The Girl Who Made Them Pay

by Tikiri Herath

  We left behind a gagged and bleeding Vlad on the attic floor.

  Tetyana had taken position on the top step of the third floor which gave her a good view of the rooms on the second floor and the attic room where Katy was locked up. She sat legs splayed out, gun in hand, and a look on her face that said she was ready to kill at a moment’s notice.

  Win had taken watch near the kitchen door, but I was sure it was a pretext to get her out of danger, out of the way if anything happened upstairs.

  Zero had locked himself in Tetyana and Luc’s bedroom. As we walked by the door, I heard him mutter to himself, chanting something, like he was praying.

  We slipped passed the parked police vans, walking as casually as we could.

  A slight breeze ruffled the robe. I wished I could throw it off and feel the sun on my skin again. Fresh-baked bread wafted our way as soon as we left the house. I’d barely eaten for two days, and the aroma was like a punch to the gut. I wanted to follow the smell, touch and taste the loaves, but this wasn’t the time for any of that.

  A police officer who’d been patrolling the street with his dog crossed our path.

  He glared at Luc for a second and then at me. I felt like he could penetrate the black cloth and see right inside. His face said one word: contempt. Though I was already hidden behind Bibi’s robe, that look made me want to crawl into a hole. Then, without a word, he marched off.

  Luc and I kept walking in the opposite direction, but I couldn’t help but feel the officer’s eyes on my back. After ten yards, I glanced back to see him standing, frowning at us, a hand on his radio. He yanked the dog's chain and walked off, disappearing around the corner of our building.

  We walked briskly toward the main street.

  Luc was trying to remember the city from when he last came here. “We’ve got to find the immigrant market. That’s where all Pakistani and Arab food stalls are. Zero will come out for sure when he smells that stuff.”

  I nodded, thankful he knew his way around here.

  “Just remember when we talk to the Belgians, speak both Flemish and French, so you don’t insult them, okay?”

  Through my veil, I gave him a look. “But what if I don’t speak Flemish?”

  “Then use English. The Flemish don’t mind that.”

  “Halt!”

  We stopped and stared. Two smartly dressed police officers, a man and a woman, stood in front of us, radioed up, with guns and handcuffs neatly packed in their belts.

  “Bonjour, monsieur, madame,” Luc said, with a polite nod of his head. “Goedemorgen.”

  “Can we see your papers, please?” the female officer asked in English, looking me over.

  My stomach fell. I’d left my passport at the house and Luc had done the same. For good reason. I didn’t want anyone to know I was the girl who’d stolen money in Toronto and run away from border guards in London. I could only imagine what Luc didn’t want the police to know.

  Luc answered for both of us in a mixture of French and English. “We’re on our way to the market to get groceries,” he said. “We left everything back home in case of pickpockets, you see.”

  But the police didn’t seem to see.

  “Citizens of Belgium?” the male officer asked in English.

  “Français,” Luc said. French.

  The officers turned to me.

  It felt hot inside the robe, and suddenly, I wasn’t able to articulate in any language, English or otherwise.

  “Pakistan,” Luc said, quickly.

  I gave a series of vigorous nods from under the robe.

  The officers turned to each other and spoke rapidly in a language I hadn’t heard before. This must be Flemish, I thought.

  “Follow us, please. This way,” the male officer said. They turned around and marched toward a police van parked on the edge of the street.

  Luc and I looked at each other and followed them. We had no choice.

  Are they going to arrest us? Is this the end? I squeezed Luc’s hand and he squeezed it back.

  When we got to the van, the male officer pulled Luc to the side. I followed the female officer inside the van. I looked back before I stepped in and saw Luc being patted down. The van’s door closed, and the officer motioned for me to take off my robe.

  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 all 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 with machine guns storming through the door and stripping off my robe flashed to mind. 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 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 second 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 expectantly as if waiting for an answer. I stared back quizzically.

  With an exasperated sigh, the Arabic woman pointed at herself. “Fatima.” She then pointed at me and asked in English, “And 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 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.

  “Eighteen.” It felt good to tell the truth.

  “Why-are-you-here?”

  Do I answer that? I racked my brain.

  “To eat.”

  “Eat?” The officer 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 women looked at each other with confused looks on their faces.

  “Refugie?” The Arabic woman asked. Refugee?

  I stared at her. I was digging this hole deeper and deeper.

  The officer turned to me. “Where-are-you-from? Where-is-your home?”

  “Pakistan.” That was easy. Luc had already answered this.

  “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.

  Suddenly, the officer’s radio crackled to life. This time, it was a man’s voice. When she was done with the radi
o, 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? We’re here to help.”

  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 room swirled in my head. 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. 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 felt my face go warm. 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?

  “You’re 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 her family because you fell in love with a white boy. That’s what I told them.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Come on,” Luc said.

  But, suddenly, I couldn’t do this anymore. I picked up the skirts of the robe, ran to the end of the street and glanced around.

  Nearby was a nondescript apartment building with laundry hanging in its balconies. I walked over to what looked like a forgotten alcove on the side of the building and struggled out of Bibi’s robe. I felt Luc reach over to help me. I pulled the thing 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 fresh air, soaking in the sun, and feeling the wind on my face. I took another deep breath in.

  Bibi’s scarred face flashed to my mind. I remembered how she fearfully scurried across the square in London. I folded the robe carefully, wondering what it must be like to be condemned to a lifetime of something that robbed you of your personality, self-expression, and movement. Underneath that robe, I'd felt entombed. With it on, 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, back in London. “But don’t you make money selling—”

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

  “How do we buy food?”

  “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 end 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. I spotted many 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 about having “a male guardian for 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, 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 was 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 Belgian 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, upscale, 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 s
triped 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 foods imaginable. From waffles to croissants, rolls to bagels, baguettes, whirly breads, honey buns, and sweet brioche, this was a baker’s heaven. 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, she slathered her 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.

  Where is he?

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle!”

  I jumped and swiveled around.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “Oh, hi,” I said.

  It was a man in a long, crisp apron embroidered with Chef Pierre’s logo. I stared at it. What would I do to wear that?

  With a friendly smile, he reached over to wipe a smudge of dust from the window.