Dirty Passions

by Wright, Kenya

  She explained that the dish was called Fufu. She’d made it from rice and cassava. The cassava had been hard for her to get around Moscow, but Boris had told her that I would be coming. Fatuma had spent her last bit of money for me, so I made sure to eat it all up and tell her how much I appreciated the meal.

  Along with the Fufu, she served a spicy beef soup. As we ate, she told me about her journey to Russia. During the Cold War, the Soviet Union offered many Caribbean and African men and women free university education. It was a time when the Soviet state was about internationalism and support for anti-colonial movements. Attitudes towards race had been more neutral.

  These smart Caribbean and African students were lured in large numbers by offers of a free education, particularly those from newly independent nations that were building communism. Thousands of them pursued degrees in the Soviet Union, in fields such as international law and animal husbandry. But with the dissolution of the U.S.S.R. in 1991, the funding dried up and those students returned home.

  A few like Fatuma stayed due to having kids and falling in love with Russians.

  To her, that time was a golden age for free thinking about race. She argued that now the accepting social climate had changed. Currently, Russia struggled with a reputation for racism—from the abuse of black footballers, skinhead attacks against Africans, and violent policing of all immigrants. In fact, Boris’s sister Nina had joined other African students in St Petersburg’s streets to protest Russian racist behavior against minorities and immigrants.

  I thought back to what she’d told me.

  “Kids like my Boris have always had to prove to others here that he is also Russian. That he was born and raised here just like them.” Fatuma scowled. “Even when he was a little kid, they would come up to him and touch his hair like he was the oddest creature that ever lived.”

  I took a sip of my soup. “I dealt with that a little from some of the White people back home, although it didn’t happen much for me. New York has a lot of diversity.”

  “Not the same here.” Fatuma picked up her cup of tea. “When I first arrived in Moscow, I would always hear the Russian word ‘obezyana.’ Forever, I thought it mean ‘black person.’ Later, I learned that it was the word for ‘monkey.’”

  Pushing that past conversation out of my mind, I walked deeper into the kitchen.

  When Fatuma spotted me, she set the spoon next to the pot and hurried over. “Emily, I’m so glad you came. Look.”

  Excitement evident in her voice, she gestured to the doorway of the cafeteria. “Look. Did you see? Did you see what you’ve done?”

  “Well, I saw what you have done.” Smiling, I hugged her. “This is amazing. Thank you for committing to get everyone fed and off the streets in Kapotnya.”

  “This has warmed my heart more than anything.” Fatuma’s eyes watered. “There’s only a few homeless shelters in Moscow. And that is too far for ones that have no money and no way to get around. Many homeless have to sleep in train stations and abandoned areas—women with little kids. None of these places are safe.”

  I nodded. “I know a lot about sleeping in train stations and abandoned areas.”

  “Boris told me a little about your childhood.” Fatuma squeezed my shoulder.

  “Yes. However, I imagine being homeless in Russia deals with an unbearable cold.”

  “And serious police violence. Do you see the ones with black eyes?” She gestured behind me. “Look.”

  “Yes. What happened to them?”

  “If the police find the homeless in the wrong place, they’ll beat them. Others deal with health problems frequently encountered by constant exposure to cold, damp, and filthy conditions. Boils, ulcers, and necrosis. . .” Her words disappeared. Tears left her eyes.

  Boris frowned. “Mother, we don’t have time for tears today. We have a lot to do.”

  I frowned. “Boris, it’s fine.”

  “Hush.” Fatuma swatted Boris’s shoulder. She was small, and he towered over her. I doubt he even felt her hand.

  Fatuma wiped her tears. “I want Emily to understand what she’s done. How she’s helped. Boris, did you tell her about our life? We lived in the streets. Many times we slept under the pipes like other homeless have—”

  Boris uncomfortably stirred. “I’m sorry, Mother, but we came to find out about the book.”

  “I am talking.” Fatuma hit his arm again. “And you don’t say hi. You come and demand things—”

  “I’m sorry.” Boris lowered his head. “Can we please get the book now? I don’t want to keep Emily for too long.”

  Giving up, she murmured in some language and marched away.

  We followed.

  I nudged Boris. “Be nice to your mother. She’s awesome.”

  “Sometimes she can be too much.”

  “You’re lucky to have a mother at all. I don’t remember mine. She died when I was young.”

  Boris frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Just be nice to yours.”

  Fatuma opened the door and took us in the hall. There, she led us down a smaller path, stopped us in front of a room, and went in.

  “I’ll be right back,” She yelled out.

  We stayed in the hall.

  She returned, looked around, and then handed me a jean bag that clearly had a book inside. “Tell no one that I gave you this.”

  I held the bag. “I promise, Fatuma.”

  “I am not supposed to have it myself.”

  “Where did you get it from?”

  “That. . .” She shook her head. “That is not a story I want to tell, but Boris showed me the picture and told me about the dead gorilla. I want to help you. I don’t want you to leave Russia, after that.”

  “Don’t worry about me leaving, Fatuma. It will take a lot more than a dead gorilla to scare me away.” I gripped the bag harder.

  With a sad expression, she held my gaze. “If the person who put that symbol on your wall, is involved with the people who follow this book. . .then they are a nasty group. Keep your lion close. Don’t face them on your own.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It’s in English. I was never able to truly understand it all.” She gazed uneasily at the bag. “Don’t read this in front of people or even outside. You never know who is a part of this group. These people don’t want their information to get out.”

  “Okay.”

  “Fatuma!” A black woman with long gray braids peeked her head out into the hallway. “We have to finish up.”

  “Give me a few minutes.” Fatuma hugged me. “Come back, Emily. You must have dinner at my house this week. Bring your lion with you.”

  Boris shook his head. “Mother, she will be very busy—”

  “I can definitely come by.” I left her hold. “I’ve been thinking about that Fufu since I ate it.”

  She beamed with pride. “All love my Fufu.”

  We left after that. I couldn’t help but feel joy with the shelter. While I didn’t know how much Fatuma and Boris’s sister could handle. They had proven to be efficient and caring. As soon as things calmed down, I planned to give them more money and begin other projects in Kapotnya. It was their district after all. They would know the things that were necessary to help the locals’ lives.

  When we got to the limo, Boris stopped by the door. “Where do you want to go next?”

  “I was thinking last night about the mess with the gorilla.” I sighed. “Kaz wants me to handle things in Kapotnya and not deal with that, but Yuri is from here and he died over me. It wouldn’t hurt to go to his place.”

  “It wouldn’t.” Boris nodded. “I wanted to go by and check out his room, but the emergency of Paris came. And then when we returned. I didn’t have the time.”

  “Then, let’s go to his house next.” I headed to the limo. “After that. . .Abram’s brothels and the krokodil houses.”

  “What will we do with both of those situations?” Boris asked.

  “Shut them
the fuck down,” I thought of Kaz’s warning to be careful, “if we can.”

  “We’ll need people.”

  “Get them and guns. Have everyone meet us at the first spot we will go. Do you know the locations?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life. I know all the locations.”

  “Good. But first Yuri. We let his murder go unsolved for too long. Now it’s time to take care of business.”

  “Okay.” Boris frowned. “The only thing is. . .Yuri lived with his mother.”

  I considered that information. “That’s fine. We don’t want to bother her. In fact, I would love to help her, if she needs it. Yuri did good by me. The least I can do is give his mother money and check on his relatives.”

  Boris stopped.

  I did too, waiting for him to say something important.

  He gave me a sad smile and gazed at me for half a minute.

  I swallowed. “O-kay. So, let’s head out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  What was that about?

  We walked off.

  Boris opened the limo door.

  I climbed in the car.

  Max followed, suspiciously quiet throughout the entire ordeal in the shelter.

  Boris shut the door and raced off to the van.

  “Yep.” Max nodded his head. “Boris is definitely in love with you.”

  “What the hell? Nothing happened just now.”

  “Come on, Em. His mother loves you. You gave him a whole new life. His neighborhood is better. You’re fucking Joan of Arc to him. If you needed his heart or lungs, he would personally cut the organs out and hand them to you.”

  “Max, I’m ignoring you. And by the way, keep this theory from Kaz, please.”

  “You think the lion doesn’t know Boris is crushing on you? Shit. He knows.” Max took out a joint from his pocket, looked at me, and then cursed. “Damn. I guess I can’t smoke weed around you anymore. Not good for the baby?”

  “Not good.”

  “Man, I can’t wait to see him or her. I wonder what you’re having. It will be my niece or nephew. And in the college years, we’re going to be smoking together.”

  “You better not. By the way, Baba says I’m carrying a boy, but don’t tell Kaz. He doesn’t want to know.”

  “A boy.” Max nodded. “I can rock with that. A little nephew/god son. He got to smoke with Uncle Max.”

  “Don’t make me shoot you.”

  Chapter 20

  A History of Stars and Blood

  Emily

  In the limo, I pulled out the book from the bag. It was all black with gold lettering. The words Knights of Babylon covered the front. There appeared to be no author. I opened it. In pen, someone had written a paragraph in Russian on the first blank page. It looked like a personal message one person would put down when they gave a book to another. I was horrible with anything to do with the Russian alphabet. While I slowly got down listening and speaking, reading would take me much longer to figure out.

  I’ll ask Kaz what this says.

  I flipped to the next page. “I wonder how Fatuma got this book.”

  “She probably stole it.”

  “No. Not Fatuma. You think so?”

  “Definitely. It didn’t look like someone gave it to her. Plus, she didn’t want to tell you the story.”

  “I hope she tells me the story one day.”

  “I’m digging this district. I see why you’re into it.” Max looked out the window. “I love that there’s a lot of brown faces here. Leave it to you to find the one black ghetto in Russia.”

  “It’s not all Africans.”

  “But it’s more black people than I’ve seen since we got on the plane with your lion. Where are they all from?”

  “Some are kids from interracial relationships during the Cold War, when the Soviet Union had African and Caribbean students come to college for free.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Currently, Boris said that the African population is growing again due to asylum seekers, refugees, and economic migrants. Many are in Moscow illegally.” I checked out the next page. “Some in Kapotnya are undocumented migrants from the Ivory Coast and the Democratic Republic of Congo.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of political and civil unrest. Then, there’s a few from Angola. Fatuma’s neighbors are from there. It’s about a hundred thousand blacks in this country. Many fit the descriptions I’ve just said. And some just moved here.”

  “A hundred thousand blacks? That’s not much with how big Russia is.”

  “Yep.” I looked at the odd image on the page.

  A female wore a black cloak with a hood on it. An eye was drawn on her forehead. Seven stars outlined the hood. No labels helped to understand who she was.

  I turned to the next page. The symbol from yesterday showed—the star with the eye in the center. A paragraph followed. I checked it out.

  Max disrupted my reading. “Anything interesting?”

  “This star is supposed to represent the truth of our world. And the position in center is to represent the underworld.”

  “Which means what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still reading.” I turned the page. “This book is about the group, but not necessarily written by the group. The author said he gathered information from several people who didn’t want to give their names. He also thinks that he may be dead once the book is published.”

  “So, you think the people putting the gorilla heads up have something to do with this group?”

  “That’s the theory due to the symbol.” I checked the next page. “The author is trying to understand why they’re using the star. He points to Christians using the star to represent the five wounds of Jesus Christ. And then, some pagan groups refer to a star as a witch’s foot or a charm to guard against evil.”

  He leaned my way.

  I skipped some of the pages and stopped at an image of a large red square and yellow star in the center. “Later, a 5-pointed red star is used as a symbol of communism and represents the five fingers of the worker's hand.”

  I moved on.

  The second section was titled Sacrifices.

  There was a picture of a naked woman spread out on the floor. The 5-point star was drawn out on the ground with white chalk. Men stood around her in a circle, wearing white cloaks with pointed hoods.

  Max continued to check out the page. “What the fuck is that?”

  “The author said that they kidnap a woman, drag her into the place, and tie her down on the floor to be sacrificed.”

  “Yo, this shit is crazy.”

  “They brand the star and eye on her forehead.”

  “And then they kill her?”

  “Yeah. They cut her neck and wrists, then drink her blood.”

  “How many times do they do this?”

  “Every full moon.”

  “Why are they doing it?”

  “Something about sharing the woman’s life and taking on her energy.”

  Max scratched his head. “Do you think this book is going to help us find these motherfuckers?”

  “It’s going to help more than if we didn’t have it.” I read the next page, discussing a Bible story. However, I wasn’t sure if it had actually been in the Bible. I read out loud, “Satan was one of the members of the court of heaven. God was impressed with Job who had been a good man.”

  “I remember Job.”

  I smirked and continued reading, “Satan thought Job was faking it. Satan told God that Job was only nice due to all of the good fortune he was getting from God. He also assured God that Job would curse God the minute he was faced with misfortune.”

  “So, what happened to Job?”

  “God told Satan to destroy all that Job owned.”

  “That’s fucked up. Satan was a hater.”

  “The first hater of our world.” I scanned the passage. “Satan killed Job’s animals, employees, and children.”

  “What did Job do?”

/>   “Job continued to have faith in God.” I went to the next page.

  “Fuck that. I would have done exactly what Satan said and started cursing God.”

  “Which is why you’re not one of the faithful people in church.”

  “Yeah. One day, I’m going to get my life together.” Max leaned closer to me. “What happened after that?”

  “The author moved on to talking about the Knights Templar and how some would pray to Satan.”

  “Man, I want to know what happened to Job.”

  “I guess you’ll have to read the Bible for that.”

  “Either way, this group doesn’t sound like the fun kind. Fuck, man. I just want to fight some regular ass gangsters. Not some devil worshiping motherfuckers that hate black people.”

  I flipped several pages and stopped at a painting of a white man with long black hair.

  Max pointed at him. “He looks familiar.”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah.”

  I read the title. “He’s Peter the Great.”

  “Okay. I know him from Misha. That’s the dude that Saint Petersburg is named after or something like that. I know he had a lot to do with Saint Petersburg. Misha had a painting of him in a hotel room I stayed in.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What?”

  “You and Misha annoy me.”

  “Why?”

  “The bromance.”

  “We’re homeys.”

  “Whatever.” I read about Peter the Great. “Well, this guy was also a part of the Knights of Babylon. According to this, a lot of the architecture in Saint Petersburg pays homage to this cult.”

  “That’s fucked up. I love the city’s architecture. Misha told me a lot about the history of those buildings. It really hit me hard.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “Anyway, Saint Petersburg is considered the mecca of the Knights of Babylon.” I went to the next section which was labeled Initiation. “Hmmm. This can be helpful. When a person is entered into the Knights of Babylon they brand the person’s stomach with the symbol. So. . .if the person is with them, then they should have the star and eye burnt on their stomachs.”