The Pirate's Daughter by Robert Girardi Read Free Book Online

question.
    â€œYes,” Wilson said. “That stuff smells pretty good.”
    â€œNo, no,” the old man said, “kitchen is closed. We have only tejiyaa now.”
    â€œA glass of tejiyaa’s fine, but you couldn’t bring me a little something to go along with it? An appetizer?”
    â€œImpossible,” the old man said.
    â€œNothing?”
    The old man gestured to the table where the Bupandans sat devouring mounds of food. “We serve them everything,” he said. “Special celebration tonight.”
    â€œAll right,” Wilson said, but he must have looked disappointed because the old man raised a hand.
    â€œWait, O.K.?” and he turned and went over to the other table. A few quick words were exchanged in Bupandan; then he stepped back again.
    â€œThey say you may join them if you wish,” he said. “But you must buy your own bottle of tejiyaa.”
    â€œThanks,” Wilson said, “but I couldn’t impose—”
    The old man’s yellow eyes came to life for a moment. “You may join them,” he insisted. “Bupandan hospitality.”
    Wilson didn’t have much of a choice. A place was made at the crowded table, and he found himself squatting in the midst of a Bupandan birthday party. The sleek youth to his right had just turned twenty-one. He wore a birthday outfit of purple shorts, a black silk shirt printed with yellow soccer balls, and black-and-gold woven sandals. His name, if Wilson could make it out right was Kuji N’fumi. His brother, about ten years older, sat on Wilson’s left. He was Tulj Ra’au. The other dozen or so young men introduced themselves one by one, but Wilson didn’t catch more than a mouthful of syllables. They seemed a jovial group, laughing and telling jokes in Bupandan, with an occasional lapse into a colorful sort of English for Wilson’s benefit, and the blue bottles of tejiyaa came and went, and the kif was eaten and replaced by na’kif and kif’tu—all variations of the same spicy goulash, with chickpeas, beets, and chicken respectively. It was not until halfway through the meal that Wilson noticed the scars.
    Each man had them, sinister pinkish lacerations showing distinctly against the dark black skin. They were not tribal markings, but healed-over wounds, as if someone had once attacked this group with a rather long knife. A few lacked the usual number of fingers or toes. On his left hand Tulj Ra’au had only the thumb and little finger, the stub of the third digit decorated grotesquely with a gaudy ring of intricate gold openwork.
    â€œYou like my ring?” Tulj saw Wilson looking at it.
    â€œY-yes,” Wilson stuttered unconvincingly.
    Tulj took the ring off his stub and handed it over to Wilson, who held it up to the light, nodded politely and handed it back.
    â€œIt’s very … elaborate,” Wilson said.
    Tulj threw his head back and laughed, showing healthy whiteteeth and gold fillings. “No, it is Anda crap,” he said. “You are just being polite. The Andas are like savages, children. They are fond of gaudy trinkets, like this ring. I wear it only to remind me of the Anda pig I killed. I cut his throat and took the ring; then I cut off his ears; then I cut off his head, like that!” He brought his mutilated hand down on the table in a karate chop with sudden fury, and the atmosphere of the party changed in that instant. Tulj let loose in Bupandan, shaking the ring at his companions. A few of the young men covered their faces with their hands and began rocking back and forth. N’fumi’s eyes filled with tears. Others rose quickly, stalked halfway down the block, and stalked back. It was as if the severed head that Tulj had mentioned had just been flung into the center of the table. After a few minutes of general lamentation, Tulj said something and everyone settled down again.
    â€œPlease, you must forgive us