7

We made our way back to the main road and were lucky enough to hail a roaming cab—an old yellow Mercedes 190, like the thousands of other cabs in Bamako. I gave the sleepy driver an address, and after a short ride, he dropped us off at the Hotel Mande in the Niger neighborhood. In another lifetime, this place was a jewel of the Malian hotel industry, but the years had not been kind. Vestiges of the hotel’s former glory were peeking through the layers of cheap paint. I guided Farah Tebessi across the lobby to the patio, which rested on pilings. Just below, I could hear the Djoliba’s lapping waters. Bozo fishermen with muscled arms were paddling upstream to their fishing spots. An apathetic waiter walked over to us, and I ordered two coffees. Farah remained hopelessly mute.

“I tried calling you last night,” she said at last, her voice hoarse.

“I know.”

Before she could say anything else, the waiter returned with our order. He placed the coffees on the table and slipped away.

“I was supposed to pick Bahia up at the drug unit last night…”

Her voice faded. Tears streamed down her face and dropped off her chin. But she did nothing to wipe them away.

“The police told me that she had already left. That she had taken a taxi—without waiting for me. Why would she do that?”

I swallowed my coffee. Disgusting.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I’ll call my parents, then handle the formalities,” she said with absent eyes. “They’ll want to bury her in France.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

She stirred her coffee without taking a sip.

“Yes, there is something you could do.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want you to track down the people who did this to my sister and kill them,” she said. “All of them.” She banged down her spoon and balled her napkin in her hand.

I didn’t react, just stared at the river, where kids were lathering up and shrieking happily.

“I don’t do that.”

“You’ve done it before. Do it again,” she said, clearly trying to control her venomous rage.

“No.”

“I’ll pay you. I’ll give you lots of money.”

I stood up and threw a two-thousand-franc bill on the table.

“That’s not what happened. I’m not a murderer.”

I turned and left, and from behind me I heard a hysterical voice. “Yes you are! It’s in your blood!”