The slaves of Freetown

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The drive to the police station allows me to grieve over a mediocre existence. Petrified with worry, I hide my gaze behind a veil of defeatism, which hardly meets that of Inspector Nguyen, triumphant. He acts as if he has already got a secret confession from me. I am not sure how my legs carry me from the car to the reception of the NYPD. I remain a stranger to all the bustle around me. In the hallways, I walk with my head bowed, blaming myself for being as irresponsible as my parents. I will never be able to match them with this idea that I had made for them. I have to be honest with myself: they were monsters. At this moment, we have never been so close. I follow their footsteps, literally. Mohamed told me that it was in this very same police department that their first deposition was taken, following their attempt to return to Freetown after another week that they spent disguised as homeless Masters in Staten Island. They tried to get their tattoo removed by an unlicensed tattoo artist, who owned an illegal parlor. I believe it was this gesture that the slaves never forgave them. The choice to place them in Guantanamo Bay detention camp, where they would endure a treatment worse than death, was unanimously saluted and equally appreciated on the side of the slaves and the Masters.

I am quickly led through a few corridors before sitting down near an imposing door. I still contemplate my hands, playing nervously with the chains around my wrists, the right one hooked up to the other for my arrest, when a sadly familiar voice pulls me from my thoughts.

With horror, I raise my head and meet my little sister Imane's gaze. Instinctively, I put my hands on her impassive face, where silent tears flow. She skillfully avoids me, and I notice the big black spot that encircles her eye. I struggle against the hand that forces me to sit up, furious. No word comes out of her bloody mouth too, but Imane's lips quiver to enunciate: "I'm sorry. "

"What did you do to her?" I yell.

Inspector Gomez's fist digs into my stomach, making me tremble in pain.

"Don't worry; it will be your turn soon."

Imane is drawn away from me, and I find myself alone again in front of my executioners. Anger, however, gives me new ardor, and I get up to gauge Inspector Gomez. Not even pretending to be impressed, he pushes me inside the room, which my sister has just left. It emits a putrid odor.

A woman, also in uniform, finishes wiping the red streaks that bead on the floor from the metal table before exiting. Two chairs are hanging lie around in the corner of the brightly lit room. I blink several times, also hoping to wipe away the tears that threaten to run down my face. Inspector Nguyen pulls one of the chairs near him. He searches one of his trouser pockets and pulls out a protective surgical mask, which he puts on the table. It is an old type of offense perpetrated against the slaves, a more subtle way of making us feel like plague victims.

I remain standing next to his partner. The other chair is approached behind me, and I am forced to sit down again. I collect deep in my throat words borrowing disgust, insults, all my anger which materializes in a spray of saliva, landing on Inspector Nguyen's face. In shock, I hardly admit this gesture, which bears such little resemblance to me. I refuse to imagine what Imane must have gone through in that room.

I can feel Inspector Gomez stamping with excitement behind me, and at any moment, I prepare to take the hit. Inspector Nguyen takes a handkerchief from his pocket and simply wipes his chin. He nods to his colleague, who comes out, not without a murderous look at me. I do not understand; however, I am sure that it is just a postponement. The danger is imminent, and that is the only reason why Inspector Gomez has not responded. He likes to see me drown in this worry that I try to pass off as anger.

I am ashamed that I chased away the images of my sister's swollen face so quickly, to worry about what might happen to me.

"Imane Doe gave us a very nice presentation of your family. Ordinary slaves, trying to survive. Children of the highly respected Mohamed. But your case is particular. I imagine that growing up, having the infamous Souleymane and Aïcha Doe as parents, was not easy. I understand better the smart mouth and the funny formal form of address' situation now. You think that it will be enough to compensate?"