The Living Blood

by Tananarive Due

  “Oh, I see now. Yes, she’s a lovely, lovely little girl. . . . And look at her hair. Do you mind if I ask how you get it like that? This style, what do you call it?”

  But Fana didn’t hear her mother explain to the lady that her hair was in dreadlocks like Bob Marley, the Lion Man. She was back in the dream again, and the soldier was standing closer to her, almost in front of her. His hair was dark, almost black. Fana could smell him now; he smelled sweet, so much that Fana’s stomach nearly lurched. Cologne. He was wearing strong cologne, something called Kenzo. He’d rubbed it all over himself.

  Bella. Bella. Beautiful girl. Would you like to come with me?

  The soldier was holding his hand out to her. In Fana’s dream, her mommy was not with her. Fana was standing alone in front of the counter, and this tall man-boy soldier was leaning down with his hand outstretched, beckoning her. His hand was so large, she imagined he could cover her entire face with it.

  I am la polizia, you see? Don’t be afraid of my gun. It’s called an M16, and it’s for the bad people who try to come to airports, the ter-ror-ists. This gun is not for you. I have something else for you, bella. I have a surprise for you. Would you like me to help you find your mommy and daddy? I wish you would come with me. You don’t know how much I wish it.

  Fana wanted to tell the soldier that she already knew where her mommy was—and her daddy was far from here—but she couldn’t say anything before the soldier took her hand and grasped it tight. He began to pull her, and not gently. Suddenly, even though he was smiling at her and speaking in a soothing tone, Fana was afraid of him. His straight, white teeth seemed full of lies.

  I like to help lost children, bella. I have a room in the back, and I will take you there. Would you like that? There was a little girl last year, a girl from France, and she was such a vision, just like you. I couldn’t help staring at her. And then when she wandered away from her grandmother, I couldn’t believe my luck. She was lost, so she needed me. I know she didn’t mind when I took her to the room. She pretended to cry, but I wasn’t fooled. You know how little French girls are, don’t you? Don’t you?

  The soldier’s hand was slippery and warm, covered with sweat. She could feel the beats of his heart. She could hear his breathing growing heavy through his words. Fana wanted to pull away from his hand, but his grip remained tight despite his slick palm. He walked faster now, pulling her so hard that she tripped and lost her footing. He kept walking, and her feet were dragging on the floor. He was hurting her.

  We will have rules, bella. You must follow the rules, or there will be an accident. You must not make noise. That’s the first rule. Accidents happen when you make noise.

  Fana tried to scream out for her mother, but her voice would not make a sound.

  The next rule is very important, too: You must do exactly as I say. If you do not, you will force me to hurt you. But that will be your own fault, you see? Only little girls who cannot follow rules get hurt. And do not pretend you don’t understand me, either. I will point and gesture and make myself understood. The French girl only got hurt because she was playing dumb. She didn’t fool me. Everyone knows little French girls are sluts. Right, bella? Are you a little brown slut, too?

  Fana knew she must now allow this soldier to take her to The Room. She even knew where it was; it was at the end of a long corridor in a rear section of the airport, a room where even the other soldiers did not go. The Room had once been a place to hold people’s dogs and cats, but not anymore. The room was too hot, and some of the pets had died in there, and now it was only used by the soldier. For lost little girls.

  Suddenly, Fana knew his name. Giancarlo. The soldier’s name was Giancarlo.

  “. . . and then how do we go on to Lalibela? How far is that?”

  Her mommy’s voice! Fana hoped her dream was over, because she could hear her mommy’s voice.

  “Oh, you can arrange that once you’re in Addis Ababa. Ethiopian Airlines will have flights to Lalibela. I hear it’s wonderful, those churches. Ah, look who’s waking up! Hello, bella . . . Oh, what’s wrong? What did I say?”

  Fana trembled. She clung to her mother’s neck, burying her face so she could not see the woman who had called her bella, the same name the soldier had used in her dream. She sobbed.

  “I think she’s just tired. We’ve had a very long night, believe me. ’Kay, sweetie?” her mother said, kissing her cheek. “We’re almost done here, promise. Then we’ll sit down to wait for our plane, and you can take a nap.”

  Fana shook her head. “I don’t wanna go to sleep.”

  “She may be hungry,” the woman behind the counter offered.

  “That makes two of us, then.” Mommy was patting her back, and slowly Fana began to feel better. Her sobs stopped in her throat. Moses would call her a baby if he could see her so upset over a dream, no matter how real it had seemed. She wiped her eyes and gazed sleepily around her, looking for the spotted boy and his mother. But they were both gone.

  Instead, she saw the soldier.

  He was not as close as he had been in the dream—he was standing near a booth with a sign she could not read, far across the room—but he was exactly as she had seen him. Tall, thin, the same mustache and dark hair. He was wearing the same uniform, and the M16 was still hanging from his shoulder. He was staring at her. And he saw her staring.

  Giancarlo grinned.

  Suddenly, Fana’s mind tumbled with words she could not understand. But yet, she knew their meaning, and the ideas swirled throughout her head.

  Oh, bella, I hope your mommy will lose you today I would like very much to take you to my room yes, my room you look like you a little girl who would follow the rules

  This soldier had never been a dream at all! Fana felt a flash of startling warm heat against her skin, as if he had reached his sweaty hand across the terminal to touch her. He had touched her, she realized. He was standing there watching her, thinking about her, and his thoughts were so strong that they had touched hers while she was sleeping, and they were still touching her now. His thoughts were spilling all over her.

  Fana squirmed against her mother, trying to shrink from the soldier’s thoughts.

  “Fana, please be still.”

  The heat sensation came again, burrowing insistently beneath Fana’s clothing.

  STOP TOUCHING ME

  That was all Fana remembered thinking. She did not recall thinking about the soldier’s heart and its repulsive, excited thumping, but she must have, she would later realize. She had thought about it and wrapped her mind around that beating muscle and yanked on it so hard that it had fought her. Off with your head, said the Queen of Hearts.

  “There you are, Mrs. Wolde. You have the window and a middle seat. The flight leaves in ninety minutes, from Gate Twelve. You see that red sign? Just walk that way and turn right. Ciao. That means good-bye, you beautiful sleepy girl.”

  As Mommy began to walk away from the counter, in the direction away from the soldier, Fana continued to stare back at Giancarlo’s wide-eyed face. His mouth was open like a fish’s. He clutched at his shirt with one hand, over his heart, and his knees were bent only slightly as his weight leaned against the booth. Men, women, and even little girls were walking straight past him without the first idea that he was already dead.

  Bye-bye, Fana thought, and the soldier’s knees collapsed beneath him just before Mommy turned a corner and took him out of Fana’s sight.

  “You hungry, sweetheart?” Mommy asked, giving her a gentle shake like always.

  Mommy didn’t know! Fana suspected she had done a very bad thing, worse than making Moses fall asleep, because this kind of sleep was different. Maybe this was like Kira’s forever sleep, and Giancarlo would never wake up. All because of her.

  “No, Mommy,” Fana mumbled, feeling a little guilty, a little scared, but mostly relieved and even a tiny bit proud of herself.

  She decided it was safe to take a nap, after all.

  14

  I
f she had any sense, Jessica decided, she would have realized long ago that God was trying to send her a sign. She should have paid attention to the omens and canceled this trip a long time ago.

  The screwup with the airline and the overbooked flight from Johannesburg, which had sent her all the way to Europe, of all places, should have been her first hint. Then, she’d been stuck the entire flight next to an Ethiopian exchange student who loved the United States and never once stopped talking long enough for her to take even a catnap. The latest sign—and Jessica decided this was definitely God’s version of bright red neon—was when the man at the Ethiopian Airlines counter in Addis Ababa looked at her as if she were crazy when she said she wanted to go to Lalibela.

  “But . . . it is already June now. The month is finished soon.” He spoke with a difficult accent that told Jessica English was probably his third or fourth language, and one he did not exercise often.

  “I don’t understand,” Jessica said, opting to leave out what the hell that has to do with anything, which she’d decided was best left unspoken. Exhausted as she was, editing herself was no longer easy. She’d spent her last ounce of diplomacy on that kid on the plane, and it was getting harder to accept the world traveler’s credo that there will be a complication at every turn. She was so tired, she wanted to cry.

  The man busied himself on his computer keyboard, typing in a studious flurry. Despite her irritation, Jessica couldn’t help noticing how absolutely entrancing the man was, with flawless skin and a round, clay-brown face so sweet and perfect it was almost beautiful. She felt her heart make a tiny leap. Oh, God, that face reminded her of . . .

  “Ah, miss, you are sure you wish to go to Lalibela?”

  “Excuse me?”

  The hurried keystrokes continued, and lines marred the man’s forehead. “I ask, you see, because it is the rainy season. It rains every day. The rains come at the end of June. You will not see other faranji there, maybe. You will be alone.”

  “Fara . . . what?”

  “Tourists.”

  “Give me a ticket. One for me, one for my daughter.”

  The man raised his eyes to Jessica’s, and she was momentarily distracted by how appealing his concerned gaze was. It had been a long time since any man had felt protective of her, or at least looked as if he did. “You will not be lonely?”

  At that, Jessica nearly smirked. He was flirting with her! “I’ll be fine.”

  The man gave a short, resigned sigh. “That is okay, then. If you say it is okay.” Okay, Jessica had noticed, was the most universal and overused English word on the planet. “But this is not the best time to see the Lalibela churches. You are sure? I could show you Addis Ababa.”

  Jessica wished she could explain that she wasn’t in Ethiopia for sight-seeing. And further, that she absolutely was not sure she wanted to go, and that every time he asked her, he made her arms tingle with nervousness and her stomach flutter, feeling sour. Yes, sir, if you must know, I’m actually scared to death, and if you give me just one more good reason, I’m willing to call this whole thing off. She kept hearing Alex’s voice in the back of her head: What if they won’t let you leave?

  “Yes,” Jessica said, resolute. “I’m sure.”

  The plane they boarded on the tarmac was only large enough for seventeen passengers. And just as she’d been told to expect, the plane was nearly empty except for three men who seemed eager to talk to her, but were disappointed to learn she spoke only English. From where they sat huddled in the seats across the aisle from hers, the men nodded at her often and made playful noises for Fana—which Fana ignored, as was her habit when she believed she was being babied. Their clothing was a combination of Western and non-Western, with Western-style slacks and loafers beneath colorful ceremonial robes in layers of white, deep purple, and gold. Their heads were wrapped identically in white turbans. Glancing at them, Jessica noticed that at least one of the men was adorned with a large, heavy brass cross hanging from his neck.

  The sight of the cross nearly brought tears to Jessica’s eyes, reminding her of the gravity of her task. Suddenly, she did not feel the least bit alone. God was with her on this plane. God was with her on this journey.

  “The men wanna be . . . priests,” Fana whispered to her, and Jessica squeezed her daughter’s hand, grateful for the information. She wanted to break Fana of her new habit of easily picking up other people’s thoughts—it was impolite, and potentially unhealthy for her—but Jessica did not rebuke her today. Her gift would come in handy in a nation full of strangers.

  Besides, this was a special day, and Fana seemed to know it. On the flights from Francistown and Johannesburg, Fana had been nearly unruly at times, consumed with her delight at seeing the clouds through her airplane window. Jessica had been sure her daughter’s squeals could be heard in the cockpit, she was so loud. “See, Mommy, I can touch it! I can reach out and touch the sky!” she’d insisted. But Fana’s mood had changed noticeably today, since they’d left Rome. She was quiet, somber, reflective. Even now, as they both craned to peer through the window at the lush landscape of this new nation beneath them, Fana was silent for a long time.

  “Mommy,” Fana began after a few minutes, “what if Daddy isn’t happy to see us?”

  “I think he will be,” Jessica said. “He always wanted a family.”

  Uttering the word family aloud awakened an anxious desperation in Jessica that felt like grief. Could she truly hope that she and David and Fana were really about to become a family? Was that even what she wanted?

  “He might not anymore,” Fana said, nearly whispering, and Jessica couldn’t bear to ask herself if her daughter was merely wondering or if she’d been illuminated through her gifts.

  David had promised to wait for Jessica. He had promised. For all the lies he’d told her through the years she’d known him, she could not believe that promise had been a lie.

  “Anyone in the world would be happy to have you as a daughter,” Jessica said. “If he doesn’t feel that way, it’s his loss, sweetheart. That would be his own problem, or because he might not be happy with me. It wouldn’t be because of you.”

  “Not-uh, it might be ’cause of me, Mommy,” Fana said matter-of-factly. “He might think I’m a witch.”

  “Fana, hush about that. We’ve talked about that before. What did I tell you?”

  “I’m not a witch,” Fana said, but she didn’t sound as if she believed it. “Mommy . . .”

  “What, sweetheart?”

  Fana paused for a long time, leaving Jessica to wonder what was at the heart of that long, painful silence. “Will you always love me? Always?”

  Jessica sighed, gazing down at her daughter’s face. Fana was so strong in some ways, and yet still so fragile. That fragility, almost more than anything else, was what scared Jessica about Fana. It made her wholly unpredictable, and no matter what could mean almost anything to a child like that. She was sure Fana could do things Jessica would not even want to imagine.

  Jessica pressed Fana’s tiny hand to her chest. “No matter what happens, I’ll always love you. You may have a lot of questions the rest of your life, but you never have to ask yourself that. Never again. That’s a promise.”

  Jessica saw some of the worry vanish from her daughter’s brown eyes. Not all of it, but some. Enough that she no longer looked like an adult with too many cares, but like a young person still trusting enough to put all her naked faith in someone. Jessica envied her for that.

  But wasn’t she doing the same thing? Wasn’t faith taking her to Lalibela?

  She noticed that all three would-be priests were gazing at them. Jessica was accustomed to that gaze; it was the way strangers always looked at her when she and Fana found themselves having an earnest conversation, their heads close, communicating in a manner most people did not expect to see between a parent and a child so young. Jessica constantly had to remind herself of Fana’s age, and that she looked even younger to most people. Observers might not be able to u
nderstand the words exchanged between them, but they could certainly see the strangeness of it.

  Yeah, well, you don’t know the half of it, Jessica thought, and she slept.

  • • •

  The rest of that day unfolded exactly the way Jessica might have hoped, except more so.

  She didn’t know what made her open her eyes when she did, interrupting a sleep that felt more like a drunken stupor—maybe she’d felt a dip as the plane descended—but the next time she looked out through her window into the gray, muted sunlight, she saw Lalibela spread beneath her like a lost kingdom from a distant time. The highlands crisscrossed with deep ravines. The rock formations of red clay that reminded her of the color of the earth in northern Florida, where her mother was from. A cluster of odd-looking circular stone buildings with thatched roofs she could only guess must be homes, built over the slopes, looking like something out of medieval times. After living in the flat desert lands of Botswana, Ethiopia’s striking craggy mountains were an amazing sight. For the first time, Jessica had reached a place that was completely foreign to her in a way South Africa and Botswana had not been.

  She had reached another world.

  And then she saw one of the churches. If so many people hadn’t told her about the churches before her arrival, she might not have guessed right away that the glorious structure she could see below was a church at all, built in what looked like a vast pit at the edge of a grassy, sparsely treed clearing. It was as though God himself had carved a crater in the red-brown earth the size of a large meteor and planted the church dead in the center, a towering monument that was built, she realized with a near gasp, in the shape of a cross. It was a cross, and it had to be at least two stories high. It was the most wondrous thing Jessica Jacobs-Wolde had ever seen, this living cross staring back up at her from a miraculous hole in the earth. Who knew how many hundreds of years old it might be?

  Tears blurred Jessica’s vision. She had never been to Egypt, but how could even the Sphinx be more breathtaking than this? Or the pyramids themselves?