Abducted

by Tikiri

  I hesitated.

  Using hand gestures, she asked me again to remove the robe.

  I stood still, frozen partly out of fear, and partly because I didn’t want her to see my face. For all I knew, it had been plastered across the airports with a caption that said, Have you seen this thief?

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. She picked up her radio hand piece and spoke in Flemish. Someone replied. The officer said one word, “Fatima.” Then, the radio went silent, and she leaned back, hands on her hips, watching me.

  The heat inside the robe was reaching boiling point. An image of armed cops storming through the door and stripping off my robe flashed to mind. So with shaking hands, I pulled off the robe, struggling with it as usual. Though it felt good to be back in my own skin, I stood in front of the officer feeling utterly naked.

  Looking relieved, and using hand gestures, she asked me to spread my arms and legs wide. I complied. She patted me down, and even went through my pockets, but found nothing. When she was done, she pointed at a bench seat in the back. I sat down with shaking legs. She pulled a chair and sat across from me.

  “What’s your name?” she asked in English.

  I gave a weak smile. Do I answer? Do I pretend I’m Bibi? I was saved by a knock. The van’s door opened and in came a stout, Arabic-looking woman wearing civilian clothes.

  “Ah, Fatima,” the policewoman said looking relieved.

  The two women spoke briskly with each other. I heard the words “Pakistan” and “Urdu” bandied about. I watched them quietly, wondering what Luc was going through outside.

  The Arabic woman turned to me and said something at length. It sounded very much like Arabic, in an accent close to Bibi’s or Zero’s. She stopped speaking and the two women watched me, as if waiting for an answer. I stared back quizzically.

  With a slight exasperated sigh, the Arabic woman pointed at herself and said, “Fatima.” Then, she pointed at me and asked in English, “You?”

  I couldn’t keep up this pretense for too long. Feeling my cheeks burn, I said, “Bibi.” I could barely look at their eyes. I could never lie well, not even a white lie, and here I was lying to the police, of all people.

  But they looked happy that I’d answered their first question.

  “How-old-are-you?” The police officer spoke in English, articulating each word as if speaking to a child.

  I hesitated. “Nineteen.” It felt good to tell the truth.

  “Why-are-you-here?”

  Do I answer that? I racked my brain.

  “To eat,” I said.

  “Eat?” She frowned.

  “I, er, make, er, cakes,” I drew out the words slowly, in an accent that was a cross between anything that came from south of the equator.

  “Cakes?”

  “I er, sell, er, cakes.” I paused. “At market.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  “Refugie?” I head the Arabic woman say.

  The officer raised her eyebrows. “Where-are-you-from? Your home?”

  I didn’t hesitate this time. “Pakistan.” That was easy.

  “Who-are-you-with?” the police officer asked.

  I peered at her as if I didn’t understand, but I was sure my face was giving everything away.

  “Who is that boy with you?” the officer tried again.

  “Friend,” I said.

  “Is that correct?” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  The two women looked at each other. Suddenly, the officer’s radio crackled to life. This time, it was a man’s voice. When she was done with the radio, the officer pointed at my robe and motioned me to put it back on.

  I reached for the black robe, and Fatima, who seemed to know how this worked, reached out to help me. The officer talked to me while Fatima adjusted my eye slits.

  “If you are ever in trouble, I want you to come here and call us.” She tapped the metal badge on her shirt. “Any of us with this, do you understand?”

  Inside the veil, I nodded.

  “If you are in any danger, you must tell us. Never hide.” The officer hesitated and peered at me. “Do you understand?”

  I nodded again. The image of Katy tied to a chair in the attic rushed into my mind. I bit my tongue.

  The officer sighed and gave Fatima a look that said she didn’t think I got it. Fatima pursed her lips and shrugged in response. The officer opened the door and stepped out, and I followed them out to see Luc waiting outside. The male officer who’d been with him was no longer there.

  Luc gave me an awkward smile.

  I turned to the female officer, who now looked like she had more important things to do.

  “You may go,” she said, nodding.

  “Thank you,” I said, without thinking, and instantly felt my face go warm. Did I just say that? Did she hear my real accent? I didn’t wait to find out and didn’t look back. I walked straight into Luc’s arms.

  He pulled me in close. What’s he doing?

  “I told them you were my girlfriend,” he whispered in my ear.

  “What?” I looked at him, startled.

  “You’re just a poor Pakistani girl who got kicked out of home because you fell in love with a French boy. That’s what I told them.”

  “But you’re only seventeen.”

  “Does it matter?” He grinned.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Come on.” Luc reached for my hand.

  I pushed his hand away. Suddenly, I couldn’t do this anymore. I picked up the skirts of the robe, ran to the end of the street and looked around.

  Nearby was a nondescript apartment building with laundry hanging in its balconies. I walked toward what looked like a forgotten alcove on the side of the building, and struggled out of Bibi’s robe. I felt Luc help me, and I pulled it off with a swoosh.

  The warm sun fell on my face and hair. I let the black cloth fall to the ground and pushed my arms to the sky, breathing in the air, soaking in the sun, and feeling the wind on my face. I took a deep breath in.

  Bibi’s scarred face flashed to my mind. I remembered her scurrying across the square in London. I folded the robe carefully, thinking I couldn’t imagine being condemned to a lifetime of something that robbed you of your personality, self-expression, movement. Underneath that robe, I’d felt entombed. Underneath it, I was faceless, a person without a name, feelings, dreams or desires. I hoped Bibi was in a better place now. Happier and freer.

  “We got one hour,” Luc whispered.

  I shoved the robe into a corner.

  “Do you have any money?” I asked him.

  “Money?” Luc shook his head and gave me a half mocking look. “I thought you had tons. Didn’t you say you had a shitload of cash? Or did you make that all up?”

  My money had run out a long time ago. All I had was the drug money we stole from Dick’s safe, which Katy kept on her, everywhere she went. She even slept with it under her pillow. That packet of money was now locked up with her in the attic. I didn’t trust him to tell him all that yet, so I merely shrugged.

  “Don’t worry. I know how to make money,” Luc said, with a smug look on his face. “You’ll see.”

  I remembered the conversation I overheard in the pantry a few days ago. “But don’t you already have a ton of money from selling—”

  “Zero stole it from me just before we left Brussels,” he said quietly. “They probably gave some of it to the checkpoint police in France.”

  “How do we—?”

  “We’ll think of something,” he said, taking my hand. “This is not the first time I’ve scrounged. I know some tricks.” He winked at me.

  We walked in quick steps toward the main road. I saw a sign on a street pole written in Arabic. Then another, and another. I pointed at them and said, “I thought we were in Belgium.”

  “It’s the immigrant district.”

  It was a narrow street, crowded with smoke shops, dingy cafés and trinket stands. At the e
nd stood a mosque with a green minaret. As we walked toward it, it began to broadcast a call to prayer. A heavy and somber voice bounced off the stone walls and echoed through the alleyway.

  This place was full of people from many countries, wearing multicolored robes and outfits I’d never seen before, not even in Goa’s busy markets. But I did spot several women who wore the same black robe as Bibi. They walked in pairs, threesomes, foursomes or with a man or two. Never alone. I remembered Aunty Shilpa telling me a long time ago that a veiled woman is not allowed to walk by herself—something to do with “honor,” she said. These women had to follow strict rules, like walking three steps behind the men, behind even their own young sons.

  I walked shoulder to shoulder with Luc, taking in the sights, keeping a sharp eye out for a Pakistani food stall where we’d find the things Zero had asked for.

  I didn’t realize we’d entered the market until we were halfway in. It was a market like I’d never seen before, a blend of West and East, of exoticism and quaintness. The markets I’d seen in Tanzania and India had been loud, dusty, rustic affairs that sold mostly food, animals, kitchen pots, and children’s clothing at best, all laid out in rickety stalls or mats on the floor.

  This market in Brussels sold everything from shoes to coffee beans, from books to antiques—all displayed on beautiful Persian rugs. It was a flea market made for kings, if kings ever shopped at markets, that is.

  We walked toward the food stalls in the back, meandering our way through the antique stands that showcased figurines, pottery, kitschy jewelry, record collections, books and even old fine china. I marveled at the priceless items lying haphazardly on the floor rugs beneath the white tents.

  “Stolen goods,” Luc whispered when he saw me crane to look at one beautiful piece of art.

  People popped in and out of these tents, talking to family and friends. A trio of men had congregated to drink coffee at a table that had been pulled out to the street. Kids ran across the street, disregarding honking cars and busses. If not for the European facades around me, I’d have felt like I’d entered one of Scheherazade’s Arabian tales.

  But Luc was steering me away from the stalls toward the edge of the market, where a group of young men were hanging out. If I’d been alone, I’d have crossed the street away from them, but Luc insisted.

  A dozen rough-looking young men, wearing leather jackets and smoking cigarettes, had gathered around an old motorcycle. A couple of them looked up curiously as we walked by. Luc gave a polite nod and a slight salute. They saluted back. One of them leered at me. I looked away. These were exactly the sort of men Vlad would be friends with, I thought.

  Behind them, a fast-food shawarma joint was selling its fare through an open window. The aroma of fresh-cut fries came sliding into my nose. Shawarma and chips! That would be perfect to get Zero out. I was about to point it out to Luc when I remembered. We had no money, not even to buy one chip.

  We were at the edge of the market now, and Luc had slowed down. His brows were knotted, as if contemplating something important. That was when I noticed something strange.

  It was like an invisible line separated where we’d just passed and where we were standing now. The immigrant district, with the market, the mosque, little trinket shops and shawarma joints, was messier, busier, and louder. On the other side of the street, the shops were well built, fancy, up-scale, and the pavement was cleaner. I looked back and forth, surprised at the striking difference between the two areas. It was like I was standing between two continents, only ten feet away from each other.

  That was when something familiar caught my eye. There. Down the street. The fluttering of an awning—a red-and-white striped awning. I took a sharp breath in. I let go of Luc’s hand and stepped toward it. It was as if a force was pulling me toward it. I walked over in a daze, my heart beating a tick faster with every step. The floor-to-ceiling glass window with curved gold lettering was unmistakable. It was a Chef Pierre café. And just outside the store was a sign that said, “Now Hiring.”

  I pressed my nose against the glass. Laid like jewels on spotless glass shelves were the most delicate array of baked goods imaginable, from waffles to croissants, rolls to bagels, baguettes, whirly breads, honey buns and sweet brioche. In the middle of the shelf, lay the crown jewel, a dark chocolate roll beautifully encased in white laced cloth, packed in a see-through container. I licked my lips. My stomach growled and my head hurt.

  Inside, a girl, probably nine or so, took a seat at a table, her blonde ponytail swishing from side to side as she settled in her chair. The plate in front of her was stacked high with golden Belgian waffles. As I watched entranced, the girl slathered the waffles with butter and poured a generous amount of chocolate syrup. She broke off a chunk with a fork and put it into her mouth. As she licked the chocolate off her fingers, I could almost smell the waffles from where I was outside.

  Maybe, I thought, maybe, if I get a job here, I can buy all of us out and get away from Zero and Vlad. I shook my head. What are you thinking, girl? Katy’s stuck in that room right now! You don’t have time. I couldn’t linger. Katy’s ransom was our return. We had to think of something fast.

  “Luc?”

  Where did he go now? I scanned the area.

  “Luc!” Where is he?

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle! Puis-je vous aidez?” “May I help you?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Oh, hi,” I said, looking at a man in a crisp, long apron embroidered with Chef Pierre’s logo. I stared at it. What would I do to wear that?

  The man reached over to wipe a smudge from the window.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I said.

  “Americaine?” He raised his eyebrows and smiled pleasantly.

  “Yes,” I said. I was now resigned to it. It was much easier than to correct them, anyway. His eyes traveled down to my rumpled skirt. I quickly smoothed it out. I’d been living in this skirt for five days now. He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “I guessed correctly,” he said in English.

  I gave him a frozen smile.

  “I saw you looking at our pastries. Would you like to come inside and take a look?” He opened the door and waved me in.

  I hesitated.

  “Window-shopping is great, but real shopping is even more delicious. I can promise you that. Haha!”

  I smiled. I stopped for a second to see if I could spot Luc, and then stepped inside. My brain had started to whir again. This could solve our problems, I thought.

  The fragrance of fruit, spices and gourmet baking embraced me as I stepped in.

  “So what would you desire, mademoiselle Americaine? Might I suggest our waffles? You must never leave Belgium without trying the waffle.”

  But something more important had caught my eyes.

  “Can I take a look around first?” I said, brightly.

  “Bien sur, of course,” he said, and went off to charm an old couple who were getting up to leave.

  One of Chef Pierre’s signature marks was the kitchen at the back, set behind a glass partition. The stainless-steel ovens, fridges and mixers gleamed spotless. A stack of fresh-baked bread sat on a wooden table, calling out to be sliced and buttered. Bakers and sous chefs in white hats and aprons busied themselves like bees at a happy hive. I watched them as they worked the mixers, kneaded the dough, poured the batter, slid trays of beautifully shaped dough into the industrial-sized ovens, then pulled out the final baked goods with thick white serviettes in their hands. They worked fast but unhurried. I breathed it all in, trying not to get lost in the warmth of it all.

  This is my heaven. I imagined standing behind the bread counter with a tall white chef hat. To be the queen of cakes and crumpets. If only they’d let me work here. A man in the corner was rolling dough so quickly, his hand seemed to blur from where I stood. He saw me watching and winked in acknowledgment. I blushed and looked away. I wasn’t just standing here for fun. A plan had been forming in the back of my mind.

  I
needed to buy time and blend in, so I strolled over to the newspaper rack. The same magazine I’d picked up at Heathrow in London was still out. I’d left my own copy in my jacket pocket back at the house.

  I looked around. The store was not as busy as I’d like it to be yet.

  I picked up a journal and started flipping through the pages, scanning the photos and headlines, not really reading. But when I opened the centerfold, I almost dropped the magazine. The photo spread was of an ancient stone castle on a hilly landscape. In front of this magnificent piece of architecture stood a shriveled-up woman, dripping in jewelry twice her weight, and cuddling two brown dachshunds. If it weren’t for her modern clothes and the vivid colors in the picture, I would have sworn the photo was from a bygone era, a time of knights and dragons. The caption read, “The indomitable Grande Baroness Agathe to host international party of the year.”

  But it was the picture inset that had grabbed my attention. In it, Chef Pierre smiled broadly, looking his happy self, as usual. Leaning casually against his arm was a tall woman in a superb white Chanel suit. I did a double take. The Diplomatic Dragon Lady?

  She looked exactly the same as when I’d met her in Toronto. Striking yet haughty. Beautiful yet venerable. It was this grand woman who’d chosen me, from all the professionals in town, to cater to her diplomatic parties in Toronto. I’d worked for her. I’d catered her parties. She was here, in Europe for a party hosted by this baroness in Luxembourg, no less.

  Someone dropped a spoon nearby. The clatter as it hit the floor woke me up. I can’t stand here all day reading. I have work to do.

  There were six people in line at the counter now. Behind it was a young server in a red shirt and black skirt, and white gloves on her hands. She was rushing up and down the aisle with boxes and trays, packing cakes for a birthday, piling macarons for a tea party. Everyone was busy. Even the man in the apron was immersed in a problem with the coffee grinder. No one noticed me. I’d faded into the background, exactly as planned. Good.