“They said it was nothing more than the wild ravings of primitives—”
“What? Who said?”
“The natives in the South Pacific. Three days ago, they said you ended the jungle battle. Called you Miracle Madame.”
The heavy ring on the second finger of her left hand vibrated. She looked down into the stone and saw brilliant green, marred by slashes of red.
“Then, in Guatemala, two days ago they said you stopped a corrupt trial, saved many lives.” François’ hands flew wildly as he spoke as if they too could talk.
“They called you la señora de los milagros. And now. Here. Madame, what you did… The square was empty. Suddenly you were there. And then the Spinda charged. I thought you would be killed. I was sure you would die.”
So, this was the third journey so far. What would come next?
She looked past François to the bleak town square. She’d been transported to this desolate pinhole somewhere in Asia. So like her beloved Sahara; but not. Key elements—the primal savagery, the welcoming embrace, and the prehistoric origins of man drawing her close; all that she associated with Africa was missing here. Nor would there be smiles in this country; none like the heart-wrenching wide warm smiles of African children.
What did she know of Africa, anyway? Stupid, the places her mind took her. She swallowed back tears. The oppressive heat pushed down on her, made breathing difficult. The air tasted stale, heavy with dust.
The broad unpaved streets beyond the square were lined with dull brick buildings, old and dilapidated, interspersed with piles of rubble. A country so poor that there weren’t even signs of garbage or remnants of plastic bags snagged in the debris. Not even the soft light of dawn or dusk would relieve the harsh edges and dismal atmosphere. Such a sad, sad place to live. Did she live in a place like this? Her whole body shuddered at the possibility.
She stood, took a few shaky steps towards the center of the square, and turned full circle. She spotted a mosque, and despite being partially blocked by other buildings, she knew it was not like any she had seen before. The mosques in Istanbul dazzled with life and color, the ones in West Africa profound with character and dignity in the humble mudbrick construction. This mosque was square and sharp and stark; a harsh betrayal of the people who worshipped in it.
There were no signs of life under the midday sun. Even the scurrying insects had taken refuge from the heat, burrowed into the sand, and found cool crevices in the bricks and mortar. Night would be another story. How did she know that? Had she travelled here before? She closed her eyes and let her mind wander.
Woken in a strange room by scratching and scurrying sounds, rising to flip on the light switch to see moving walls of insects, all sizes and shapes, feeding on each other. No netting to build a fortress, to tuck securely around the mattress. Wild scramble for pagne, sandals, blanket; relief of cool night air. Snatched traces of sleep curled up in a chair on the terrace, enveloped in the blanket. Burrowing out from under a dune of sand in the morning, ears, eyes, nose, every body crevice, and pore plugged with grains of sand. Little dunes of sand in the bottom of the shower stall for days after.
Attempting to grasp and build on these flashes of memory was futile. They evaporated into wisps of air that floated high in the sky.
François spoke, in little more than a whisper. “Madame?” His voice, human and soothing, and here and now, calmed her. She was thankful for his presence and concern. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.
What do I do next? I need an instruction manual, damn it. And you, Francois, can damn well stop looking at me like I have all the answers.
Step one: Stop the Spinda.
Step two: Order everyone to gather tomorrow.
Step three: What would the magic manual say? Surely there was a manual somewhere for this sort of thing.
François touched her shoulder. “Madame?” François was the answer. Yes, of course.
Why hadn’t she thought of that sooner? She’d tap into his knowledge of the country, his ideas, anything he offered. She’d use him to hold her focus and get the job done. “You’ve been here for some time. You know the situation much better than me. Do you have any ideas?”
He shook his head slowly, despairingly, she thought. No, François, don’t tell me you haven’t any ideas. You must have something you can tell me, something I can hang on to.
“Madame, I have lived with the people here through poverty, war, the communist occupation, and now the Spinda. I have taken pictures, reported to the world, begged for help. You will do the right thing.”
But, what?
François opened his mouth and closed it several times. He was a reporter. He must have had hundreds of questions, and didn’t know where to start or if he should at all. She prayed he wouldn’t for she had no answers. She closed her eyes as her mind started to roller-coast again.