The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  “I’m afraid you have no choice. These are my orders.”

  She didn’t like the way that sounded, but she kept quiet. Best not to risk antagonizing this Faustin Daubuisson any further. He clearly was in a foul mood. She had made a fool of him at the bakery. He was built like a wrestler, too.

  The car seemed to float up on its wheels when Faustin turned on the ignition. Dru had driven in a Citroën in Spain, but that had been a smaller one, not this big ugly thing.

  Once it got rolling, the big ugly thing purred so softly she had to listen really hard to be sure that the engine was running. She had to admit it was the smoothest ride she had ever had in a car. It was like riding on air.

  §

  Michel slammed his fist into the wall. It was a brick wall—one of the reasons he had rented this apartment—and it hurt like hell. But he was so angry with himself that he didn’t mind the pain. He had forgotten to tell Faustin to take Theron’s new girl to the new place, and now he could not reach him on the phone. Faustin must have left early.

  Michel kicked the wall, and kicked it again with such force that his head snapped sideways and knocked his thick, wire-rimmed glasses askew. “Merde!” he shouted as he adjusted the glasses. “Merde! Merde! Merde!” He paced the floor. He was beginning to get a headache. There was absolutely nothing he could do about his screw-up. He would never make it to the train station in time, even if he drove at breakneck speed. Faustin and the girl would have left long before he got there.

  He walked into the bathroom and leaned over the sink, shaking his head. How could he have been so careless? How could he have forgotten? Faustin was still not used to taking the pickups to the new safe house. They had only gotten it a month ago. Theron had put up most of the money for the deposit on the lease. After that fiasco with Faustin and the Canadian girl at the old safe house, he had insisted that they find better accommodations. Merde! Shit!

  He looked at his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. Maybe Faustin will see that this girl is quality like Theron said and he’d take her to the new place. But in his heart of hearts he knew no such thing would happen. When it came to these assignments, Faustin operated like a robot. To him the women who came off the trains all bright-eyed and innocent, like this Durane one, were all the same. They were open invitations to those who ran one of the world’s oldest and most lucrative businesses. You picked them up and deposited them as quickly as possible. Faustin loathed having anything to do with them, he and Theron knew, but the three of them had committed themselves and none of them could back out now. Not after Tabatha.

  Michel felt the nausea swimming up into his throat and it was all he could do to keep from retching. He splashed cold water on his face and didn’t bother to dry it. He stared again at his reflection in the mirror, as if he were contemplating the face of a stranger. He watched his lips move in a silent prayer. After a while, he dragged his hand over his face and turned away from the mirror. God help her, he said aloud.

  §

  Faustin stopped the car in front of a walled-off property in a narrow cobblestone street.

  The wall was rough cement. Its sickly gray color meant it had never seen a coat of paint. Two sheets of rusty corrugated zinc leaning into one another at a rakish angle served as the gate. Someone had cut a hole into each of the sheets and run a thick iron chain through from one side to the other. The ends of the chain were tied together and secured with an odd-looking steel contraption.

  Dru had no idea where she was, but she knew she wasn’t far from the train station. It had taken less than ten minutes to get there. And just to be on the safe side, she had kept her eyes peeled for landmarks.

  What she saw when they entered the courtyard made her stomach drop. Right away she thought of making up a story about having to get back to the station to meet someone. She had forgotten about it, she would say. But even to her that sounded weak.

  She contemplated making a sudden dash for it, but Faustin was walking too closely behind her. He could grab her easily.

  Her fear mounted. She hoped she didn’t show it. She took a deep breath and studied the structure before her. It was the most ramshackle dwelling she had ever seen. Light shone from some of the windows, dulled by thin, shabby curtains that drooped in the middle.

  “Is…is this where I am to stay?” she asked, feigning insouciance. “Yeah,” Faustin replied gruffly. He seemed to have grown morose during the short drive from the station. He was a short man. Shorter than she was and she was only five-foot-five, which was really short in her family. The man had wide shoulders on a muscular build. African blood was the most prominent of the ethnic scramble that gave him chiseled features, jet-black hair that seemed to be making up its mind about whether to lay flat on his head or rise up in curls, and skin the color of cocoa mixed with milk. He looked like many of the West Indians in Brooklyn. Like her father’s parents, in fact. They had migrated to the United States from Guyana when they were in their thirties. They had settled in Harlem, where earlier West Indian immigrants had established a community. Her own father had been born a year after their arrival.

  Her grandparents hadn’t been all that happy when he married her American mother and bought the house in Brooklyn. They got over it when she, Dru, was born. She had grown up with her younger brother in the comfort of her parents’ two-story, three-bedroom brownstone, spoiled rotten from the rivalry between her two grandmothers as they vied for her affection.

  As Dru’s thoughts fell on her family and all the other honest, hardworking families she knew, she became enraged. Maybe these Euroblacks think every black person in America lives in this kind of run-down place. Well, they’ll have to think again, she thought.

  She whipped around. Eyebrows dragged together in a ferocious glare, she opened her mouth to set Faustin straight. Before she could say a word, she felt his thumb and forefinger press deeply into the upper part of her arm and she gasped in pain.

  “Don’t. I’m not in the mood,” Faustin said in a low voice.

  Dru clamped her mouth shut. For the second time that night she felt utter terror.

  Faustin led her around to the side of the building. They went up a flight of rickety wooden stairs and walked along an even more rickety corridor with such huge holes in the floor that she had to step over them to move forward. There were apartments on either side of the corridor. The doors were closed, but Dru could see eyes peering through the slats where the planks in the walls had started to come loose. Here and there, where the holes were large enough, she could make out the figures of children and women moving about inside the apartments. They looked like Arabs. She saw no men. There was the smell of cooking, the same fragrance of saffron that had emanated from the Middle Eastern restaurants along La Canebière and in the Quartier Noir in Marseille.

  I’ve got to stay cool. Dear God, please let me stay cool. Her heart thudded so hard against her chest that she was sure Faustin could hear it. She should talk. Talking would drown the noise.

  “Do you live here?” she asked timidly. She tried hard to keep the terror out of her voice.

  “Not hardly. The studio where you will stay belongs to someone else who is, er, away for a while. I myself live quite far from here. You will stay here until I come back to get you in the morning.” Faustin actually sounded pleasant.

  She was surprised by his even-tempered tone. She relaxed a little.

  Like hell I’ll stay here. I’ll be leaving right behind you, shepherd boy.

  At the end of the corridor, Faustin stopped at a heavily chained and padlocked door. Dru’s stomach somersaulted. She wanted to scream when he opened the door and motioned her to go inside, but she thought twice about it. Who would come to her rescue? The fear in the eyes she saw peering at her along the corridor was no less than the fear she felt. Dear God. Please save me. Her mother’s face flashed before her and she fought to keep back the tears.

  It was a studio, just as he’d said. One big room that served as living room, dining room
and kitchen, and a tiny alcove with an oversized brass bed for the bedroom. The alcove was separated from the rest of the room by a thin, dingy curtain that made a mockery of the notion of privacy. At least the sheets on the bed seemed clean.

  The mismatched pieces of furniture looked like they had been snapped up whenever the owner of the studio passed a pile of discarded junk on the sidewalk. Knickknacks of every shape and material adorned every available surface, collecting dust. Clothes, towels, and sundry articles of cloth hung on nails that stuck out from the walls. A ceramic sink near the stove—it might have once been white—was half filled with dirty dishes. Grease had congealed into a brown crud on the dishes.

  And yet, there was a pleasant smell throughout the studio, as if someone had burned some kind of incense not very long ago.

  “It’s not much, but it’s just for a few hours. And I can tell you it’s far safer here than sleeping at the train station,” Faustin said. He had softened his voice, sensing Dru’s trepidation.

  Dru could not believe her ears. This was safe? It was a goddamn prison. She felt like choking Faustin.

  “The bathroom is outside, three doors down the corridor, on the left. You’d better go while I am here,” Faustin said.

  “I don’t need to go,” Dru said coldly. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” It was almost a snarl.

  “Suit yourself then,” Faustin shrugged. “I’ll leave you now. I will see you in the morning at six. Good night.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He went out and closed the door firmly behind him. Dru moved quickly toward the door and pressed her ear against it, listening for his footsteps. She heard nothing at first. He must have paused just outside the door. She stood back, taking shallow breaths. Maybe he forgot something and would open the door again.

  Then she heard the sound, the metallic sawing of the chain being pulled tight, the click of the padlock. Footsteps hurried down the corridor.

  Dru went rigid. No! He didn’t do what she thought he did! He couldn’t have done that!

  She flung herself at the door, turned the knob, and pushed. The chain rattled but it did not give. She locked both hands around the doorknob and shook it as hard as she could. It still did not open.

  She heard the Citroën rev up and she went berserk. She pounded the door with her hands and screamed.

  “Let me out! Please! Somebody help me! Let me out! Help! Help!” No one responded. No one came.

  She screamed until she was hoarse. Finally, she sank down on the floor and cried. She wailed loud and long, as if she had no hope of coming out of this hellhole alive.

  Gradually, her sobbing eased to a whimper. She did not know when she fell asleep.

  The sound of voices snatched her out of her sleep. She raised her head and remained still, listening, trembling. She heard a door open and close. The voices disappeared.

  She squinted at her watch in the half-light. Four o’clock. She had to find a way to get out before Faustin came back.

  She scrambled to her feet. Her bones ached. She needed to pee. She looked around for a container she could use. Nothing. She eyed the sink. Steeling herself, she walked over to it and picked the dishes out one by one with her fingertips, placing them in a pile on the floor.

  When the sink was cleared, she hoisted herself up, wrinkling her nose, muttering in disgust. The sink wobbled under her weight, but it held fast. She relieved herself, climbed down and turned on the water. She kept it running and went to tackle the door once again. She tried shaking it again and again.

  It’s not going to happen, idiot. You’re wasting time.

  She ran to one of the two small windows overlooking the courtyard and opened it. Too high up, she decided. She’d break a leg if she jumped. She felt the panic rising in her. Sweat beaded on her forehead and in her palms. She ran back to the door. She’d have to break it down somehow. She looked at the hinges. They were old and rusty. There were three sets of them—top, middle, and bottom. Each one was held fast by two screws. Some of the screws were already straining out of the wood. They had flat heads with deep grooves. She should be able to turn them with a screwdriver, if she could find one, or with a sturdy knife.

  Dru’s heart pounded as she searched the cupboards and the counter next to the sink for something she could use. She soon found a knife that looked sturdy enough. She ran back to the door and began to work at the screws, starting with the hinge at the bottom. It was harder than she expected. The screws were made of iron and had rusted. The knife kept slipping out of the groove and her hands grew too clammy to maintain their grip for long. She needed a sturdier tool, something that would give her a better grip. She dropped the knife, dashed back to the kitchen area, and rummaged around the counter again. She did the same under the sink, tossing pots, pans, dishes, and strange-looking implements aside until she found a screwdriver-like instrument. The handle was made of roughly hewn wood.

  She raced back to the door with it and set to work again on the bottommost hinge. The handle of the tool was crude, with sharp edges and knobs in the wood. Within minutes her hands began to blister. They burned so much that tears came to her eyes. But she had to keep going. She could not stop.

  She switched the tool from hand to hand to relieve the soreness, but the blistering and stinging pain worsened. Some of her tears fell on the raw blisters when she looked at her palms and the salt made them burn so much that she cried out.

  I will not give up, she told herself. I will die trying rather than die at Faustin’s hands.

  Slowly, after what seemed like an eternity, the screws began to come loose. Before she knew it she was at the middle hinge. This one was easier than the first, but it still took more time than she expected. The blisters were worse and the pain slowed her down considerably. But she was making progress. She could taste freedom now.

  She had to climb on a chair to reach the top hinge. The legs broke as soon as she stood with her full weight on it and she fell hard to the ground. With a loud wail she picked herself up and dragged another chair to the door. This one held, but it was lower than the first one and she had to strain to reach the last hinge. Now she had to contend with both the pain from the blisters and the ache from stretching.

  Tears poured down her cheeks. This was the toughest of the three hinges. She looked at her watch. It was five-forty. Faustin was coming at six. Her train was leaving at six forty-five. Once she escaped from the studio she still had to collect her suitcase from the locker in the station and at least try to wash up a bit in the public bathroom. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her she was a mess.

  And she had to get something in her stomach, even if it was just coffee. The last time she had eaten was on the train. Theron had made her buy a whole dinner to take with her.

  The thought of Theron made her think of Faustin. Two criminals. Dear God! Keep him away, please. I beg you. Just let me get away in time.

  Suddenly the top hinge came loose. She scrambled down from the chair and eased the door away from the wall. Restricted by the chain, it fell at an awkward angle. Dru set it as straight as she could so that there was enough space between it and the doorframe for her to squeeze through. She grabbed her overnight bag, wincing as the handle touched the raw blisters in her hand, and pushed it through the space. Then she slung her shoulder bag across her chest, picked up her sandals and squeezed herself through.

  I’m free! Sweet Jesus, I’m free!

  On the other side of the door, she picked up the case, tiptoed down the corridor and flung herself down the rickety steps two stairs at a time. There was no sign of life anywhere. At the bottom of the stairs she slipped on her sandals and took off again.

  She drew up sharply at the gate. What if it’s padlocked? she thought, horrified.

  She reached for the strange-looking contraption that Faustin had seemed to open with ease. It came apart almost as soon as she touched it. The zinc sheets fell to the ground, banging loudly against each other.

  She didn’t wai
t to see if anyone had heard the noise. She leaped over the zinc and bolted down the street. She looked back only once—when she reached the corner. No one was following her. And there was no sign of Faustin’s car.

  Her heart pumping, she raced around the corner and sprinted away. Thank God for those landmarks! she thought. She ran until she reached the station. It took her less than five minutes to retrieve her suitcase from the locker. She glanced at a clock on the wall. Six forty-three. Her train was leaving in two minutes. No time to get coffee and no time to wash up. I’ll just have to wash up on the train. Maybe I can buy coffee and a sandwich on the train, too.

  Frantically, she scanned the big black board for the number of the platform her train was leaving from. There it was. Ignoring angry glares and looks of disdain, she pushed through the people who were milling around and ran as fast as she could.

  She heard the first whistle. Oh, please let me make it.

  She almost collided with the conductor. “Take it easy, Mademoiselle. You’ve made it,” the conductor said, chuckling.

  Dru climbed aboard, found an empty compartment and sank down on the soft leather seat. As the train pulled out of the station, she burst into tears. Her body shook uncontrollably as the reality of what she had gone through began to sink in.

  Suddenly, she laughed out loud. Here comes the sun, and I’m alive and well. She laughed hysterically. She looked at her palms and the sight of them made her laugh more.

  These are the scars of freedom. This I did to myself to escape from a fate I don’t even want to think about.

  The laughter evaporated as suddenly as it had begun. Dru grew sober. Soon, her sobriety gave way to rage. And rage to hatred.

  Theron St. Cyr was vermin. If anyone had told her that she, Drucilla Durane, Flatbush-and-street-smart, could be conned by a pimp on the prowl she would have been so insulted she would have cursed that person out. She had no doubt that pimping was St. Cyr’s game. The classmate who had recommended Europe on 5 Dollars a Day had also given her the rundown on Europe’s underbelly. She had spent a long time describing the abduction and sexual enslavement of women and girls.