She sat on the deck at the back of the house, sipping green tea with honey and staring at the Shrewsbury River. Her tea had grown cold in the crisp autumn air, but she hadn’t noticed. Her mind was far away, at another place, in another land, in another time.
A very bad time…
********** Kibungo Provence, Rwanda
April 1994
So much noise. Guns shooting. Explosions. People running, screaming. She was running too, with her mother and father and her brother, running to the church, where they’d be safe. Where God would protect them.
They were almost there, had almost made it when the soldiers in the jeep caught them.
She watched those soldiers shoot her father. She watched her mother scream and seem to dance as the bullets riddled her body, and she remembered thinking that if mama would just fall, the soldiers wouldn’t shoot her anymore.

Please mama, fall?

She watched as they grabbed her little brother. He was only eight years old. They lay him down on the ground, held him down while he cried. And then a soldier with a machete cut off his hands. Her brother screamed. She screamed too. She screamed for them to kill her brother, to not leave him like this. The soldiers laughed. And then they came for her.

They were going to shoot her. She saw them point their guns at her. But then one of the soldiers stopped them.

“Look at her green eyes,?he said. “She has a spirit in her.?

So they didn’t kill her. Instead they took her. They did things to her.

She was fourteen years old.

**********

She escaped five weeks later.

They were alone, she and the soldier who’d saved her from death only to send her to hell. He was beating her, angry because she never spoke. He wanted her to speak, to tell him how much she enjoyed the things he did to her. She bore a scar beneath her left eye where he’d cut her with a knife, trying to make her talk. But she wouldn’t speak. Her father told her there is dignity in silence. And so, no matter what they did to her, she would not surrender her dignity.

When the soldier tired of beating her he took her again. But she’d grown tired of him, too. As he grunted over her she thought about her father. She thought about her mother, doing her death dance. She thought about her little brother. Where were his hands now?

The soldier was about to finish. She could tell by the way he breathed faster. She looked at him, with his eyes squeezed shut, sweating as he trembled inside her.

Where are my brother’s hands?

Her anger replaced her fear. And then her anger turned to hate.

She didn’t realize what she done at first. But the soldier was off her, staggering back, his eyes open wide in surprise. He grabbed at his throat, but his throat was gone. As he fell back and started to die she stood up, stood over him. She spat out the bloody thing in her mouth and looked down at him. Now he was afraid. Afraid of her. Finally she spoke to him. She asked him a question…

“Where are my brother’s hands??

**********

She found safety among the refugees protected by the French military, and made her way to France as the concubine of a French soldier. She didn’t love him or want him, but it was a means to an end.

The soldier loved her. He gave her a name that meant “unfading flower.?

She liked the name.

**********

Monmouth Beach, New Jersey

“Hey, are you okay? It’s getting chilly out here.?

She turned from the river, brought back to the present by his voice. He was leaning out of the patio door, looking at her with a frown of concern.

“You should come inside,?he said. “You’re not wearing a coat.?

“I will, Simon. Thank you. I was thinking.?

He came out onto the deck. “Were you thinking about what happened again??

“I always think about what happened. It never leaves me.?

“Well, why don’t you come inside,?he said, “warm up your tea or have a glass of wine and lie down for a while, try to rest? You have to be tired, leaving so late last night and getting back so early this morning.?

“There was a problem at my club,?she said. “Pests were trying to infiltrate and had to be exterminated.?

He didn’t say anything, but she knew he was curious. But there were things about her life that she didn’t want him to know. She valued Simon’s friendship. He was a true friend, the only friend she had. She didn’t want him to think badly of her.

**********

Somewhere in Northern New Jersey
July 2005

The Northwestern sector of New Jersey known as the “Skylands?region contained two national parks, sixty thousand acres of state parkland, lakes, rivers, and rolling hills dotted with farms, towns and villages. It’s also a choice residential location for celebrities and the wealthy, whose stately multimillion dollar homes lay interspersed throughout the otherwise rustic environment.

One of the mansions was listed as owned by Abraham Levitz. If he were alive, Abraham would be sixty-six years old. However, Abraham died as an infant in his mother’s arms in a gas chamber in Auschwitz.

The mansion was in truth a brothel, owned and operated by the Solntsevskaya - one of the largest elements of the Russian Mafia.

She sat in the mansion, in the office of Viktor Mogilevich, the brothel’s caretaker.

“So our friend performed to your satisfaction??he asked her.

“Yes, she completed the contract exactly as per my instructions. Lieutenant-General Beromba believed that he was safe in prison. He was not.?

Viktor smiled and shook his head. “No one is safe from our friend if she wants them dead.?

“I have Beromba’s hands in my possession, if you would like to see them,?she said.

“No,?Viktor said. “I am well aware of our friend’s capabilities…and her thirst for blood. I’m sure she enjoyed fulfilling the terms of your contract. So tell me, have you attained adequate vengeance for your family??

“My family is still dead, Viktor. I will never have enough vengeance.?

“Well, besides vengeance, what are your plans now??

“For the time being I’ll still assist you with managing the girls here. But I have my own business now, my limousine service. And I plan to expand into other endeavors.?

“Good, good.? Viktor picked a book up from his desk. “Do you read much??

“I enjoy French literature, and history. Why do you ask??

He pushed the book across the desk. “I think you may be something of a celebrity.?

She picked up the book, an American fiction novel by someone named Simon Bishop. The book was titled ‘Memoirs of an Insatiable Man.?She looked at Viktor. “I don’t understand.?

“The bookmarked page - read it,?he said.

She read it. The writer described a tall woman of African descent, an African woman with green eyes, and a scar beneath her left eye.
She looked at Viktor, confused.

“You don’t know this man, this Simon Bishop??he asked.

She looked at the man’s photo on the back cover. “No, I don’t know him,?she said. “But I will.?

**********

Two Months Later
Freehold Raceway Mall, Freehold, New Jersey

“I just love your book,?the woman gushed. “Do you have a new one coming out? Because if you do, I’ll be the first one to buy it.?

“Thank you,?Simon said as he signed her copy of his novel. “Check my website. That’s the best source of information on when my new novel will be out.?

Simon looked up at the line of fans waiting for him to sign their copy of “Memoirs of an Insatiable Man.”

This is so cool, he thought. He was finally living his dream of being a published author. With the royalties from his first two novels and the advance on his third book, he was able to quit his day job, and was looking at buying a house on the shore. Things had turned around for him. Life was good, and was only going to get better.

Then he spotted her. She wasn’t in line, but stood near the display rack at the front of the bookstore. She was watching him.

Damn, I don’t believe it, Simon thought.

**********

After his wife Dawn decided that she wanted a divorce, Simon had gone on something of a sexual rampage. He wasn’t interested in a relationship or anything that involved affairs of the heart. After all, he’d thought he’d found the love of his life. He’d put his heart all in for his wife, and what did it get him? Nothing. So now his focus was on his dream…writing. He didn’t have the time, energy or desire to put in the work required to manage a relationship. So any relationship he had with a woman was physical only.

He was at South Beach in Miami on vacation when he met a woman named Robyn. She was all about sex too, so they got along well for a couple of nights. But when he mentioned that he was from New Jersey she seemed alarmed, and anxious to pack up and head back to wherever she’d come from.

After Robyn left he was out on the beach, just chilling and enjoying the sun when he saw one of the most striking women he’d ever seen in his life.

She was a tall sister with a rich brown complexion, and the high cheekbones and slender neck of someone from the motherland. She had a faded one inch scar below her left eye. But it was her eyes that affected Simon. As she passed by him on the sand in her bikini she looked his way. Her green eyes locked on him for a moment, and he sat transfixed. He felt as if he was caught in the gaze of a panther as it moved past in the jungle, and that the only reason he wasn’t devoured was because the cat had no desire at the moment to feed.

He never forgot that woman. And as he worked on his novel, he included her by description as one of the women his primary character encountered.

And now, here she was again, in New Jersey, locking him with her penetrating green gaze.

**********

“Do you believe in coincidence??she asked.

They sat in the mall food court after his book signing session.

“I believe that things often happen for a reason, even if we never know why,?Simon said.

“Do you think there was a reason you saw me on the beach that day??

“I’m thinking there must be,?Simon said, “because here we are again, years later and twelve hundred miles away.?

“Do you have many friends, Simon Bishop??

“I know people. Some are friends, I guess.?

Her green eyes bore into his. Cold, emotionless eyes.

And then she blinked.

And her eyes misted over.

“I have no one,?she said. “There isn’t a person in the entire world that I can call my family, or my friend. There is no one to whom I can talk about my life.?

Simon didn’t know what to say.

“Perhaps, Simon Bishop, since you are a writer, one day you might tell my story,?she said.

“I’m sure your life is very interesting.?

“Yes, one might say that.?

“Would I be correct in thinking that now isn’t the time for you to tell me your story??he asked.

“I could only tell my story to a friend.?

“I see.?

“Perhaps in time we’ll become friends, Simon Bishop.?

“Well, it might begin with you telling me your name.?

“I don’t use the name given at my birth,?she said. “There are too many unpleasant memories associated with that name.?

“Then what should I call you??

She stood up to leave. “Look up the name that means unfading flower,?she said. And then she disappeared into the crowd.

**********

That night Simon looked up the name that meant “unfading flower.?

His new friend’s name was Amarante.

?November 2007
The Black

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