Prologue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Rada Girl
A Young  Adult Novel

BY

Marsh Brooks
All rights reserved

 

Prologue

 

To someone watching from afar, the secret meeting seemed like something usually described in spy novels, taking place very late at night in a small one-room house illuminated by candles.  There were only three people in the room.  Although all of them were Americans, the conversation was not in English.   The only woman in the room sat on a tall wooden chair next to what appeared to be a wooden post in the center of the room.  She seemed to be around fifty years old, the freckles on her tanned face complementing her light brown eyes and dark auburn hair.  She was more captivating than pretty.   She had on a colorful floor-length dress known in Africa as a Gomesi, except that she was not in Africa.  She was neither skinny nor heavy, and wore matching bead necklace and earrings that made her look more like a gypsy.

Across from her, the man who called for the meeting was sitting on a short plastic chair.  He was sweating.  He looked much older than his forty-three years, with nicotine-stained teeth. He could have been handsome once.  He was slightly shorter than the woman.  Although he was also tanned, his tan seemed unnatural, as if it was painted on his skin. He was pleading with her for another chance.

“Mr. Ivanov, we had a deal,” she said firmly in a language that he didn’t understand.  He had to wait for the third person in the room, a teenager not much older than his own son, seated to the side between them, to translate before continuing to plead his case. As the night wore on, the man’s Eastern European accent became heavier, making his English harder to understand.  Several times during the conversation, the teenager had to ask him to repeat himself before translating his words back to the auburn-haired woman.

 “I know we had a deal,” The man begged.  “That’s why I’m here to explain.”

 “There is nothing to explain. I kept my part of the bargain and made you rich.  Now you have to keep your part,” the woman said, harshly.

“But I already gave you my wife…” He began to argue, when she interrupted him.  Although she was using a translator, in reality she didn’t need to.  It’s just that she preferred it that way.  

“The deal was that I was to make you wealthy, and, in return, you would give me one person related to you every year for five years.  If you didn’t, it was going to be you.  You gave me your wife.  Now you have four more to go,” she told him firmly. As she talked, a sudden wind draft came into the room from the small front door that was ajar, making a noise like a whistle and causing the candle lights to flicker.  As the lights wavered, the woman’s shadow swung back and forth on the corner wall, frightening him.
                “I don’t have any more relatives.  I have a girlfriend and you said because I’m not married to her, I can’t give her to you.”

“It has to be your relative either by blood or marriage,” she insisted.  Then she asked, “Why don’t you marry her?”

“I already asked. She said she wasn’t ready,” he replied.

“You have two months left or it’s going to be you,” she said.  “I thought you had a son,” she added.

 “You mean, Peter?”  The man said, horrified.  “He’s young and he’s a good kid,” he started to explain.

 “That’s not my problem.  You have to honor your agreement with me.”

The conversation lasted another five minutes and when it ended, the man had reluctantly agreed to keep the bargain.   After the meeting, the man quickly got up and walked out of the door. He wanted to be as far away as possible from the place.  He wanted to go home, but there was no airport in the small town.  Even if his chauffeur took him to the main airport, which was a couple of hours away, it was too late.  The airport had already closed for the night.   He swore under his breath when he realized that he had to spend one more night in this dreaded country.

After the man left, the woman remained seated for a few minutes, her eyes now closed.  The teenager, who already knew the routine, got up and went to a table at the corner of the room.  He grabbed a flask that was half full of Clairin, an alcoholic drink made by the locals, and brought it to the woman.  She took two large gulps of the Clairin, causing her body to shake in convulsions for a few seconds.

Then she opened her eyes as if she was waking up from a dream. When she saw the teenager standing in front of her, the voodoo priestess smiled at her son.

“What happened?” She asked, still in a fog.

“Mr.  Ivanov was here,” the teenager responded.  “He agreed to give a life to the spirit.”

The voodoo priestess remained silent for a few seconds before addressing her son again, “You see Marc, it’s not the spirits. It’s money that is the root of all evils.”

When the son didn’t respond, she got up, put the flask back on the table and said, “Let’s go home, it’s getting late.”

They then exited the house, closed the front door, and got into the new silver Mercedes that was parked in front of the small house in the secluded beachfront compound and drove away.   She could have spent the night in the main house there, but she needed to be back home. She was meeting the President of the country for brunch at the presidential palace in the country’s capital the next morning, and she didn’t want to be late.