Blue Gold by Elizabeth Stewart Page B

enough?
    The man knelt down to her. “Give me the necklace and I won’t hurt you.”
    Sylvie slapped her hand over the crucifix to protect it. In nightmares, she still saw the sudden anger in the soldier’s face, and how swiftly he drew the machete from his belt. After that, she remembered nothing. She woke up later, being jostled by a moving vehicle, a thick smell in the air from their burning village—blinded by the rag someone had tied over her face. She pulled the rag up enough to see that it was nighttime. She was in the back of an open truck with many other people, including Mama and the baby. Pascal was sound asleep against Mama’s side. Olivier sat apart, sullen and staring at nothing. She felt for the necklace. It was gone.
    â€œThat’s what you get for being so stubborn,” Mama said, and those were her last words about what had happened to them that day inside their house.
    â€œWhere’s Papa?” she asked.
    Olivier, only nine years old, told her, blank-faced, his eyes cold, “Papa is dead.”
    His words cut deep, as though he meant them to wound. Sylvie remembered willing herself back to sleep in the hope that when she woke up, she would be in her own bed, with Papa close by in the other room, but that wasn’t what happened.
    She shook these thoughts away as she crossed a dusty open area into a road, heading toward the shack that was Kayembe’s shop before the Tanzanians shut it down. Nyarugusu wasn’t safe for girls walking alone—she had to stay alert for trouble. Men lingered in small groups by the food stalls sipping tea, or leaned against scrubby trees, smoking. Some were on crutches, others were missing an arm or a leg. Sylvie kept her eyes forward as she passed them, but she could feel their leering stares. She ignored lewd comments from those who were shamefully drunk. One of them offered her a few shillings to have sex with him.
    Sylvie saw Kayembe standing outside his old shop, deep in conversation with two of his men, one short and scrawny and the other tall and round. Everybody knew that Hervé Kayembe was the most powerful man in Nyarugusu, and the armed men he employed were the reason why. They were dressed like makeshift soldiers, in camouflage pants and mismatched shirts. The skinny one had a handgun tucked under his belt, and the fat one a long machete.
    When Kayembe saw Sylvie approaching, he dismissed the men with a nod of his head and they ambled off.
    â€œ Mademoiselle Sylvie!” he greeted her with a sweeping bow. Sylvie thought he was making fun of her. He was a big man of fifty, maybe even sixty years. His full cheeks were rutted with deep lines. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    â€œHow do you know my name?” she asked.
    â€œWe are clansmen, from the same village. I knew your father, and I knew your mother. She was so beautiful when she was young. Just like her daughter.”
    Now Sylvie was certain he was making fun of her, calling her beautiful. Her face grew hot and prickly. She felt the scar tighten. “I’m looking for my brother, Olivier,” she told him.
    He pretended to become serious. “Businesslike and to the point. I like that. Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Sylvie, I am not at liberty to disclose Olivier’s whereabouts.”
    â€œThen you know where he is.”
    â€œSuffice to say he is doing a little work for me.”
    Sylvie shouldn’t have been surprised to have this confirmed, but it shocked her nevertheless. “What kind of work?” she asked, forcing herself to be bold.
    â€œIf I told you that, I would have to kill you,” he replied, and then he laughed so hard she could see his belly fat jiggling through his shirt. Kayembe must have seen how Sylvie feared him, because he hastened to add, “It’s a joke! Have you never seen American movies, girl?”
    â€œPlease tell me where Olivier is,” she repeated, wishing nothing more than to