After the song ended, she slipped to the bar and took a bottle of Castle lager from the bartender, purposely avoiding the eyes of the men on either side of her. She was an expert at the game. The men who had money wanted the illusion of conquest—a girlfriend experience. They wanted to believe that the attraction was a shared phenomenon. She put on her bored face and took a small swig of beer, waiting while another pulse-pounding song turned the dance floor into a hive of sweat and motion.
It didn’t take long for a young man to approach her. He was dressed casually, but she could tell he had money from the cut of his leather jacket, the shine of his shoes, and the gold watch he wore on his wrist.
“Hey, honey,” he said in Nyanja, “let me buy your beer.”
Bella had heard the line countless times over the years. When she was younger and still thought the world could change, she had despised it. She had loathed the bars and the men, the exchange of intimacy for kwacha. That part of her—the girl who believed in the future—had eventually died, leaving behind only numbness and need. The come-on meant nothing to her now. It was business, the job that kept Kuyeya and her alive.
“That’s nice of you,” she replied, clearing a space for him.
The man put some kwacha on the counter and leaned toward her, speaking over the music. “A girl as pretty as you, why haven’t we met before?”
She studied him carefully. She guessed he was in his early twenties and a young professional—a lawyer or a businessman. There was something vaguely familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place it.
She gave him a flirty smile and ignored his question. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” he asked.
“Bella,” she answered, playing along.
“I like that. Tell me, Bella, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He swept his arm across the room. “These men have no refinement, no class.”
His contempt surprised her. Alpha was one of the hippest bars in Lusaka. She touched his arm. “If you don’t like it, we can go somewhere else.”
“But you just started your beer.” He signaled the bartender to bring him a bottle of Mosi, then placed his hand on hers. “I knew another girl named Bella. She was from a village in Tuscany. Do you know where that is?”
“Italy,” she replied swiftly. She wasn’t a simpleton.
He laughed. “How far did you go in school?”
“I got my diploma,” she said, the lie more alluring than the truth. “How about you?”
“I went to university in London.” He gestured with his hand. “Why don’t we sit down?”
She allowed him to take her arm and lead her to a table by the door. The air was colder here, and goose bumps quickly formed on her skin. He surprised her again by wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” she said.
He gave her a sly smile. “If it matters so much, why don’t you guess?”
“There are an infinite number of names in the world,” she objected.
“Ah,” he said, “now I know you don’t belong here.”
She feigned a flattered laugh and searched his eyes, trying to figure out his agenda. She was not used to this, the client being in control. She waited until the silence became awkward and then took a guess. “Is it Richard?”
He shook his head. “But you’re close. It’s the name of a king.”
“George,” she guessed.
“Not a mere monarch. A king of kings.”
“Alexander, I don’t know.”
His eyes glinted in the light. “Most girls bore me. It’s rare to find one who does not.”
She gave him a blank look, suddenly weary of the contest. If he didn’t want to tell her his name, she would give him one: Siluwe. He had the cunning of a cat.
“I have a flat close by,” he said, touching her fingers with his. “I promise you’ll like it.”
She hesitated. As a rule, a girl never went home with a new client. Sex could be had in a hotel, a bathroom, a car. In a private residence, the risk of violence was too great.
“Name your price,” he said, sensing her reticence.
She folded her hands and felt the absence of the ring. She had left it with Kuyeya as she always did when she went out. She looked toward the dance floor, doing a calculation in her mind. She had doctor bills to pay. Kuyeya needed medicine for her heart. There was danger in taking the man’s offer, but danger was nothing new. Any client could turn into a monster.
“A million kwacha,” she said. “For an hour, no more.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she had the thought again that he looked familiar. Something about his eyes, his self-assurance, what was it? She couldn’t figure it out.
At last he gave her a lopsided smile. “Darious. My name is Darious.”
chapter 9
Lusaka, Zambia
August, 2011
The response team congregated again on Monday morning. Zoe sat across from Joseph, anxious to hear his report. She had left him a voicemail on Sunday asking about his nocturnal adventures at Alpha Bar, but his response had been a cryptic text: “Good things come to those who wait.”
She had replied: “They better be good. I hate waiting.”