrists and dump her in the Atlantic for the sharks.

He left her alone for a few days, and she knew it was to provide time for her to think about what he’d said and allow recovery from the loss of blood.

Then she had tried to manipulate him off the team by begging Francisco to send him away.

Unable to tell the real reason, she hoped he might indulge her, and when he didn’t, she weighed the risk of the truth and chose life.

Then the sparring sessions were no longer enough to satisfy. Pieter began to trap her around camp.

She never knew from which structure, tree, or rock he would appear; he seemed to take pleasure in devising ways to startle her.

There was no place of solace or peace, and she lived on an emotional razor’s edge.

Staying away from Pieter consumed her waking thoughts, and she found safety by sticking with other people.

If Francisco was there, she stayed by his side, and if he was away, she sought out Jean Noel.

She could sense Pieter hovering, and if he caught her eye while she was under the protection of company, he bore her a sweet sadistic smile.

When she escaped during the day, Pieter would come at night, and so she took to sleeping away from camp in hidden places.

The better she became at avoiding him, the more he seemed to take pleasure in hunting her down; the harder she fought, the more he came back.

With his viselike grip around her throat, he would draw the flat of his blade across her cheek and goad her with what he was capable of.

He would pull her face toward him so that her eyes could not avoid him, and he would laugh.

“You will never be as strong or as fast as I am, Essa” was his taunt. “You cannot escape me.”

She had no idea how old he was or how long he had been fighting for money, nor if the sadism came with the job.

He told stories of coup attempts, of murder, of violence. That he was a killer she had no doubt, but she held everything else suspect.

Relief came from making runs to Kribi or Douala for supplies, or while on a delivery.

They traveled to Kribi by boat, using Francisco’s trawler and leaving the faster cigarette boats behind.

On a delivery, during the two or three days it would take to motor or trek through the jungle on remote, soggy footpaths, she would be left alone to do her job,

and when it was over, the torment would start up worse than before.

Knowing that escape was impossible, she subsisted on thoughts of revenge,

and hearing Francisco and Pieter argue had given her hope. If there was a disagreement, Pieter might leave.

And with that thought her throat constricted, cut off the air, and she struggled to breathe.

It would not be beyond Pieter to force her to go with him. Her hands began to shake, and her mind raced.

She was worthless to Pieter. If it was convenient, he would just as easily dump her overboard as rape her.

But she was worth a tremendous amount to Francisco, and spite would be reason enough for Pieter to haul her out of the camp.

The argument turned to shouts. And then Pieter stormed out of Francisco’s structure and headed for the mangrove swamp that led to the boats.

Darkness was coming, and the wind blew stronger, thunder drew nearer; the rain wasn’t far away.

She hadn’t thought; she’d merely acted.

She traced her way back to her bed and the stashed tranquilizer gun that no one else had use for and that Jean Noel had let her keep.

She knew the routes as well, if not better, than Pieter, and she circled behind him, walking barefoot through the sludge, following from afar, alert, cautious not only of Pieter but of the elements.

The last thing she needed now was to run into a mamba or any other poisonous creature that infested the lowlands.

She would need to have a perfect shot, couldn’t risk getting close; he was faster and stronger, and if she missed, she was dead.

His back to her, he untied the mooring of his boat. If he planned to leave in this weather, he would be preoccupied with getting out as quickly as possible,

and so she risked shortening the distance. She crept closer until she could clearly see him.

Aimed. Fired. The discharge, like nearing thunder, shattered the stillness of the jungle.

The dart hit Pieter between his shoulder blades. He stumbled and fell to his knees.

When she was certain it had begun to take effect, she moved closer, fired the second for good measure, and then stood over him, one foot on either side of his body.

His eyes rolled up in their sockets. She drew a knife and paused; the words of the Old Testament screamed, Thou shalt not kill.

She pulled his head back, knelt on his chest, and slit his throat.

The blood gushed from his veins in spurts like a broken fountain staining her.

She watched him bleed and felt nothing, then let his head drop to the ground, stood over him, and whispered,

“The race is not to the swift, nor battle to the strong, nor yet favor to men of skill; time and chance happens to them all.”

She couldn’t leave him on the path; better to drag him into the jungle and let the animals have his body.

She went to his boat and checked the fuel supplies. It was enough to get to Douala if she emptied every extra storage container.

She brought the engine to life and guided the boat upstream.

With Pieter Willem gone, nobody would look for it— she needed to sort out the options.

The rain began to come. It started in slow, large drops of water, and the downpour intensified until the torrent was powerful enough to sting.

By the time she crept back to the camp, darkness had long enshrouded the jungle, and she dripped water.

There was not a sign of blood on her; the rain had washed away the evidence.

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