Without Faith (14 page)

I'd met Kisu's fiancé, Mbali, only once, that night of our arrival. As the oldest woman in her bustling household, she rarely seemed to stand still, was constantly at work out of view. I barely remembered her. What I did remember was that first night she came out to greet me by the fire. Sensing my discomfort at sharing plates with total strangers as part of their communal meal, she flashed me a wide smile and gave me my own plate, piled high with cabbage, yams, and corn meal porridge, or
phutu,
instead of the kidneys, lungs, and brains, or offal, of some livestock that had been slaughtered for the celebration.

She'd spent a short time at the London university with Kisu, so was not offended by my Western bias. In the crackle of flames, she giggled with me as I discreetly passed along the gourd filled with
utshwala,
or Zulu beer, without drinking from it. A lot of mouths had been on that single gourd.

Mbali, whose name meant “flower,” had a smile and a spirit that rivaled the majestic mountains that surrounded their village. I remembered feeling slightly jealous of her beauty, her will, and strength.

“The fire is alive, so it makes our traditions alive. We are nourished and fed by the foods that we prepare and share together. Come, taste, Sister Sienna. Life taste good, does it not?” She laughed and we all joined in, the men and I, as I bravely sampled
amazi,
or curdled milk, and took a bite of cow's head off of RiChard's plate.

I did not see her again, not even the night Kisu did not return, the night RiChard returned with blood on his hands, fighting, defending what he called justice. Avenging the tragedy of Kisu's murder; a murder, RiChard claimed, that was done by some who did not appreciate their message of revolution. Kisu's mother trembled at the news that her only son was not returning. His father had been eerily solemn and still as he gave RiChard Kisu's ring as a gift for his action of reciprocal vengeance. Someone said Mbali had locked herself in her home, refusing to let anyone witness her grief.

But RiChard had apparently lied.

Kisu was still alive.

I wondered what other lies he'd told me, told the world.

I woke up startled, a downpour of sweat making my clothes stick to my skin, hot like I was still standing in front of Mbali's living fire. I did not remember getting into my bed and hiding under the covers. The moments after Leon's departure were a blur to me. My light was still on and I sat up, catching a glimpse of myself in my dresser mirror.

I looked like I'd had the worst day of my life.

My hair was all over my head. My eyes were red and puffy. My face looked swollen, as if all the ingredients that had made my day horrid had combined to create an allergic reaction inside of me. I felt sick, itchy, hot, heartbroken. I collapsed back down into my layers of blankets, wishing, hoping that my recent memories had all been a dream, but I was still wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing when living out my nightmare.

It had all been real.

The clock next to my bed read 2:17 a.m. Leon had left sometime between six and seven p.m. last night. Had I really been asleep for over seven hours? Had the day really ended and a new one begun? I groaned at the realization, wondering what horrors awaited me. My hope for a better day was dimmed.

The spicy-smelling BMW crossed my mind and I sat back up. Surely that man was probably in a panic, wondering why I had not contacted him about returning his car. I looked at the clock, then decided that a text message would not be too intrusive this time of night. I imagined that he would at least wake up knowing that I'd had enough decency to thank him again for the use of his wheels when he checked his phone.

I crashed back down into my bed after pressing send, too awake and shaken to fall back asleep, but too uncertain to know what else to do. My phone buzzed with an incoming message almost immediately.

As I sat there wondering if my text had woken Laz up, or if he was a night owl, another text came through.

Was the man suggesting a late-night booty call? I frowned, thoroughly offended and completely turned off—and not sure how to respond. I typed slowly.

His reply was again immediate.

I tried to recall our conversation over the lunch that didn't happen, but only one question came to mind.

This time, several minutes went by before my phone buzzed with his reply.

The idea of having a man over to my house this time of night was out of the question for me—but he sounded willing to help me find my son. I was desperate and he was available to help at the moment. The man had a busy life, I told myself, and if this is the time he could help, then so be it. Plus, I was too awake after my seven hours of straight sleep.

Okay, I pecked into the small screen of my phone. I deleted it and retyped it twice before finally sending it through.

I remembered that he'd said that he lived in Ellicott City, no short ride from my residence, if that was where he was coming from. Surely a drive from that far away this time of night was not just for charity. I may have been out of the dating cat-mouse game for years, but I had enough insight to remember the unspoken rules.

I didn't care if I was falling into some kind of trap. I was grown enough to stop an unwanted advance and panicked enough to accept any kind of help.

I was desperate and he was available to help at the moment.

By three a.m., I had showered, combed my hair, and changed my clothes. I had turned on my coffee maker—something I rarely did—and flipped on the television. I nestled onto my sofa, waiting for the knock that I knew was coming any moment, wondering what the heck I had just agreed to do with Laz. I had on my “ugly” outfit: an old blue and white plaid flannel shirt and worn black leggings. It was what I wore when doing yard work, the times that Leon's schedule didn't allow him to help me with mowing my lawn, trimming my bushes.

The wound was still too fresh as I blinked back tears.

I turned up the volume on my television to mute my thoughts, to drown out my vision of him stretched out emotionally bleeding somewhere.

I'd hurt that man and all he ever did was genuinely love me.

I love you, Sienna.
I could still hear him.
I love you and I care about you and I want to know your answers.

Answers. That's all I wanted now. That's all he wanted then.

I turned the volume on my television up even louder.

“Good evening, all you lovers and ladies in TV land.” A man's voiceover sounded. “It's time for the one, the only,
The Soul Mate Show.
”

I leaned forward on my sofa as the theme music of another episode began. A man was the main contestant this time, and the trio of women he could choose from were variations of low-cut, too-tight, overly made-up teases. Sex à la carte. I rolled my eyes at the parade of desperation that flashed on the screen.
Where are the regular-acting and regular-looking women who are quietly seeking lasting love?
I was about to snap the foolishness off when a quick still caught my eye. As part of the opening credits, the grand prize was previewed.

“A fantasy date at La Chambre Rouge . . .”

La Chambre Rouge.

I remembered that Jenellis and Brayden were hosting their wedding at that very same location, the same spot where Brayden was supposed to take Silver for their prize date.

What's the connection?
I wondered, but I didn't have more time to ponder it. A light knock sounded on my door. It was a gentle knock, but I knew that the man behind it was anything but that; and, as he'd told me, he didn't think I quite fit that bill either.

“Stay focused, Sienna,” I reminded myself as I stood to answer it. I peeked through the peephole, and he seemed to be staring directly back at it.

“Hi, Laz.” I gave a half smile as I opened the door for him.

“I'm surprised you let me come.” He grinned as he stepped in. He was wearing his signature brown trench coat, and his fedora was in his hand.

“You said you could help me find my son.”

“I thought we were looking for RiChard?”

“Same difference,” I muttered as I shut the door behind him. We headed up to my living room and I was suddenly embarrassed that I had chosen to wear my “ugly” clothes. I realized that it was obvious that I had tried to make myself look as unattractive as possible. If Laz had an opinion about my blue flannel and black leggings, he hid it well. I curled up in an armchair and he sat down on my sofa.

“So, what information do you have so far?” He pulled out a notepad, a laptop, and an hourglass, and set them on the coffee table between us.

“What's the hourglass for?”

“Ah, I'm going to turn it over and you are going to tell me everything you can think of regarding your last contact with RiChard.”

I raised an eyebrow and he chuckled.

“I've found that the element of pressure sometimes makes the human brain work more efficiently. Let's go.”

I shook my head, but played along. “His father is from the Caribbean, his mother is from Italy, and I last saw him in California when Roman was less than two months old. He said at that time that he was headed for somewhere in South America. He's called a few times over the years, sent packages”—but no money, I left that part out—“and the last time I heard directly from him was when he called on Roman's thirteenth birthday.”

I closed my eyes at the memory of Roman's elation that his father had called to pronounce him a fully grown “warrior.” When he finished talking to him, I'd gotten on the phone and finally had the courage to challenge him somewhat about not being a part of our lives on a regular basis. He'd excused his absence as usual by stating that he was doing “what was right” for the sake of the universe by fighting for social justice for all.
“I have to make the world a better place for you and our son, Sienna. This is my duty.”

“Bitter are we?” Laz interrupted my memories and I realized I was probably frowning.

“Huh? Oh, where was I?”

“You were filling me in on how RiChard was a deadbeat dad.”

“That's not what I said.”

Laz studied me for a moment, his finger resting on his bottom lip. Finally he said, “What . . . what else do you have for me?” He looked down at his notepad. I could see the boredom stretching across his face and I imagined that he was thinking that I was simply a scorned, angry woman looking for her child's father to demand support.

No breaking news story here.

“The package.” I hesitated, but then walked over to my china cabinet where the box hid out of view behind the bottom right door. I brought it over and added it to his supplies on the table. “I received a call almost two years ago from a stranger in Portugal who said my husband's ashes were being mailed to me.”

Laz's eyebrow rose quickly. “So I am trying to find the whereabouts of a dead man, okay, continue.”

“No, I mean, when I got the package, it was an urn, but there were no ashes inside.”

“So the urn was empty?”

“No. The ring I showed you earlier today was inside of it, wrapped up in a thick wad of bubble wrap.”

“That ring was crazy ridiculous. I've never seen anything like it. It has to be worth a pretty penny. Was it RiChard's?”

I nodded my head. “You know, I don't think I have ever seriously considered how much the lion's head ring is worth. I've never looked at it in terms of its monetary value. When I look at it, all I see is loss.”

“How so?” He put down his pen.

Did I really want to tell Laz that the ring had originally belonged to RiChard's best friend? That he'd only gotten it when he told Kisu's father that he had killed the men who supposedly killed Kisu? That seeing the blood on RiChard's hands on that fateful day forever changed the way I looked at him, the way I looked at his self-defined life mission?

I did not want to talk about it. The stew of emotions that simmered in me from merely
thinking
about it was enough to make me feel like I would break into a full-blown boil.

But I was determined to find Roman.

“He'd told my son about the ring once during one of his phone calls to us. Told him he'd give it to him when he was eighteen, but then later said it got lost when he was assisting with clean-up efforts in Indonesia after the terrible tsunami in '04. Seeing the ring in that urn after all these years, after being told it was forever lost, was a great surprise.”

“Do you know where RiChard got the ring? That might be a good clue to start from. A piece of jewelry that big has got to have a story, a paper trail, something behind it.”

“It was his friend's, Kisu's.” I struggled with what to share. I shut my eyes, seeing anew the blood on RiChard's hands, feeling anew the queasiness in the pit of my stomach that came every time I remembered that RiChard had admitted murder, “for the sake of what was right,” for supposedly avenging the death of his good friend. I opened my eyes, swallowed the bile taste in my mouth, and did my best to continue.

“His friend Kisu was . . . was killed, and Kisu's father gave RiChard the ring before Roman was born; but that package that came from Portugal two years ago was initiated by Kisu. He was never dead. The letter I showed you earlier that was written in Portuguese? Well, here is the translation.” I'd printed both the translation and the picture that had been e-mailed to me by the helpful newspaper editor. Laz looked at both.

“So Kisu is going around claiming to be RiChard,” he commented. “Do you mind if I make copies of these?” he asked even as he took out his smartphone and scanned both the letter and the picture of Kisu's fake ID.

“What is Kisu's last name?” He was writing something down.

“I don't remember. Started with an O, or maybe an A, or R, or, I really don't remember. It was something really long. I could never pronounce it. He and RiChard used to laugh at how I stumbled over it.”

“Where was he from?”

“His village was somewhere in KwaZulu-Natal, in one of the most scenic, mountainous areas of South Africa, but he studied and lived part-time in London. That's where RiChard met him, during a study-abroad experience he had when he was an undergraduate.”

“So you don't know any of his people, his family?”

I shut my eyes again, remembering the strong, austere look of his father, the pride and humility that somehow balanced on the face of his mother. But I could not recall their names. I shook my head, opened my eyes again.

“All I remember is that he had a fiancée named Mbali. I dreamt about her last night, and I hadn't even thought about her once in years.” I smiled. “She had been a student at Kisu's university but then dropped out to help her family at home when her mother died. She was the oldest girl, and was ordered to come help care for her younger siblings, despite having two older brothers who lived right there, or so I remember. I remember thinking she had every reason to be angry, to be bitter; but she truly lived up to the meaning of her name: flower. She was very nice toward me when I was there, and the way she and Kisu looked at each other . . .” I stopped as a stinging sensation that filled my chest threatened to bring me to tears. “We did look at each other like that once, RiChard and I,” I whispered.

Laz was too busy scribbling down notes to notice my sudden spell of heart sorrow. “Perugia, Italy,” he mumbled before looking back at me. “You said his mother was Italian. Is that the city she was from?”

“Yes. I never met her though. His father, either. RiChard showed me a picture once of them that he kept with him. It was a picture of all three of them together, all smiling. They looked like an ad for the United Colors of Benetton,” I said, chuckling. “All of them were beautiful, his dad with his dreads, his mother with her long, dark hair, pale green eyes, and freckles.”

I paused, thinking of when RiChard showed me the photo. It was the same night that I'd introduced him to my parents at Thanksgiving dinner my freshman year of college, when I told them I was dropping out of school to marry him and travel with him around the world.

After the firestorm of my mother's wrath and my father's silence, we'd sat in his old, rusted car and he showed me the one picture he had of his parents. RiChard was about sixteen years old in that photo, from what I remembered him saying, the same age Roman was now. He told me that the events that led to his parents' divorce happened shortly after the picture was taken and all three of them more or less went their separate ways, leaving RiChard on his own. I never knew what had happened to his parents' marriage. I never asked and he never volunteered that info.

“Okay.” Laz was back to writing. “Can I see a picture of RiChard?”

“I don't have one.”

He looked back up at me with a question on his face; but I guess he saw the look on mine and left it alone.

“I know you said you never met his mother, but do you know anything or anyone in Perugia? I guess I'm trying to figure out the significance of Kisu using this address.”

“I don't know a living soul in Perugia or any other parts of Italy.” I shook my head. “No, wait. Well, that's not really anything.”

“What?”

“The person who translated the letter from Portugal for me two years ago was a teacher at a community college. I briefly signed up for her course solely to seek assistance with getting answers about the package from someone who could speak the language; and the night I went, the only other student there said he was originally from Perugia. He seemed willing to help, but I had too much going on at the time.” I could still see in my mind the young man with the tight jeans and white tee, looking a like a cologne or underwear model, his accent thick, his manner casual. “His name was Luca. Luca Alexander. He signed up for the class because he was planning a trip to Rio and wanted to learn basic Portuguese before then.”

Laz dismissed my comments with a quick wave of his hand. “Unless he is someone you really know, or are in touch with, I don't really see how that is helpful. So, anyway,” he moved on, “you've given me a lot to start with. I'll check some of the resources and sources I have and will see if I can come up with some clues of RiChard's whereabouts.” He looked me squarely in the eye. “That is, if he is even still alive, and is willing to be found.”

“Roman obviously found something to make him willing to leave and look.”

I could tell Laz was weighing what I said as he began packing up his things.

“You're leaving?”

“Yeah, unless you want me to stay.” His face unfolded into a wide smile that made me uneasy.

“No, I mean, it's . . .” I struggled to find words. “I thought you were going to help me. I just told you all I could about what I know, or don't know, as it is. How are we going to do this, find him?”

“I am helping you. You gave me info, and I'm going to follow up on it. That's what I do.”