I sneered,
“Case closed.”
He had no answer so I ventured,
“Ever hear of Benjamin J. Cullen?”
I could tell by his face that he had. He looked away, then said,
“No.”
I said,
“You’re a bad liar.”
That gem hovered over for us until he said,
“Cullen was of interest to us but he’s connected to all kinds of top people so we were told to stay away from him.”
I said,
“He gave me a nonsafety match: It’s his calling card.”
Owen sighed, said,
“A discreet investigation was conducted but nothing solid was found. The guy gives out matches. Try bringing that to a judge — a judge Cullen plays golf with.”
I stood up. Owen asked,
“You don’t want another round?”
I tried to keep my rage in check, said,
“I’d love another drink.”
He seemed relieved, said,
“There you go, same again?”
I said,
“Just not with you.”
I got back to my apartment late. Shadows in the hallway and what appeared to be a bundle of rags outside my door. I edged forward cautiously. In the past, items left outside my door brought nothing but strife and violence.
The bundle moved. A small face appeared.
I was dumbstruck.
The girl Sara, one of the miracle children. She looked at me, said,
“Help me.”
I got her inside, gave her tea, biscuits, all of which she devoured with a fierce focus. I waited until she settled a bit, then I asked,
“How?”
I expected her to speak, if she could indeed speak at all, in broken English, but her English was near fluent — just one of many surprises to come. She said,
“I have listened and imitated English for many years, all the time of my travel.”
Then,
“May I have more tea?”
I got that, my mind in wonder mode, poured a large Jay for my own self. She said,
“I followed you after you got out of the hospital. I believed there was something on your face that said you were a man who helps.”
I said,
“You’re very grown-up for what? Fourteen years of age?”
She gave a tiny smile and it transformed her from urchin to someone aware and capable.
She said,
“I am much more in years than that but, during our travels, our being moved from country to country, it was wise to seem like a child.”
The question hanging over us,
The fire?
She saw in my face, said,
“I was not in the house.”
I asked the glaring question,
“Why?”
She studied my face, found nothing to spook her, said,
“I go to get candies for the boy. ‘Candies’ is the correct word?”
The fuck I knew but I nodded.
Her face crumpled for a moment and a tiny tear escaped, rolled down her cheek, fell to the carpet with — I swear — a soft sound. She composed herself with a practiced effort, fixed her features into a hard nine-yard stare, said,
“I cannot say his name, not since he burned, and I had left him unsafe, always, before, in all the danger, the ships, the bad men...”
Paused.
“The very bad men, women too, I kept my boys safe. I had a knife after Greece, and I used it.”
A hint of pride in that but short-lived as she realized again she wasn’t there when it counted. She continued,
“I saw the man.”
Fuck.
I held up a hand, went,
“Whoa, what man?”
Her face darkened, she spat,
“The man who set the fire, the man who waited until it burned high, then he bolted — is right word, to ‘bolt’? To stop? The door?”
God almighty.
I checked,
“You saw him? You saw him clearly?”
She looked at me, asked,
“You see the demon, you think maybe you forget what he looks like?”
I poured another Jay, she asked,
“This is Irish whiskey?”
I held the bottle mid-pour, asked,
“You know it?”
She gave a mirthless laugh, said,
“I know
Brandy.
Ouzo.
Metaxa.
Tequila.
Rake.
On the ships, all the travels, the men, they give us all kinds of drinks, to have a way with us?”
Jesus. I didn’t want to ask. Would you?
She said,
“I had my knife and I drank their poisons.”
Added sadly,
“The boy, they made him sick so I drank his.”
My face must have registered some of my horror. She said,
“I tell you before, I tell you, I am older than my face. My body is small, no food or food with worms, you do not develop, but my mind, I fed my mind with hate. Hate makes you old in the heart, in the soul.”
Unconsciously, I muttered,
“An old soul.”
She gave me a lovely smile and it transformed this girl-child into something glorious, something fantastically ferocious in the very best way.
She put her hand out, commanded,
“Now give me Irish whiskey where I do not have to use my knife.”
There was absolute threat in this request but a soft pleading too. I poured her a shot, she held the glass still outstretched, said,
“A drink for not-a-child.”
I poured more and she drank it like a docker.
I asked,
“You were there when a truck hit me.”
She gave a guilty smile, so I pushed,
“Did you try to rob me?”
“Yes.”
I near shouted,
“You could try denying it, for God’s sake.”
She went hard-core serious.
“I do not lie. I do many things that are very not good but I never lie.”
Oddly, I believed her.
Another smile, then,
“I know a man who is good — dangerous but good. I know because in the three years of our journeys to this...”
Pause.
“...place, I have known almost nothing but the terrible men, so one who has some soul of light, I know it.”
Well, I was this far in, might as well go for broke. I asked,
“The miracle? The Madonna cry, what was that.”
Without a beat, she said,
“A trick, a cheap light trick they have in village in Guatemala.”
Before I could echo “Guatemala,” she yawned, asked,
“Please, now I sleep.”
I gave her my bed, said,
“Sleep well. You are safe here.”
She gave me an impish grin, said,
“Of course. I have my knife.”
Touché.
As she turned to go, I noticed the snake tattoo on her left arm. As her arm stretched out, it seemed as if the snake, a cobra, unfurled, its hood in full effect, the fangs clearly etched, and, I swear to god, it looked like it was about to strike me. I jumped back in fright, muttered,
“Fuck, get a grip.”
She smiled and almost absentmindedly scratched at what appeared to be a cross under her left jaw.
She then uttered a sentence I didn’t understand. The way she said it, it sounded like a curse. I am far too familiar with curses to mistake one for a blessing. She then gave me a look of such sultry, sensual intensity that I had to turn away. She disappeared into the bedroom. I was badly shaken, got a pen, and wrote down what she’d said as phonetically as I was able.
Took me ten minutes to find an approximation on Google; it was Aramaic.
Another ten minutes to attempt a translation; it seemed to be:
You will perish in awesome torment.
No, that couldn’t be right. She was just a young, traumatized child, and I would keep her safe. Like all my bright ideas, interpretations, I was utterly wrong.
I sat by her bed, keeping vigil.