Conflicts
Alright this is a reworking of a piece I posted earlier in a new setting. The assignment (which I wandered from a bit) was to write a scene driven by dialogue. Henjoy!
After a few moments spent sawing his key in and out of the lock attempting to catch all the teeth just so, Derek shouldered open the door to his cheap motel room. He flicked the switch on the wall which illuminated the room for a flash before it darkened again with a hollow pop. Bad bulb. He sure knew how to pick a rathole. He'd left the drapes partially open, and a lurid orange slash of sodium light bisected the roughly made bed, while the opposite wall trailed a thin ghostly blue pillar of moonlight. Derek shut the door behind him, and headed for the desk lamp on the far side of the bed, struggling with how he would communicate 'lightbulb' to the desk clerk in his broken Swahili.
He dropped his case on the bed, reached for the lamp. He spun the knob three clicks, still no light. His eyes widened and he began to turn just as he registered sharp pressure on his throat and felt a hand closing over his mouth. Two lean arms pinned his own against him. Fear welled up within him but it was drowned out by his anger at being so unaware, so stupid. He felt a slight nick on his adam's apple as though he'd shaved too close. Through the pain, shock, and bewilderment he became aware of two small breasts pressing into his back, just below his shoulder blades. Though he never considered himself sexist, it infuriated him further that it was a woman holding a blade to his neck. His mind raced, for an identity, a motive, or even a language to start in. He'd only been in the Congo for two days - who could he have angered to the point of homicide already? He decided to play the clueless American and hope for the best.
“Please! Please, don't hurt me. Just tell me what you want.” he blubbered through the hand.
He only received a low chuckle in return. She moved her hand so it was no longer covering his mouth entirely, and she instead pressed a single finger to his lips.
He lowered his voice but continued, “You want money? It's there in my bag, just please, don't hurt me. Please.”
“Doctor. I did not expect you to beg so easy.” The voice was soft but biting and carried a distinctive Portuguese accent. Angolan Portuguese. Who would've followed him from Angola - he thought things had tied up rather well there.
“Look, tell me what you want and we can work something out.” He feigned a quaver in his voice. “There's no need for the blade.”
He felt his assailant lean in close and her voice dropped to a whisper, “What do you think I'm here for, Doctor?”
Her breath was sweet with licorice, and the scent caused a cascade of memories - her accent, her hand, even her breasts suddenly familiar to him. “Mariana.” He fought for composure. Now that he knew who he was dealing with, the why loomed even larger. He dropped the scared tourist act. “So nice of you to drop in. If I'd had some notice I would have tidied up a bit.”
Mariana loosened her grip on him and gently pushed on his shoulder. He turned around to face her, she let the blade drop to rest on his collarbone, edge still inches from his neck. She was beautiful, even with only half her face illuminated and that by dirty yellow street light. Her large chocolate eyes were wide set, their edges covered by her hanging bangs. She was smiling, but without warmth or kindness. It was the cold smile of a predator. She said nothing.
“I must confess, I am a bit surprised to see you so soon. You were paid in full, and our contract completely fulfilled, yes?” His mind raced for cause for her presence, but she was as predictable as a sandstorm.
She allowed the silence to hang for another weighty moment before replying, “Oh yes. Completely fulfilled. And the bonus you left was...unexpected.”
“So you just missed me then,is that it? Well, you certainly have a funny way of showing it. Why don't you set that knife down and we can discuss whatever it was you came here to discuss.”
“And if I didn't come here for...discussion?” Her voice had dropped into a low sultry purr, but there was still steel in her eyes.
“It couldn't have been cheap to travel here, were you so desperate to share my bed again?” He could feel sweat at his temples, his back, but he forced calm into his face.
“Don't flatter yourself, Doctor.” She tapped the flat of the blade against his cheek. “Got what you wanted out of Angola, now you're off to plunder Big Congo, hmm?”
“Plunder is a nasty word, Mariana. Someone is going to buy those diamonds, it might as well be me. I heard no complaints in Canfunfo. I couldn't have brokered those deals without your help.”
“And where are you headed now?”
“Well, assuming I make it out of this motel room with my neck intact, I was planning on Goma.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“Is that what this is about? The strangest job application I've ever received. Look, Mariana, these are not your people. You were marvelous in Angola, but things will be much harder here.”
“Don't you worry about me.” There was a hard edge in her voice, the smile fading dangerously. “You won't do better. I speak French and Swahili and you know you can trust me.”
“Do I? Trust generally doesn't come at knife point.”
She spun her blade so close to his nose he felt the wind of it, but by the time he opened his eyes from flinching, it was in it's sheath at her side.
“Well. That's some better. Can I pour you a drink? I think I might have one myself.”
“No. Thank you. When do we leave in the morning?”
“Mariana we don't leave anywhere. This is the Congo. It has the highest rate of rape in the world, violence against women is a matter of course. You wouldn't be safe, and you'd be a detriment to my job.”
“I told you not to worry about me. You know I can take care of myself. Beside, I am carrying something you will want later.”
Derek mopped his head with a handkerchief and sipped from a bottle of bourbon. “And what could that possibly be?”
Mariana's face was a neutral mask. “Your child.”
After a few moments spent sawing his key in and out of the lock attempting to catch all the teeth just so, Derek shouldered open the door to his cheap motel room. He flicked the switch on the wall which illuminated the room for a flash before it darkened again with a hollow pop. Bad bulb. He sure knew how to pick a rathole. He'd left the drapes partially open, and a lurid orange slash of sodium light bisected the roughly made bed, while the opposite wall trailed a thin ghostly blue pillar of moonlight. Derek shut the door behind him, and headed for the desk lamp on the far side of the bed, struggling with how he would communicate 'lightbulb' to the desk clerk in his broken Swahili.
He dropped his case on the bed, reached for the lamp. He spun the knob three clicks, still no light. His eyes widened and he began to turn just as he registered sharp pressure on his throat and felt a hand closing over his mouth. Two lean arms pinned his own against him. Fear welled up within him but it was drowned out by his anger at being so unaware, so stupid. He felt a slight nick on his adam's apple as though he'd shaved too close. Through the pain, shock, and bewilderment he became aware of two small breasts pressing into his back, just below his shoulder blades. Though he never considered himself sexist, it infuriated him further that it was a woman holding a blade to his neck. His mind raced, for an identity, a motive, or even a language to start in. He'd only been in the Congo for two days - who could he have angered to the point of homicide already? He decided to play the clueless American and hope for the best.
“Please! Please, don't hurt me. Just tell me what you want.” he blubbered through the hand.
He only received a low chuckle in return. She moved her hand so it was no longer covering his mouth entirely, and she instead pressed a single finger to his lips.
He lowered his voice but continued, “You want money? It's there in my bag, just please, don't hurt me. Please.”
“Doctor. I did not expect you to beg so easy.” The voice was soft but biting and carried a distinctive Portuguese accent. Angolan Portuguese. Who would've followed him from Angola - he thought things had tied up rather well there.
“Look, tell me what you want and we can work something out.” He feigned a quaver in his voice. “There's no need for the blade.”
He felt his assailant lean in close and her voice dropped to a whisper, “What do you think I'm here for, Doctor?”
Her breath was sweet with licorice, and the scent caused a cascade of memories - her accent, her hand, even her breasts suddenly familiar to him. “Mariana.” He fought for composure. Now that he knew who he was dealing with, the why loomed even larger. He dropped the scared tourist act. “So nice of you to drop in. If I'd had some notice I would have tidied up a bit.”
Mariana loosened her grip on him and gently pushed on his shoulder. He turned around to face her, she let the blade drop to rest on his collarbone, edge still inches from his neck. She was beautiful, even with only half her face illuminated and that by dirty yellow street light. Her large chocolate eyes were wide set, their edges covered by her hanging bangs. She was smiling, but without warmth or kindness. It was the cold smile of a predator. She said nothing.
“I must confess, I am a bit surprised to see you so soon. You were paid in full, and our contract completely fulfilled, yes?” His mind raced for cause for her presence, but she was as predictable as a sandstorm.
She allowed the silence to hang for another weighty moment before replying, “Oh yes. Completely fulfilled. And the bonus you left was...unexpected.”
“So you just missed me then,is that it? Well, you certainly have a funny way of showing it. Why don't you set that knife down and we can discuss whatever it was you came here to discuss.”
“And if I didn't come here for...discussion?” Her voice had dropped into a low sultry purr, but there was still steel in her eyes.
“It couldn't have been cheap to travel here, were you so desperate to share my bed again?” He could feel sweat at his temples, his back, but he forced calm into his face.
“Don't flatter yourself, Doctor.” She tapped the flat of the blade against his cheek. “Got what you wanted out of Angola, now you're off to plunder Big Congo, hmm?”
“Plunder is a nasty word, Mariana. Someone is going to buy those diamonds, it might as well be me. I heard no complaints in Canfunfo. I couldn't have brokered those deals without your help.”
“And where are you headed now?”
“Well, assuming I make it out of this motel room with my neck intact, I was planning on Goma.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“Is that what this is about? The strangest job application I've ever received. Look, Mariana, these are not your people. You were marvelous in Angola, but things will be much harder here.”
“Don't you worry about me.” There was a hard edge in her voice, the smile fading dangerously. “You won't do better. I speak French and Swahili and you know you can trust me.”
“Do I? Trust generally doesn't come at knife point.”
She spun her blade so close to his nose he felt the wind of it, but by the time he opened his eyes from flinching, it was in it's sheath at her side.
“Well. That's some better. Can I pour you a drink? I think I might have one myself.”
“No. Thank you. When do we leave in the morning?”
“Mariana we don't leave anywhere. This is the Congo. It has the highest rate of rape in the world, violence against women is a matter of course. You wouldn't be safe, and you'd be a detriment to my job.”
“I told you not to worry about me. You know I can take care of myself. Beside, I am carrying something you will want later.”
Derek mopped his head with a handkerchief and sipped from a bottle of bourbon. “And what could that possibly be?”
Mariana's face was a neutral mask. “Your child.”