

Copyright © 2015 by Jean Paul

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

YEAR OF THE CHEETAH

____________

### A novel by

### JEAN PAUL

LABOR DAY

" They have taken their oaths as a cover,

So they averted from the way of Allah.

Indeed it was evil that they were doing."

~ Quran 63.2

Crocodiles devoured six critics of the regime overnight. But the news barely moved the morning price of commodities from the Ivory Coast. Cocoa was unchanged, and coffee was slightly up. Vietnam, Tanzania, Java; the beans had travelled the world before their distinct flavor exploded in his paper cup stamped with the green goddess.

Djambo Diallo set it down on the right side of his keyboard. He always arrived first in the morning. At twenty-three, he was also the youngest intern at Occidental Trading. After four years at the University of Chicago, crowned by a joint MBA in Finance and MS in Information Technology, he was at the right place at the right time.

Young Wall Street analysts came from every corner of the world to the vast and promising rectangle of America. Increasingly, they came to search the torch of liberty from the Third World. This was also his case.

He was Djambo the Cheetah, the young boy from the African savanna who had left his village to live his dreams. And this was his first opportunity after college.

He took a sip, and instantly the sweet acidic flavor of the well-roasted Italian nectar transported him home with nostalgia: The coffee trees, the plantations, and his adoptive white parents, Robert and Francoise Martin. They were so proud of his journey.

In four short years, he drove a yellow Chevrolet Caprice Classic, the quintessential cab of the nineties, put himself through school, and successfully graduated. On the Windy City's South Side, grass grew through the cracks of abandoned McDonalds and empty churches, but Djambo never let the surrounding landscape obscure the brightness of his hopes.

Now that Y2K was behind, it looked like clear sailing in the financial markets. He flicked on the bulky computer screen to scan the overnight world market quotations, and began reading the morning news. The entire eightieth floor was empty.

Cool, Spartan, dominating the city, it was an ivory tower; a bunker of some sort, where white shirts, ties, suits, and trading tickets would soon buzz around during the frenzy of the 9:30 am opening.

Djambo loved this time of year. It was a pure, blue, early fall morning, with cool air already. The city's humidity evaporated into the heavens without leaving a trace. Coffee, in America, is a religion, a comforting ritual. Without it, mornings are meaningless.

He closed his eyes for a second time, grabbed the cup gently, inhaled it all in his deep lungs, and thought about Felicia whom he had left in Chicago.

When he opened them again, a 767 jumbo jet flying at five hundred miles per hour, carrying eighty one passengers, a crew of eleven, and ten thousand gallons of kerosene in its belly was coming straight at him. It was closing in fast on the other side of the bay window.

It was exactly 8:46 a.m. in New York that morning. The impact did not register in his mind. It was that quick. Instinct took over his body and his limbs reacted automatically.

When charged by a herd of Cape Buffalos a decade before in the presence of Robert Martin, far, very far from that cool New York morning, he had plunged to the ground in the same manner. The feeling was identical: Death had arrived.

It did not come from nature this time, but in the cigar shape of a terrifying man made flying machine. The wing decapitated the entire office: Fax machines, computers, water cups, and millions of pieces of paper were flying around him like confetti. Djambo coiled under his desk. Everything had turned black around him, and he immediately ripped off his business shirt.

The heat emanating from the floor below briefly rose to a thousand degrees, and it must have been well over a hundred in his now completely demolished office.

It had transformed into a war zone. It looked like the presidential palace in his native Ivory Coast after being looted by the revolutionaries. He was coughing, gasping for air. The windows were pulverized and the sixty-eight Fahrenheit breeze was mixing with the ashes, lighting up fires everywhere.

Djambo crawled to the entrance of the darkened trading room. Six instantly carbonated bodies were lying outside of the elevators from which black smoke was slowly puffing out. He retreated back in, around the reception area. There was a pool of blood, scattered limbs, where young Molly Parks greeted him with a smile at 8:30 am every morning. He had absolutely no idea of what had just happened. Nothing came to his mind, except that he was there, at that moment, and alive. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.

The trading room was no sanctuary. It had erupted into an orange ball of fire and begun to melt. Djambo crawled down the hallway to his left, but an entire wall had collapsed, obstructing it right in the middle. Daylight appeared from a small office on his right.

He looked behind him; smoke was already swirling his way. He threw himself into the room, and kicked the door behind him.

"HELP!" He yelled.

Debris accumulated all the way to the ceiling; Burnt paper, chairs, metal, wood, plastic had piled up as if an entire Office Depot had suddenly compressed it all, getting it ready for a landfill.

" Climb over the wall." A man's voice said from the other side.

Djambo looked up: There was a small opening at the very top, rough, edgy, with metal pieces erect like barb wire. All he saw was a hand, and he coiled his legs. Speed was his forte, but he was not a weight lifter.

He briefly felt the top of the drywall under his fingers and slid back down on the debris. He took a deep breath, jumped again, reached the top, hung on to it, and the man managed to pull him down on the other side.

Djambo hugged him. They both quietly began crying. He kissed the stranger, and sobbed like a baby. Three thousand people from more than one hundred countries died that day. The choice for those trapped on the floors above his was between asphyxia and jumping out of a window.

How long did it take them to rush down eighty-four stories in a dark stairwell, unable to breathe?

Another man, tens of thousands of miles away, with his own beliefs and illusions thought he was a new prophet, a messenger of God. He had masterminded it.

That night, millions around the world celebrated the one-day, man-made apocalypse in America. It had been meticulously prepared, pre-meditated, articulated, sliced, diced, and masterfully executed.

Once on Liberty Street, Djambo immediately thought about Felicia. She was the love of his life. He had no one else but her. In the chaos that ensued, he ran for his life, fast, leaving both towers crumbling behind him.

Felicia was in Chicago that morning. She was twenty-three, about to finish her thesis in theology at the University of Chicago where they had met the summer before. When she saw the towers collapse on television, she immediately realized Djambo worked in one of them. She sobbed alone in the faculty bathroom for a moment and managed to walk home in a daze.

She called again, from their cozy one-bedroom in Hyde Park. But he did not answer. She tried her parents in Wisconsin:

"Oh my God! Oh my God! Mom! Mom! My baby is in there! He works there!"

"Felicia, stay calm. This is a terrorist attack."

"I know that, Mom! I haven't heard from him."

"You have to give it some time honey. Stay calm."

"Mom! I love him."

She curled into a fetus position on the sofa, phone in hand, and cried liked an abandoned child. Hours went by, with the same confusion, television footage, and repetitive clueless commentary.

Djambo no longer had his cell phone with him. What he said did not matter when he called her at 4 pm from a lonely booth in New Jersey to tell her he was alive. Felicia cried more than she ever did.

"Do you believe in miracles?" she asked once he was home.

"I do, baby, I do. This is a miracle from God, " he said.

"I don't know. I don't know if there is a God. Lots of innocent people have perished in those towers."

"It's hard to wrap my head around it, baby. That man, that dark stairwell..."

"Do you believe in me?" Felicia asked.

"That's all I believe in, sweetie. Without you, the idea of you, I wouldn't be here now."

"I didn't think of it this way." She said.

"That's how I feel."

"What does it mean for us?"

"It means..." and he paused, tears were coming to his eyes:

"You know, we believe in those things in Africa, the things of the spirit. It means there is a greater force out there; a force of goodness, a force...stronger than us, wanting us to be together."

Silence invaded their small apartment. They could hear sirens far away. Heat had risen, and their flat had no air conditioning. It was late summer and not autumn yet.

Cold water in the white ceramic bathtub was their only relief. Felicia turned on the rusty faucets. She heard the neighbors making love upstairs, already, that early in the afternoon. The both of them were soon in the tub, and Felicia began caressing Djambo's long and tender penis. It emerged in the silence, now and then, through the white foam, and grew thicker, electrified by his fiancée's hands.

"I didn't come to this country just to drive a cab." He said.

" I know that, baby."

" Just because this happened doesn't mean we have to stop."

" Stop?"

" Stop moving forward with our life; my employer no longer exists, all six hundred workers died, and the firm is closed."

" Well, at least you're no longer in New York. It bothered me your being away."

" Bothered me too. I had no choice but that internship."

" Now you're back here." She said.

" Now I'm back here. And I'm not going anywhere. It's going to be here, baby, I can feel it: Here, in Chicago, just the two of us together."

It was a Tuesday again, seven years later, and much colder. Djambo was a commodities floor trader at the Chicago Board of Trade. He jumped up and down, and sweated all day in the U.S. Treasury Bond trading pit, the largest in the world. Felicia had completed her PhD in Theology and enrolled in the Comparative Literature master program. She volunteered for a local politician in the spring and continued into the summer. She wrote speeches and distributed pamphlets for a tall, handsome black man who lived in the neighborhood, a few doors down. The man had just won 2008 the presidential election.

" You're not coming to Grant Park for the speech?"

" The speech?"

" The speech. It's been a hundred and thirty six years since slavery has been abolished; a black man is elected president for the first time in this country and you're not coming?"

" Because he's black like me? Would you go if Sarah Palin had been elected? She's a white woman..."

" What the fuck are you talking about baby? You've seen me work on this all year."

" I have. And I highly respect your dedication, darling. You know that. I've been supportive."

" And?"

" And I don't believe in it. Is that ok to say?"

" You don't believe in what?"

" In politics in general, all the bullshit."

" This isn't bullshit. This is historical."

" Our relationship is historical. Our love is historical, unlike the empty promises of politicians."

" Empty promises?"

" Baby..." Djambo said; " You look at them black folks in this entire neighborhood, and I'm not talking lawyers and doctors, okay? I'm speaking about the projects: Martin Luther King Drive, the poverty, the drugs, the pregnancies, the killings, and the lack of hope..."

" Exactly. We're going to change all that."

" We are?"

" The country."

" Well then, since you put it this way, I'm going with you. We're going to Grant Park, and hear him out."

It was an early November night. Thousands had gathered in Grant Park, and they were one of the very few interracial couples in the crowd. The man spoke in a baritone, beautiful convincing voice. Felicia's eyes were moist, but Djambo remained stoic.

" It's been a long time coming..." the man said.

They were in their early thirties, idealistic. Felicia was very excited.

" I quit my job today." Djambo said to her after the speech.

" You did? Why didn't you tell me?"

" I figured, with the election, your enthusiasm, what it means to you, I wouldn't spoil the party."

" What happened?

" Nothing. I just quit. I'm starting my own firm."

" Fuck. That's awesome, baby. I'm so proud of you."

" I'm proud of you too, darling, very proud. Without you, none of this would be possible."

She knew what Djambo was referring too. Their marriage, right after 9/11, shortly after his internship in New York, enabled him to stay in the United States legally. He felt Felicia saved his life through this act of love.

" Don't mention it, baby. We married for love, didn't we?"

" We did."

" Then forget about that whole god damn green card ordeal ok? It's been seven years, a long time, let it go."

" I know, baby. Still, I just think it's huge, and we're going to run with it. This is only the beginning for us."

That autumn, the U.S. stock market lost half of its value. Trillions of dollars of retirement pensions, 401Ks, and life savings evaporated. The financial tsunami, in its giant tide, destroyed millions of families, marriages, businesses, and entire institutions. It was threatening the country itself. But through it, Felicia and Djambo had held strong.

" You sure this is the right time to do this?" she asked.

" Best time ever. I am sure of it."

In graduate school, Djambo patented a portfolio management formula he intended to commercialize in the future.

He was a big dreamer, an ambitious immigrant, and uniquely intelligent when it came to the confluence of finance and technology.

The past seven years had zoomed by. But he preferred to wait for the most optimal time to launch his private investment fund. Contrarian by nature, he realized in the tumultuous cacophony of late 2008, that the time had come.

" When never spoke about children..." Felicia said.

" We did, darling. I told you how much I love children."

" You love them? What about me?"

" I know you do just as much."

" I've never felt as protected as when we were in grad school," she said.

" Protected?"

" Yes. That's when I knew we were good together. Ready for it."

" Ready?"

" Yes. Ready."

" For what?"

" For children, a family; the full package."

" We weren't ready."

" You always say that."

" I said it then and it was true; we weren't."

" What about now?"

" We're more ready than we were, but we're not there yet."

" What do you mean by 'there' exactly?"

" Money, a minimum comfort level, and the ability to raise them properly. Things are hard out there, Felicia; look all around you. Even billionaires go through divorce."

" Exactly my point; one doesn't need money, at least not tons of it to raise a family."

" Baby: When the firm takes off, and it will, we can start a family, we're still young."

" Young? I'm thirty-eight years old, Djambo."

" Thirty-eight and gorgeous."

" Don't change the subject."

" I'm not changing the subject; I didn't come to this country to be a loser."

" You're changing the subject; you're talking about you, you, you."

" I'm talking about us."

" How long, Djambo?"

" How long, what?"

" Tell me how long we've have to wait. You're a number's guy..."

" What is it? Some sort of a negotiation?"

" Don't get silly. You know I'm entitled to a response."

" You tell me, baby. You tell me how long you can hold it."

"I've seen plenty of women in this town walk away after five, seven, ten years of marriage, empty handed, and nothing to show for. It's not going to happen to me."

" If I don't get this firm started, we'll both be empty handed."

They left it at that. Within weeks, Djambo joined the Chicago Union League, an elegant old world city club. The place was magnificent, ornate, its tall ante bellum windows, chandeliers and wood paneling gave its five thousand members a reprieve from the city stress. He made the rounds, dedicated to his craft, and introduced himself.

Felicia was very elegant in her long ivory evening gown on the night of his formal admission to the club. There were many black American members, but he was the only first-generation black immigrant joining it. A year after the 2008 presidential election, Djambo Diallo founded DCM.

Diallo Capital Management was headquartered on LaSalle Street, at the very center of the business district. In less than ten years, speed trading revolutionized the way stocks had changed hands in America for two centuries. Technology, more specifically IT, was at the heart of it. Djambo wanted in, and he had the intelligence for it.

He had a solid foundation in mathematics. He was eager to understand how the world works. His curiosity, ingenuity, and talent in IT converged exactly at the time when America was on the rebound. The most harrowing market decline and recession since the Great Depression had just unfolded.

As a contrarian and eternal optimist, he identified the moment as the opportunity of a lifetime. DCM had already twenty million dollars under management at the end of 2009. In the following six years, until the summer of 2015, Djambo scaled it up further to an astonishing one hundred million dollars.

He always personally interviewed his employees, every single one of them. Except for Alexandra Parker who was older, and who had known him for a very long time. Zawar, one of his young and promising analysts, came from his native Pakistan. Like Djambo fifteen years before him, he wanted to live the American dream.

He was tall, gorgeous, elegant, polished, and cultured. At twenty-six, Zawar knew about everything. He had studied Western Literature in high school, and later applied to the London School of Economics to study business. There, he learned that the best quantitative analysts in the world were groomed at a French school of advanced mathematics in Paris. Without hesitation, he enrolled.

Zawar was a formidable addition to the team; He could absorb, analyze, and profit from the multitude of current events in the business world and assemble economic pieces together like those of a giant puzzle.

He was a mathematical genius and an expert in statistics applied to finance. DCM needed more talent like him, Djambo thought. He believed in diversity. He scouted young men and women from all over the world. They believed in the promise of America, and worked twelve-hour days to build prosperous and meaningful lives for themselves.

Ambitious, driven, with a great sense of ethics, they were the new America. They were twenty-first century pioneers, and excelled in finance and technology. They equally thrived in many other fields, including medicine, science, and engineering. DCM, Djambo knew, would be stronger with new blood, and a global company culture.

Zawar was a fascinating and complex figure, a poster child for globalization. His Pakistani mother was a young correspondent at CNN when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989.

She met Zawar's father during the turmoil. Yuri Puniet was the cultural attaché of the Soviet embassy in East Berlin at the time. They married in England and moved to Pakistan shortly afterwards. Zawar was born the following year.

During his formative years in London, he loved to visit his parents every summer in California. They settled there to accommodate his mother's career. His father had left the Russian diplomatic corps and was teaching Western Civilization at Berkeley. When Zawar applied to DCM for a summer internship, Djambo was immediately impressed.

Right before Labor Day 2015, Djambo and Felicia were walking along Chicago's lake front trail in the middle of the afternoon. The shaded path was much more quiet than the busy outer drive where automobiles circulated. The sun had tilted past the magnificent facades of the old residences to their right.

They were strolling under the oak trees, holding hands, and Felicia found Djambo's waist with her right arm. She leaned closer to him.

" We'll be ready for it soon." he said.

" You think?"

" I know it. Trust me on that."

" I didn't want to bug you with it."

" You're not bugging me, darling."

The sexy left curve of Lake Shore Drive emerged: Behind the Drake Hotel, the John Hancock Building raced towards the sky, majestic, dominating the midget skyline around it. Djambo paused their walk. He moved behind his wife, closed his arms on her, and kissed the back of her neck.

" It's amazingly gorgeous. Looks like one could see as far as Michigan." Felicia said.

The green lake expanded endlessly eastward, like a sea of emeralds sparkling under the afternoon sun. It looked like the South Pacific, the Cayman Islands, or the beaches of West Africa.

" Sometimes it reminds me of home." Djambo said.

" This is home, baby."

I

ROSH HASHANA

" Be cautious in your intercourse with the great;

They seldom confer obligations on their inferiors but from interested motives. Friendly they appear as long as it serves their turn,

But they will render no assistance in time of actual need."

~ The Talmud

The profusion of silk ties' colors in the darkness of the men's store on LaSalle Street transported Djambo to his African childhood. Exuberant fuchsia, promising greens, twilight mauves, and scintillating reds exploded in the darkness of the conservative boutique. The choice was difficult, but the Italian tailor was a friend, a good man. Over the years, Djambo developed a keen friendship with him. The owner knew he was a difficult and discerning customer.

On the subject of elegance, no one matched the panache and exquisite taste of the black professional from the Ivory Coast. That sense of fashion could be traced to the French colonization of Central and West Africa in the late nineteenth century. Ever since, and to this day in Paris, French flair defined the African male professional wardrobe everywhere in the world. In finance especially, successful African men went all out.

" You like the grey Roger Sebag suit? " the short Italian man asked.

" Yes. You can throw in the three ties as well. The fresh mint pattern, it always works well with a blue shirt underneath. It comes out strong, but not overwhelming " Djambo said.

" Add the Fragonard perfume as well; it's incredibly hard to find here in the U.S. I think you are in the only one! I couldn't even find it in New York for the life of me! "

His I phone 6 vibrated on the Chesterfield sofa.

" Remember: Tonight at 8 PM at the Imperial on Rush. Don't work too hard sweetie."

The Italian owner was wrapping the silk ties in crispy beige sheets, and looked up.

" My wife." Djambo said with a smile. "Anniversary..."

" Ha! " the owner quipped, " How many years? "

" Fourteen now, I think."

They were both twenty when they met at the University of Chicago. He was on the tennis team, and played number one Singles. They lived in the same building in Hyde Park, and it was a September like this one. A cool, crisp, gorgeous early fall day in the Midwest.

They were poor, and collected quarters during the week in the back pockets of their soft worn out jeans. They looked forward to meeting on Friday nights upstairs, in the common laundry room.

They made small talk at first, and then impatiently waited the following week to see each other again. They agreed to meet at 11 pm, close to the comforting heat of the old rusty dryer humming in mid-cycle.

The tailor shop was located near the corner of LaSalle Street and Jackson Boulevard, nestled in a small discreet street across from the Federal Reserve branch and the Chicago Board of Trade. Djambo's firm, DCM, was one block north, past Adams Street, in one of the tallest office buildings of the Loop.

From his corner window, he contemplated the sunrise over Lake Michigan every morning of the week. Starbucks espresso in hand, Djambo welcomed the birth of every new day over the turquoise expanse of the lake.

It hadn't been easy building a hedge fund. It took him six years, while others did it in three. Now he had accumulated one hundred million dollars under management and collected a net once percent fee per year. Good enough for a thirty-eight year old, but not the big times yet. After 2008, many investment funds closed shop because of the defensive nature of their investors. The best had survived, including his.

Hedge funds were very free in the range of investment avenues and choices offered to them: They were designed for risk takers. Djambo was a master at it, and he cashed in handsomely in the 2009 – 2015 rebound, millions.

Trading was war, multiple wars on multiple fronts. It was what separated the men from the boys. They were grown men, young and old, but men. There were some women in the trading world, and they competed like men. They bought, sold, in hours, minutes, even milliseconds since the advent of computerized trading. It was a grueling sport.

Djambo came from the old school. In the days of pit trading, physical prowess was essential. One had to be tall, brutal, and brash like a ferocious killer at times. At 6'5'' and 195 pounds of muscle, he wasn't the tallest trader, but certainly the fittest in the arena, and one of the youngest.

After three years as captain of the tennis team, he had the stamina to survive at the Board. Most other members were former college or professional ball players, and athletes.

Djambo sought to forever remain the young black collegiate tennis star, the son of Africa, and the American immigrant. The fitness regimen would stay with him for a lifetime. It had to, if he were to succeed in the hedge fund world. Fifteen years later, he was still hitting balls three nights a week for at least ninety minutes for cardio. That did not include his early morning workout, from 5 until 6 am. It was Djambo Diallo's personal fitness discipline.

" Moving upstairs " and away from the pit had been challenging, but he had managed. The trading desk at DCM was a stressful battlefield from eight in the morning time until three in the afternoon.

It was a sport, a vocation; a furious fight, intellect against intellect, in the most magnificent jungle of them all; A sophisticated jungle, tailor made for Djambo.

One had to be decisive, quick, a risk taker, vocal, and aggressive. Most of the team members at DCM graduated in Finance or Mathematics from a reputable Mid-western university. They were all in their twenties. Djambo, who was keen on diversity because of his African heritage, carefully selected and groomed each new addition to his group.

The news on the nuclear deal with Iran sent the markets roaring up as he predicted before stepping out to lunch. His fund was up 1% when he last checked his screen. Confident about the trend, he indulged in the extra thirty minutes at the tailor on Jackson Boulevard. He wanted to look good for Felicia. It was their anniversary, and the world could wait.

When he returned to his large oval desk however, his quote terminal was flooding in red.

" What happened?" He screamed in the microphone linked to the trading room two floors below: " We're down seven hundred grand! "

The reply came back immediately; his head trader knew better than to make him wait.

" We had an issue..."

" What issue? "

" Zawar exceeded his trading limit and we couldn't cover in time. "

" What do you mean?"

" The market moved too fast. Right after lunch."

" Send him up."

Zawar was an imposing physical figure, a handsome looking young man.

" What is your overall trading limit? " Djambo asked.

" Twenty million a day max, in the S&P 500 Futures only."

" What's your stop loss? "

" One percent of that: 200 thousand. "

" Then explain to me why the firm is down seven hundred thousand dollars, in forty minutes on your trading alone when your maximum loss limit is 200."

" I thought..." Zawar started.

" I don't pay you to think. I pay you to execute. "

" I understand. "

" Understanding is not going to bring back three quarters of a million dollars five minutes to the close. I hope you understand that too, stupid fuck."

Djambo was irate and always brutally honest in moments like this, moments of truth. Zawar could be equally arrogant:

" What about the eight hundred grand I made you over the past six months? It's a wash."

" What about it? It's a zero sum game; you know that. Every day is a new day. It's not a wash, you made eight hundred thousand in six months, and you lost it in forty minutes. HOW THE FUCK IS THAT A WASH? Don't antagonize me! "

His I-phone vibrated again. It was Felicia.

" We're done. Grab your shit. I don't want to see you here tomorrow morning. Your last paycheck will hit your account on Friday."

Zawar stood there, across from the desk, not moving, defiant.

" You don't want me to open the window, do you? " Djambo asked,

" Eighty seven floors is a long way." And he looked like he was capable of it.

His childhood in Africa was no picnic. Wars, revolutions, violent dictators, made him a strong, and sometimes brutal man. He grew up agile in the surrounding fauna, ready to kill, and eat his kill. He believed in the laws of nature.

Zawar sensed it. Pakistan had his tigers, but he never saw one. He grew up in Islamabad, a bustling city from which 500,000 IT engineers graduate ever year. He felt he was no match for his CEO, who for a second, looked like a determined cheetah with black spots, coiled right in front of him.

" Now, go." said Djambo quietly. " I have to talk to my wife."

Once the intern receded beyond the mahogany double doors, he stood up again, and breathed profoundly. It felt like one of the grueling tennis rallies of his youth had just ended. He turned around, and looked east in the mid-afternoon light. There was not a cloud in the sky. Well beyond the tall glass structures of the Loop, the hotels, the banks, and the new condominiums, the large green rectangle of Grant Park unrolled magnificently.

The white sails detached themselves over the immensity of the lake as if they were departing for some remote Orient. Felicia had been there all along for him, through thick and thin.

" Did you get my text? " she asked.

" Yes I did sweetie. The Imperial on Rush, right? "

" Yup. 8 pm. "

It was their vow, no matter what life would throw at them, to celebrate their first encounter in the laundry room every year, two weeks after Labor Day. They promised each other to do it in the same spirit, the spirit of youth and discovery.

" What's wrong baby?" She sensed the tension in his voice immediately.

" Tough day here. I'll be all right. Tell me about tonight."

" I can't tell you," she said with a smile.

" You're killing me! " he laughed. " Okay then; I'll have to stick with the laundry room memory. It works every year! "

" You do that honey bun. I'll see you tonight at 8. "

She always had something good in store for him. She remembered meeting her man for the first time. He was a mysterious exotic student from the Ivory Coast who played tennis, enjoyed French cinema, and studied finance. All the while, he drove a taxi through the South Side at night.

She had just moved from Madison, Wisconsin. She was a gorgeous young blond lady. Her green eyes, magnified by her meticulously maintained eyebrows, sparkled constantly.

She always seemed to wear a smile. Her generous high cheeks over two cute double dimples gave her face the air of a devilish joker, happy to be alive, and always up to no good. She was a ravishing prankster whose full face, thin lips, and quick wit, left none of the foreign players on the tennis team indifferent.

Smart girl. Goofy at times, she was a handful. She inherited her humor from her beloved father. Wolfgang Katz was a greying German patriarchal figure, heir of an old Bavarian beer dynasty. Her old man was a tough cookie. He could be quite cynical at times, and Felicia's mother had often suffered from it.

During their long summer afternoons at the family mansion overlooking Lake Geneva, Wolfgang often voiced his European cynicism at will. Felicia knew it, and her older brother too. But she loved her father. He had this brutal German aristocratic way about him.

Educated with European rigor, he had no mercy for American English when he pestered her Norwegian mother. His outbursts were even comical at times, when he ran out of words.

" Asshole. Asshole," he would repeat.

He would follow it by: " English. The language. It's so poor. Fuck."

It is probably what led Felicia to comparative literature. One the family pontoon boat in the middle of the lake, her fully tanned bust cut by a white bikini, she told Wolfgang at the end of her last summer in Wisconsin:

" I'm moving to Chicago Dad. "

" Chicago? Gut." he had replied.

Becoming a trust fund baby was categorically out of the question for Felicia. Wolfgang somehow had to report to his conscience, his ethics, his education, and his ancestors, all of Germany if needed: His daughter was going to go to college. It had been decided, long before she was born.

Her childhood trips to visit the grandparents in Bavaria made her fluent in German. But it was French literature that interested her. She spoke it also. That is how the conversation with Djambo started in the laundry room on the first night. They were discussing the Lost Generation, Paris in the 1920's, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein.

" Wow! " she marveled. " How do you know all that?"

" I read. I don't just drive a cab, you know. Plus in French high school it was mandatory. You really didn't have a choice. "

Felicia was sitting on top of the dryer. She watched him throw the white Lacoste, the shorts, the socks, the headband, the wristband, and the towel into the General Electric washer below. He slammed the metal door, and delicately squeezed the five quarters in the rusted steel tray.

At 5'6'', 135 pounds, she was a fantastically curvy blonde. No one on campus ever guessed the milky abundance of her natural 36 E's. Not even Djambo. Not until now.

The absence of a bra under her thin Gap tee shirt made them come alive in the lukewarm darkness of the promiscuous room. Djambo noticed their lively bounce when she first jumped on the dryer. He was particularly in awe of the immaculate grain of her skin.

It had a velvet milky texture, slightly darkened from the ultimate rays of the passing summer. It reminded Djambo of the exquisite softness of a white sand beach in Bora Bora. The proximity of Felicia's young, abundant, and maternal milk only retained by the bulging soft cotton made him smile.

" Mmmmm..." he sighed: " Felicia Katz, what am I going to do with you?"

She blushed, and looked down for a second at the scratched metal of the dryer top between her firm thighs. When she looked back up, he had removed his own tee.

It revealed the chiseled splendor of his torso. If tennis had its Apollo's, Djambo Diallo sure was the ebony version of it.

He moved closer, and now she could catch his scent. He projected an invigorating mixture of sweat, raw African wilderness, power, arrogance, and feline approach. She felt hunted, like a vulnerable female, solitary in the savannah.

" Tell me more," she asked.

He stretched his arms upwards and joined his hands behind his neck. He stood in front of her. His skin delivered an intoxicating and savage bouquet that mixed in with the lavender scent of the dryer.

" More about what?"

" About you. About Africa."

" You like that violent stuff, don't you?" he asked, amused.

Felicia's almond shaped eyes grew larger with curiosity, and hunger.

Their green intensity pierced the darkness of the room at close range, like a laser.

" What do you want to know?" he asked.

" The good stuff. The things that make you vibrate. Your experiences."

" Really?"

" Really."

" What about you?"

" I told you about mine. What's there to know anyway? How I lost my virginity? That was pretty uneventful, in Madison, on a Friday night, with a nerd. We almost got caught. Really nothing to brag about, I tell you."

" Nothing for me to brag about either." Djambo said.

" Oh come on, Mister." she insisted with her devilish smile.

Djambo moved back against the washer, puzzled by her discerning curiosity.

" There was a woman: The French couple I told you adopted me when I was seven years old. They were like a god family to me after I moved in with them in the city. They were expats and lived in a very nice villa right on the Atlantic Ocean. I was like a son to them, especially the father, Monsieur Martin. He was very protective of me. He adopted me from my village and saved me from certain poverty. I didn't grow up like you, you know..."

" I know...I can imagine." Felicia said.

" Well, the lady was over twice my age at the time, in her late thirties. Almost forty. She was quite kinky it turns out."

" I like kinky."

" I lost my virginity to her."

" Really?"

" Really. Not that first time, but one of those many times afterwards: I must have just turned eighteen. She took me to witness a public execution. They had rounded up some thieves and tied them around coconut trees at the beach.

Hundreds of people were watching behind the military cordon. We were parked far enough to be safe, in the company's Peugeot limo. The car was a limited edition issued only for French executives in Africa. Bulletproof, it had a thick black partition between the chauffeur and the backseat. It had one-way vision too. Only the passenger could see through it. My stepmother Francoise opened her black dress while the execution begun. She was watching it through the window on her side. They were just beginning. She unzipped me as well.

The chauffeur was watching the crowd, the soldiers, the dust, the commotion, and we could hear the insults of the mob. She had me erect in no time. She turned around, and offered me her magnificent ivory derriere while she watched the spectacle through the tinted window. She was wet, and impatient. Things were starting to heat up, and she brought me close behind her. She was brushing my tip against her unctuous lips. She found the oily bulb of her clit, and lodged me there. The soldiers in olive camouflage were already pacing back from the tree line. It went fast." Djambo said.

" She moved back on my tip, her lips were fully dilated. She was panting like a bitch in heat. She made the window opaque with her breathing. She brushed the circle of condensation with her left fist in order to see outside again. She moved her hips just like a black woman. Finally, she impaled herself on me with appetite. I think the chauffeur was able to hear us. He too had unzipped. I could only see the repetitive movement of his right shoulder through the partition, and nothing else."

" Fuck!" Felicia said. " Ok, now you're making me hot."

" It's hard to explain. It was the age difference, I think. Also the fact that she was my stepmother, and that her husband didn't know. The chauffeur knew about us, however. The sun was beating on the tinted windows. It was like time was accelerating. The more imminent death seemed to be, the more Francoise contracted on me, and the louder she moaned.

I think the chauffeur came first, but she was holding off, opening more, undulating over the young arrogance of my cock. They were already aiming their AK-47s. She knew it was only going to be seconds. She accelerated the tempo. Her ample breasts were beating on the vinyl door inside the Peugeot. They were hitting the edge just below the window, making a fleshy flapping sound every time. Her door's vinyl and metal strip were burning hot, even inside, because of the sun. Every time her caramel areolas hit them the right way, she liberated a darker, more animalistic growl. Her final contraction came in sweet little bursts. It's only at that moment that the devastating sound of the machine guns broke through the thickness of the window."

Felicia's tee shirt was drenched. She did not realize her nipples were pointing aggressively through the cotton as Djambo finished telling the story. Her thighs were glistening under the oblique and occasional rays of yellow light emanating from the wooden porch outside.

" I need to take a fucking shower," she said.

" You're going to leave me here, all alone, waiting for that buzzer to go off?"

" I'm coming back, " she said: " We're not done yet."

Felicia moved close to him, her back to the double-stacked washer. There was not a soul around. It was almost midnight. Her shirt was very humid, and her nipples were begging for deliverance.

Djambo raised his arms again, liberating a new flux of scent, which smelled more like a cocoa fragrance this time. Felicia's lips, with their thin fuchsia lining in the dark, were fleshy like those of the African women back home.

Now they were moving close to his. She was ready to let go of her young, inquiring tongue. The sound of the metallic buzzer erupted at that moment and they laughed.

The laundry room had grown eerily silent, preserving the heat from the tall dryer bank. Felicia closed her eyes, and reached up. Her tongue began exploring Djambo's chest, timidly at first, as if she sought to feed herself from his nipples. He was letting her do it. She found his feline neck, his throat, his chin, and at last his lips.

She parted them, in little bursts, curious and intrusive. Then she became more anxious and courageous at the same time. Prisoner now between his full lips, she let go delicately, and tasted him with confidence.

Their heartbeat accelerated. Djambo's arms finally came down along both her sides. His thumbs met her helplessly thick and erect nipples' outward ambitions. They seemed gorgeously stunned by the sudden weight of her bosom. It was the first time she felt that close to a man.

The Imperial on Rush was a Chicago culinary institution. It was a dark, hip restaurant for city dwellers on Thursday nights. Evocative of Shanghai under British domination in the 1920's, the place oozed sensuality and erotic promise.

The music was sensational. It had a beat, reminiscent of the last days of disco, tastefully repackaged in techno fashion for the twenty-first century. At the upstairs bar, every late weeknight, from Thursday to Sunday, the funky guitar of Nile Rodgers was reigning supreme. Even for those too young to ever have danced to disco, it was catchy, rhythmic, enticingly optimistic and joyful. Sexy, twenty something Chicago young ladies, scantily dressed, swarmed in the stylish venue.

Even in the heart of winter, once they removed their puffy Éclair jackets and trendy coats, they would prowl around the coveted mahogany bar. Their hunt ritual for a city man could begin, to the sound of Get Lucky by Daft Punk.

They were blondes, brunettes, fiery red amazons, sexy, flashy, ambitious auburn intellectual types, secretaries, low HR executants on the totem pole, IT queens, students, and even Playboy model wannabes straight out of good old Hugh's headquarters right around the corner.

It was a dangerous place for the buttoned up husbands of married women, and exactly why Felicia had selected it. She loved to test her man in the presence of other women. In Chicago, Paris, Cancun, Singapore, and Dubai, she had tried for fifteen years.

She never succeeded in making Djambo stray away from her. Her attempts were always kinky, feminine tests of his resolve, and she always happily failed. Every day, every season, and through the length of years, his testosterones, and the sentimental fragility of her sweetheart of an African husband never disappointed her.

Tonight was not different. She had made upstairs reservations for two on the veranda overlooking Rush Street. The downstairs dining room was too old, and too conservative for them. Its ivory cream walls and perfect 1920's wicker high chairs trapped established stuffy old couples wanting in on the action. But their wise, preventive, suburban and city wives never really allowed the inquisitive and orgasmic walk up the dark stairway.

Upstairs, at the bar, the techno-beat, the champagne and the margaritas were making it an electric Thursday night. At eight pm, in mid-September, the air was still warm, and the veranda window blew a silent but ferocious horn of secret expectations through the entire room.

Its perfectly manicured palm trees, low sitting areas, comfy ultra modern sofas, mixed in with the elegant privacy screens in between were incredibly seductive. The song continued, loud, and omnipresent.

The young ladies were phenomenal creatures. They were gorgeous temptresses. Not a single one was over the age of thirty. On weekends, they carried their laundry in plastic baskets from Target, tied their ponytails, and jumped in forest green Jeep Grand Cherokees or navy blue Volkswagen Jettas to zoom around town.

Their boyfriends were named Josh, Brad, or Jonathan and approached them on the sidewalks of Lincoln Park while walking their golden labs. All the young men had a city job, however humiliating and hopeless. They were young floor traders, trade checkers, junior accountants at Arthur Andersen, financial types, law clerks, or " business development managers". They were big on summer hot dogs and the Chicago Cubs.

The women were also college educated, generally from a second or third tier institution. Their sexual proposition to the men, absent of love, was more or less a merger of credit card debt.

Felicia Katz, before she became Felicia Diallo, had never been a Trixie. She came from old money. Her father completely cut her off financially once he found out she was dating a black man. She was ok with it. Djambo drove a cab in the early days. Later, she landed a paid role during the 2008 Obama campaign even though she wasn't a Democrat.

She tricked the older white men, the Chicago operatives, into believing she was a young, busty, and naïve left wing idealist. The snow job worked like a charm, and paid the bills for a season. More central to her values were the virtues of hard work, savings, and family.

Now, fourteen years into her marriage to Djambo, she was waiting for him at the bar, front and center. Her back to the dark espresso counter, she was surrounded by busy multi-colored hair girls who pretended not to pay attention to her. At thirty-eight, Felicia's sex appeal easily surpassed the magnetic cleavages and short skirts of her loud and naïve younger city sisters.

Djambo knew the Thursday night scene. Impeccably shaved and bald, he had not gained a pound since his victory at the NCAA Men's Singles Finals in Atlanta.

It gave him a First Round wild card entry at the U.S. Open on a September night like this one, long ago.

He knew his Felicia was a good-hearted woman. Being good-hearted and even religious at times in no way diminished or suppressed her raw sexuality. He had selected a magnificent silk tie, silverfish blue, discreetly sprinkled with miniature petals. Its hues oscillated between navy and sky, along with the surprise of bright green gardenia here and there, in no systematic pattern. It was floating now, bouncing on the light grey Roger Sebag suit, as he jogged up the stairway.

Felicia knew how to push his buttons, especially after a hard day at work. The bar had grown more crowded, louder, but she was still sitting in the center, her legs crossed in front of the stool. Her early fall brown dress was lifted up to her thighs. It covered her exceptional chest.

Wise, gorgeous, confident in her neck length hairstyle and dark sumptuous highlights, she was waiting for him. She kept her signature provocative goofy facial expression:

" Hello Mister."

" Mrs. Felicia Katz." he said with a congenial smile.

" I ordered you a glass of Veuve," she said, and extended it to him.

" Always on point, young lady! You are always on point. Cheers to us."

" I made reservations on the veranda. It's going to be a few. Tell me about your day sweetie,"

" You don't want to know darling. "

The four or five girls around them momentarily quieted down. They were stunned by Djambo's arrival. They had been tricked by Felicia, whom they assumed was single and on the prowl. She gave them a run for their money.

" Young crowd," Djambo noticed.

" Young? We just haven't been here in a while. That's all."

" Me? What about you? Do you come here often?"

" Yes, young man. Every Thursday night when my husband works late." she joked.

" Do you score?"

" Oh yeah; Especially with the younger guys. That stamina, you know..."

" Good stuff? "

" Really good stuff. What about you? "

She took his right hand and moved it up along the familiar, firm, impeccable and shapely detour of her left thigh. Djambo moved close to her neck. The imperceptible Fragonard cologne ascended in her senses. It triggered sweet remote notes from the lavender fields of a long gone summer of theirs in the south of France.

" I'm a married man, young lady. And you do smell damn good. But I don't do those sort of things."

" What things?"

" Seducing strangers in a hip city bar on a Thursday night. Striking small talk in an airport before flying to Singapore, getting mixed up with dangerous terrorists in Paris."

" The gig is dinner for two my baby. Let's go. The waitress is right behind you."

A woman could be of average height and statuesque. Felicia's proportions were Godly. The oval nudity of her back towered over the low sitting areas, and flashed like sublime ivory in the lounge's darkness. She straightened the necks of the well-off professional, white male executives who were looking at her. She straightened the necks of the well-off professional, white male executives who were looking at her.

With their money, those men landed the prized low sitting circles of the upstairs dining room. They were staring at Felicia, followed by her gorgeous and confident black man.

Chicago democrats and intellectuals always despised the old, "racist" American South, but its city businessmen were equally prejudiced.

The menu was an orgy of Asian fusion cuisine: Grilled trout with oyster mushrooms - cellophane noodles served steamed in a banana leaf with curry sauce - crisp seared whole red snapper - steamed filets of Chilean bass with tomatoes, scallions and fried ginger, jumbo shrimp, asparagus, onions, in sate spice, with chili and garlic - oven roasted chicken with lemongrass and lime dipping - thinly sliced barbecued pork, served warm, over angel-hair noodles, greens, garlic fish sauce and peanuts.

" You know me well." Djambo said.

" I think I do." Felicia replied. " I bought myself a present."

She slid the rose bonbon box with Paris written on it. It showed minuscule letters, across the white tablecloth, contrasting with the imposing grey of the Roger Sebag suit. Djambo opened it. He left the cover up.

It protected the inside from the prying eyes of the Anglo waitress dressed in traditional Chinese silk who stood there, curious as to the content of it. It was a fuchsia G-string, a marvel of handmade French lace: Finely folded in the velvet box, it was intricate, and prepared with love. Parallel hand sown cotton strips met each other in the front and back over two subtle, yet promising triangles.

" Wow, baby." Djambo said.

The waitress was still standing, her back to Rush Street below them. Felicia looked at her, dismissive, and the young lady walked away.

" You like?"

" Like? This is something else. Our first time in Paris." Djambo said.

" I thought it would bring you back to that time, baby."

" It does, baby. It does. So much. You know how I am with surprises. I always blow it."

" That, you do, sweetheart. But I don't care. You know I don't. I always forgive you."

" Do you know what a clit dangler is?" Djambo asked.

Felicia burst out in uncontrollable laughter.

" Oh shit! Fuck!" and she exploded again, unable to contain herself.

" You should have seen your face! You looked so fucking serious when you asked that! Fuck! Your face! Oh my God! Do you know what a clit dangler is?" she repeated.

Djambo remained quiet, and the more puzzled he looked, the more Felicia laughed. She reached for her white napkin, and tried to contain her ecstatic laughter, but her eyes were inundated with tears.

" Shit baby! You're going to make me pee!" her stomach was contracting furiously. She could not stop.

He smiled, still not understanding her all-American outburst fully.

" Oh man. Baby." she said, wiping off a tear. " Shit, you have a way with words."

" What do you mean?"

She roared with laughter again, looked straight at him, his gorgeous face, his tightly cut suit, the blue tie, the tall wine glasses, the tablecloth, his fingers, crossed now under his chin, in full meditation.

" Oh baby, you're the best. You should have seen your face when you said that!"

" Okay. If you say so."

Felicia was like that, completely unpredictable at times.

" I have go to the ladies room. You stay right here baby. I can't with you!"

" Take this with you." He handed her the tiny wood box of their engagement ring. She gently brushed his left shoulder with her fingers, composed herself, and disappeared towards the ladies room.

In her absence, Djambo gave their request to the returning young waitress. He selected the appetizers and the main course. Dessert would have to wait. The nearest couple was two tables away, and the well coiffed middle-aged woman faced him in the absence of Felicia's grandiose nude back.

Felicia had propagated her French fragrance along the neighboring tables. Her laughter caught the couple's attention; the man stood up and walked to Djambo.

" Sorry to interrupt you..." he said.

" Oh no, not at all." Djambo said. He thought it was an acquaintance he had not recognized.

" We are in the lifestyle, so if you and your wife are interested..." he continued.

" We're definitely not in the lifestyle." Djambo replied with a wide smile.

" But thank you." he concluded politely.

And the ugly man in a suit walked away with a phony smile. His wife wasn't smiling at all; she looked down at her soup with a grimace.

" How is your mom?" Djambo asked when Felicia came back. She laughed again.

" You're hitting all the high notes tonight! First you ask me if I know what a clit dangler is. Then you make me try the damn thing on the spot. Gosh it took me ten minutes just to put it on so that it stays, that's how wet I am right now. Now you ask me about my mom. And you're still so fucking serious. You kill me baby! "

" Ok then. Don't tell me about your mom. Tell me about later tonight."

" Well, for one thing..." she said, munching on the tiny fried spring rolls.

" For one thing, we're not going to the World Seasons after this, I'll tell you that. I don't think I'll have the patience."

" I see..." Djambo said, still meditative. " Where then?"

" I don't know." Felicia said, " Surprise me."

" You're the lit major baby, not me. I'm a numbers guy."

" One heck of a number's guy, darling."

After dinner, the valet pulled up their midnight blue 740i, and handed Djambo the keys against a crisp twenty-dollar bill. It was already past ten pm and the night air had grown heavier.

The sky boiled with a pre-storm darkness; streaks of late summer lightening brewed all the way from Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri. A natural extension of tornado alley, the wind had awakened, and was now sweeping across Michigan Avenue. It blew southward, across the bridge, around the Wrigley building, along the curve of the river, and towards the West Loop.

The West Loop considerably developed in the late nineties. By the 2000s it had become a hip, established village of bourgeois, empty nesters, and successful young guns that could afford living close to downtown.

Homosexuals, dejected women, world expats, interracial couples, and tasteful gays completely transformed the old decrepit stockyards. Overnight, the meat packing houses became gorgeous oversized lofts for a good fifteen block radius that extended along the city's western edge at a million dollar a piece.

In the 740i, Djambo opened the rooftop, and Felicia was gently bouncing to the techno music with her eyes closed.

" Drive by Randolph, darling." she requested.

" You got it baby!"

The Randolph corridor attracted many new, sophisticated restaurants. New comers of all kinds: Ultra-modern, traditional, Japanese fusion, Italian, French cuisine, peppered the rustic street.

Single and divorced suburban women knew about it. Often, they scheduled their first Match dates in the fashionable and expensive district, knowing full well that the men always paid.

" Go around the block baby " Felicia continued, " Give me the full tour."

Djambo took it up all the way down Adams, along the red brick lofts, the eighteen-foot windows, the granite counter tops, the steel appliances, the wood rooftops, the giant freight elevators and elegantly restored factory doors.

All the while Felicia lifted her brown cotton dress all the way to her hips, with nothing underneath, except for the Paris subway ticket sized rectangle of her blond fur.

At the corner of Randolph and Halsted, a group of middle-aged suburban folks was standing and waiting for their respective valets.

At the furthest edge, a first date couple was still talking, lingering. The occasional fury of the wind was threatening with the imminence of a late evening storm. The woman, tall, visibly professional and educated, was wearing a dark Yves Saint Laurent ladies suit with a white blouse underneath. She looked severe, beautiful, but stern as if she hadn't been satisfied in ages.

Felicia lowered her tinted window while they were circling around the block. She suddenly jolted around, unbuckled her safety belt, and turned away from Djambo. He was focusing on incoming traffic and began his right turn.

There was one last car, already in the middle of the intersection, and he wasn't looking to his right at that very moment. But Felicia made sure the first date couple on the corner did.

She presented them the full moon of her perfectly round giant ass through the rolled down passenger front window, medium rare in the center, with the three Tahiti pearls of the clit dangler underlying the tableau like a masterpiece at Le Louvre. The middle-aged woman in the YSL suit saw it first. Her mind was immediately electrocuted by the spectacle. She was speechless.

" Fuck Felicia! What are you doing?" Djambo yelled.

The scene did not last more than five, eight seconds at the most. But it was enough to plant precise memories in the minds of the Olive Garden couple. The tacky silver hair man drove a red Corvette to compensate for his other limitations. He wore a navy blue blazer and khaki pants to dignify himself in the company of older women. He was equally shocked. The benefit of the view would only register later in his mind, much later, in his empty suburban home, well after parting ways from the lady.

In five seconds, Felicia exploded the myth of the great American first date with her fantastically proportionate and generous ass. All the hypocrisy had been sucked into it: The silver hair supposedly wealthy car dealership owner, the YSL fashion designer wannabe, the newspaper editor, the pet taxi entrepreneur, " My kids come first, I want romance, I never have sex on the first date, I own a mansion in Palm Beach, I have to trust you first, what about you? What do you want out of life?"

The succulent white moon of Wisconsin, the Dairy State, right in their faces, emerging from Felicia's window, was the best argument for sex they ever faced.

She was hysterical, delighted by the effects of her trick. She bounced back down on the leather seats, and turned around to look at the couple through the open window. They couldn't believe it. Their jaws were still stuck. She had dynamited their entire evening conversation with five thousand tons of TNT.

" You're something else. You know that? " Djambo said.

He was laughing now, at her outrageous trick. She was quiet, smiling like the cat that stole from the cookie jar, fully satisfied.

The private entrance of their loft at 991 West Adams was pitch dark. With the wind and incoming storm, it was safe to assume no one would venture out to walk their dog this late.

When the few drops began to trickle on the dirty sidewalk Felicia took it all off. She jumped out of the BMW and ran towards the metal door, while Djambo extinguished the bright yellow headlights.

Sheets of rain fell upon the West Loop with a vengeance. That night was nothing less than furious and rhythmic love between them: Massive and profound entries of his educated but vicious thickness into the welcoming four fold of her creamy pink lips.

Her milky white breasts were bouncing and not wanting to stop. Felicia came close to orgasm many times between midnight and 2 am. She completely drenched the white sheets with her saliva and her sweat.

She clenched her fists under the imperial saccades of Djambo's elastic and tonic hips, and wanted his abdominal thrusts to fully tear her apart. She was scrapping the red bricks of the bedroom wall with her nails, howling with pleasure.

Djambo's violent intrusions first ejected her from the bed, then pushed her forward on the hardwood floor, and finally up again, against the bedroom window ledge.

He pulled her magnificent blonde hair, making her arch her back until she couldn't flex it anymore. Her bare breasts were scratching against the rough cement ledge and she looked outside the window and across the narrow alley.

The rain finally stopped and the drops had cleared. She noticed the blue television glow shaping a single man in the apartment opposite theirs. He was stuck to his window, on the lonely side of it, the side of the single man. Felicia could outline his full body, muscular, and athletic. He was darker, perhaps Latino, or maybe a deeply tan younger man. Maybe he was a young accountant, with his fat unsatisfied cock, furiously masturbating, and savoring the view.

He was unable to see Felicia's husband behind her, but guessed Djambo's savage presence in the darkness of their bedroom sanctuary. She wanted to point him out but he disappeared and the television glow went suddenly dark in the Chicago night.

II

COLUMBUS DAY

" Wealth and rank are what people desire,

But unless they are obtained in the right way,

They may not be possessed."

~ Confucius

October didn't begin well for Diallo Capital Management. The fund was down 2% from the mid-September trading debacle and a subsequent downturn in the U.S. equities markets. This wasn't always the case. Historically, the stock market corrected or headed downwards in October, but there were exceptions.

Additionally, in the hedge fund world, a down market did not necessarily mean being down money. One could be up money in a down market simply by selling short or buying the so-called put options. DCM had access to those instruments and could profit regardless of the underlying trend of market configuration.

Trading was simple and complicated at the same time. It depended on how deep one was willing to research it, explore, and understand. There were three major types of involvement: Hedging, Speculation, and Arbitrage.

Hedging was covering one's bet by taking an opposite position in the derivatives markets. Speculation was a pure directional bet: Up, down, or sideways, and could be applied to any market in the world, anywhere, anytime, any second. Foreign exchange, commodities, stocks, bonds, real estate, precious metals, art, even airplane leases were tradable.

Speculation was the riskiest type of market participation, the most dangerous, and also the most rewarding. There were of course, complicated trading techniques and schemes, mind boggling mathematical formulae, and complex algorithms applied to finance.

The emergence of IT and the speed of light complicated things further. But the essence of trading was risk taking, risk management, and risk mitigation.

DCM generated a return on investment that exceeded the benchmark, the reference point. Generating alpha was the holy grail of the game. It was the planetary challenge of all hedge funds. Some succeeded, but very few funds, even the very best in the world, managed to do it consistently, year after year.

There were outliers, exceptional money managers who actually accomplished that feat. Which of it could be attributed to luck? The question was difficult to answer.

The large number of market participants around the world employing different strategies almost insured that one of them was bound to randomly come up with a long winning streak.

Djambo Diallo did not believe in luck. He believed in hard work, meaningful dedication, research, and pay-off. He reminded his young employees of DCM's approach at every investment committee meeting.

They met on the 10th business day of every month. It was the halfway point of the 20 trading day sequence. DCM's October's meeting was scheduled for 11 am on a Friday, in the glass enclosed conference room adjacent to his office. Djambo was very democratic in running his small firm. Everyone was welcome to attend. Strict, direct, curt at times, he believed in the fairness of situational assessments.

Once everyone sat around the immense Brazilian zebrawood table overlooking Grant Park, he started:

" Good morning. And thank you for coming this morning. We lost a bright young man shortly after last month's meeting, but as you know, it was nothing personal. He violated the trading rules and guidelines of this firm; ethics guided my decision to let him go. We live in a post 2008 world: Strict adherence to SEC guidelines and compliance are central, not only to our success, but to the entire financial industry in this country.

We've done very well for ourselves in the past five years. Now the U.S. equities market is showing signs of fatigue.

This obviously impacts your 401Ks, mine, and that of millions of working Americans and their savings every month. What we do here matters: Your daily work, our collective effort is what generates the value of this firm.

Our aim is to generate positive alpha, excess returns, for our investors and ourselves. Unfortunately, and for the first time since 2008, it looks like we will not be able to accomplish our goal this year. We are down 1% for October so far, 3% for the third quarter, and an overall negative 6% for the entire year.

We will survive. But we do need ideas: New ideas, fresh ideas, not run of the mill losing strategies. Anyone? "

Gita Patel, a twenty-three year old young lady from India raised her hand silently. She recently graduated from Northwestern University with a double major in Computer Science and Business. Djambo was immediately impressed with her internal initiatives upon her joining the firm.

" Go ahead, Gita." he said.

" Good morning everyone; I am new to the trading and investment world, and do not yet have the breadth of knowledge or collective wisdom of this table. I would like to suggest that we ramp up our IT capabilities, as speed trading has become central to success in this industry. We do have a state of the art infrastructure, but are behind in milliseconds when we trade, and this causes slippage. We are not getting enough timely fills, and the delays affect our bottom line performance."

" Thank you Gita." Djambo said, " Gita is absolutely correct in her analysis. Technology is taking over finance, it's taking over the world. If we do not change our internal IT practices, we will not survive two years.

The markets are too fast. We have to look elsewhere. Innovate. Develop our own technology, in-house. Gita will spearhead the project. Anyone else?"

Alexandra Parker, Chief Operating Officer, was next. She was in-house counsel of DCM. A remarkable top Chicago securities attorney, she had known Djambo for many years. At 52, her corporate trajectory in the Windy City had been stellar.

Fresh out of the University of Michigan in the early 80s, she rode the commodities bull market, and formidable expansion of the futures industry of that decade. Futures, options, derivative products, stocks, debt instruments, U.S. Treasuries, corporate debt issuance, mergers and acquisitions between local financial firms were all her specialty. She often expressed her views in the opinion page of the Wall Street Journal.

Her career had unfolded like a perfect round of golf. She was an amazing tennis player in her youth. She collected trophy after trophy at the Michigan Girl's Sectionals in the mid 1970s as a fierce competitor.

She was an All American blonde. Below her well cut bangs, her classic shoulder length and light wavy streaks were dancing in the late morning sun of the conference room, contrasting beautifully with the dark charcoal of her cashmere vest.

Her eyes were turquoise of a medium hue. Scandinavian ancestry gave her a perfectly symmetrical face, usually typical of Minnesota born magazine models. Her smile was warm, not quite condescending, but rather mysterious and stately.

Large white classic pearls enhanced her throat and lower neckline. Her thin lips, contoured tastefully with lipstick underlined the perfect whiteness of her teeth.

She always sat straight, shoulders squared up, and one could admire the upper fold of her vest gently sliding down to the very large golden buttons of her jacket.

She seemed to float across the room, seated opposite to Djambo. Her back to the deep blue sky, she began speaking as Djambo looked at her. She had been the coveted prize many at the University of Michigan. She loved foreign men. She must have been thirty-five when she first met Djambo. He was still eighteen, and didn't know Felicia yet.

His opponent was a tough Yugoslavian player Alexandra was dating while in law school. Djambo prevailed in three sets in a majestic display of African creativity and magic on court. After the post-match handshake, they were introduced. Alexandra immediately took a liking to him, and even though she was dating at the time, she stayed in touch with Djambo.

She knew he was driven by the American Dream, and understood his fear of the INS. The Immigration and Naturalization Service harassed him constantly about his student visa. When she became a law student, she was determined to help him and eventually was successful at it.

Now, in her sexy monarchial pose, flawless blonde coiffure, her head slightly tilted to the right over the sober black suit and scintillating white pearls, Alexandra began her expose on the new SEC requirements for 2016:

" Needless to say, the cost of doing business in this industry will rise dramatically in the first quarter of next year. New compliance laws are coming into effect on January 1st, and we will have ninety days to implement them. We do not know exactly what they will be, but I have conduced research so that we can stay one step ahead of them. This will have implications on HR, IT, Accounting, and our investors.

In the Operations Department, we've already cut expenses as much as we possibly could.

Short of a major market reversal in our favor, or additional equity coming from new investors, our position is pretty dire. Producing at benchmark levels without generating alpha is unsustainable. We have to do better. I will confer with Djambo this afternoon to explore fresh possibilities."

Being fully transparent with the team to deliver the blow was essential. News travelled fast in the financial markets, and Alexandra had always been very forthcoming, especially in times of crisis.

The room was silent.

" I know it isn't what you wanted to hear, folks. Everyone is understandably concerned about year-end bonuses. I am as well. But you can count on me: I will be the last to collect a bonus check, and only if it is justified."

" Thank you Alexandra." Djambo said. And he continued:

" We will be fine. There is no panic; we have ninety five million dollars in under management. We're down 5% from one hundred million. It's not the end of the world. Keep your chin up, keep trading, keep coming up with new ideas, and we'll win this one."

The young prodigies did not seem that alarmed or worried. Most of them were in their twenties. Their values were different of those of the senior staff incarnated by the sultry Alexandra. The young Indian woman, briefly stopped next to Djambo to thank him for the opportunity to lead the IT project, and quietly exited the conference room.

He was now alone with Alexandra. She walked towards the bay window. She was stunning. Even from behind, or when stern and somber, she was always fantastically sexy in the DCM's boardroom light.

Djambo walked up behind the row of cream-colored contemporary chairs. He leaned on top the Brazilian commode running along the wall. She turned towards him and smiled.

" You were brilliant, Alex. Thank you for opening up to the team the way you did. I do appreciate it."

" The only way to be." she said; " Let's go to Grant Park after lunch. Let's take a walk. I want to tell you about something. Too many ears around here."

" What time?"

" Call it 2 pm. I'll be there before you. Bring me my latte, would you?" she asked.

" Same place?"

" Yeah. Same place...."

They occasionally met behind the Art Institute, early on Friday afternoons, to recap the trading week's issues. Millennium Park in early October displayed a magnificent explosion of hues like the palette of an Impressionist painting.

Behind the majestic Art Institute, the red, yellow, orange, pastel, and green foliage of gardenia rose in the clear sky. Above the tree-lined alleys, bright yellow leaves were desperately clinging to the thin wooden trunks. Fresh air enveloped the sinuous pathways, and a cobblestone stairway led to the Buckingham Fountain.

Alexandra's eyes conveyed an early fall loneliness as if she were preparing for yet another long harsh winter. The walk with Djambo felt like a reprieve.

He too had the impression of not being completely alone in the great Mid-western city. They lived in the heart of it, at the crossroads of ambitions. Young hope and old wisdom cohabitated in Chicago.

Their walk was sensual, sexy, as if the week's worries were already drowning in the lake behind them. Alexandra's dignified beige Burberry overcoat covered her shoulders and her neckline. The perfect grain of her skin showed lovely beauty spots that appeared discreetly at the top of her cleavage.

" How's Felicia?" she asked, and grabbed her tall latte.

" She's good. Fighting her own battles, you know, executive recruiting, it's not easy. It's a sales gig."

" You've got that right." Alexandra said. " Let's walk around."

The air had turned warmer in the early afternoon, and the sun was still high over the glass skyscrapers, west of them.

" I've been thinking about her." she continues, " I mean, the both of you, the firm, the way things have been going as of late. You understand the consequences of the market decline, and what it means for us,"

" I hear you." Djambo said. He knew where Alexandra was going. She earned three hundred thousand dollars a year, and was increasingly worrying about her own fate.

" I know what you're thinking. But it's not that. Quite to the contrary: I'm not going to let you down. You've worked hard for this, Djambo. And you've taken me along for the ride for the past ten years. It's been a great ride. You've been good to me. You've been generous, and have compensated me very well.

You've kept your distances, which I do appreciate, for you and Felicia.

It's been a great adventure. I don't want it to end now. There has to be a way."

" You know how I feel about you. I've never hidden it. Not at the beginning, not now."

" I know." she said. " I know. It's all about timing, right?"

" What do you have in mind?"

" I've been thinking," she said. They approached a narrow tunnel littered with dry leaves. " With plain vanilla products not going anywhere, the equities market stagnating, arbitrage sealed up tight, the banks not lending, and investors having cold feet, maybe we ought to venture into structured products."

" Explain,"

They reached the center of the tunnel. In the intimate darkness of the brick curvature, her voice resonated.

" There's a deal, coming out of Paris, early next year: A structured products three way deal, where, I think we could play a role. It involves delivery of physicals, commodity compensation, cash, and financing."

" What physicals?"

" It's complicated: The French government has struck a deal selling Qatar proprietary government security software. Qatar has no problem paying one hundred million dollars for it. The issue is with commissions. It's government approved, but the intermediary does not want to be paid in Switzerland.

He doesn't want publicity. Instead, he wants to be paid in cash commodities, not paper money. He wants to hold the inventory.

" What inventory? "

" The spring Cocoa harvest in the Ivory Coast, the world's largest producer."

" And then?"

" Then sell it on the open market when the conditions are favorable."

" And if they're not?"

" They will be."

" What do you mean they will be?"

" If he holds on to them long enough, prices will rise."

" I'm with you so far. Where do we come in?"

" Well, let's say he needs short-term financing: Insurance for his good work. He doesn't want go to town with Qatar and get screwed on the finish line."

" He wants someone to front his commission."

" Exactly; An escrow account of some sort,"

" And how do we do that?"

" Offshore. Not here in the U.S. You know that. It has to be out of a European jurisdiction; Andorra, Luxembourg, Monte-Carlo, or Jersey."

" And the French government?"

" They don't want to know about the commission payment. They just want sell the software and collect."

" What's the payout?"

" Enough for us to do well over the next five years at least."

They exited the tunnel, and Alexandra held Djambo's right arm. He turned silent. Her Bally shoes matched his French Westons, on the gravel, step for step.

" What do you think?" Alexandra asked.

" I don't know." Djambo replied. " I'm absorbing it all: The stakes, the complications, me, you, the firm, Felicia. You dazzle me with the idea."

It was nearing 3 pm, and getting warmer. Alexandra removed her overcoat and delicately opened the large buttons of her jacket. Djambo towered over her. He peeked down past her blond hair over her left shoulder, and straight into the tender flesh of her right breast. It was held by thin black lace that stopped at the lower half of her oversized pink areola.

" Think about it." she said looking up to him.

" Just think about it. That's all I ask."

" I think you're right. It's worth thinking about, despite the complications.

We might have a card to play there. Who knows?"

" Who knows?" she repeated, about to cross back over Michigan Avenue and into the city.

" I'm taking Monday off!" she yelled before disappearing between two big yellow taxis.

Felicia called her husband's office once night had fallen.

" Hey baby." she started

" Hey..."

" Are you almost done?"

" No. Not quite. I haven't even begun wrapping it up here. I'm looking at three hours. Look, I know it's Friday night, but I'm swamped. Today was rough. I want to put it past me. I should be home by 10:30. How about you? How was your day?"

" Well, difficult also: I was turned down by a prospect for their CFO search, and met with the Head of HR at Star Airlines, but nothing yet, nothing certain."

"Sales is hard. Take a long bath, and I'll be home soon."

" I already have." Felicia said " I'm naked for you. But since you're busy, I think I'm going to treat myself with a well deserved home made epilation."

" Ha! You do that sweetheart. You do that. Kisses." and he hung up.

Felicia carefully laid her I-phone6 on the wide arm of her Corbusier chair. She sat facing the living room tall window and unwrapped her large white towel. It was still wet from her bath. She dropped it on the hardwood floor, and it looked like a miniature snowy mountain.

Most of the time, she booked her spa days at Marco Bellucci on Michigan Avenue. It was located right across from Water Tower, in the Bloomingdale building.

But she was tired, and didn't want to face the late Friday afternoon rush of exigent snobby females.

She wanted intimacy at home. She opened her thighs, tweezers in hand, and began exploring the nascent light brown grass bordering her emerging clitoris. She kept herself trimmed high, for Djambo, and well groomed. It turned him on. She liked to keep it soft below. She shaved him too, at times, on Sunday afternoons when it rained. She felt his perfectly peachy balls with no curly black hair made him look even bigger.

With the smile of renewed confidence, she began concentrating on her laborious evening endeavor. She didn't know it, but her weekly practice was very common in the Muslim world.

She was trying to have a conversation with God, all the while focusing on her intimate mission. She thought about her studies in Comparative Religions, and the prophet who came to spread good conduct through the sutras of the Quran. They were the sacred word, in the sacred book.

More than a billion Muslims lived and practiced peacefully around the world; In Southeast Asia, the Philippines, Borneo, Indonesia, central Asia, Pakistan, Afghanistan, parts of China even, and of course, the entire Middle East.

Felicia had studied theology at the graduate level for a number of years. She became an expert. In the context of her degree, she read the Bible, the Quran, the Torah, as well as the classics of Indian spirituality.

Well travelled in her youth, she developed a thorough, keen, intimate understanding of world cultures. Travel, and years of learning made her a wonderful, pious, and deeply spiritual young lady. She was eager to learn more in order to better understand civilization, history, humanity, and her own place in it. She was an atheist who studied religion.

She did not preach. She practiced goodness on a daily basis: She volunteered to feed the poor on Christmas night, taught English to illiterate immigrants, and was in the early stages of implementing a vaccine program in African villages with the financial backing of DCM.

After 9/11, in her early twenties, she sheltered many Saudi students, young men and women, who suffered from the profiling in the complicated aftermath of the American tragedy. The goal of Osama Bin Laden was to trigger a war of religion between East and West, between America and the Middle East, between Westerners and Arabs, between Christianity and Islam. Fifteen years into it, it looked like he was succeeding.

He was not a Muslim. He, like the legions of blind men who followed him, was a terrorist. No true Muslim would be capable of such an act. No true Christian ever could either. Illuminated terrorists, blind killers, mad men who deviated from the word of God were the evils of their time. And ignorance was the devil's best friend.

Lost in those thoughts, she began tweezing her pussy hair carefully. She never did prior to meeting Djambo.

She always let it grow fully. It grew rich and golden like the wheat fields of her native Wisconsin.

She enjoyed watching it grow, and marveled at the sweet femininity of her bush. The idea to modify it came before her wedding night. It began secretly, in the small village in Provence right before their wedding. In the cozy bedroom of the Bastide Saint Andrew, she had carefully trimmed it. That way Djambo could have a full look at it for the first time in his life.

She remembered how they kissed under the moonlight next to the small dinghy boat, and his impatience. They were husband and wife, faithful to each other until death, in front of God.

She was still wearing her wedding dress when they arrived by boat at the Italian bed and breakfast, just across the border from France.

It was in the middle of the night, and he followed her, silently, along the stone stairway to their bedroom's terrace. She remembered how each rebellious piece of hair felt when she patiently extracted it. It was like millions of little bees sweetly tingling her with the anticipation of her husband's tongue.

He lifted her wedding dress, looked at her white nylons, bright under the moon, and was amused at the absence of panties.

" You didn't wear any? Even at church?" he asked.

" Nope!" Felicia said. She was a rebel. She loved surprises.

Her hands rested over the porous stone edge overlooking the sea. She felt his tongue kissing her, and then exploring her. He began with her anus. He enjoyed her clean taste, mixed with distinct scent of her sweat, and the wedding's French perfume. He stayed there, for long minutes, licking and feeling the tiny contractions of it.

He enjoyed the peach like softness of her lips and discovered the joy of discovering her soft epilation. She was softer than before. She remembered turning her eyes back, to look at him first, and then looking at the dark windows of the Italian mansion behind them. They were probably the only guests that night.

For the first time of his life, Djambo was able to measure and savor the fullness of his wife intimate lips. Soft and lengthy, they extended much further out than he previously imagined.

They tasted uniquely good, attractive, like the rest of her. He parted Felicia's firm and opulent buttocks with authority. He nosed in further into her.

Her breasts felt neglected, and she remembered how she pinched her nipples facing the sea; How she arched her back, opened her mouth, confused between the pain of the pinch and the pleasure of the salty air licking her areolas.

At twenty-three, Djambo needed no help appeasing the intense desire of his wife. He was powerfully erect, squatting behind her, welcoming her feminine bursts in his mouth, while remaining fully focused.

It was always fun changing the sheets in their Chicago studio when she made a big pool of it every time. It became an intimate joke of theirs.

Now she was free to inundate the old stone Italian terrace in full impunity and she wasn't holding back. Quite to the contrary, eager for his exceptional dimensions, she enjoyed being fully prepared as if it were the first night of their life together.

He held up to his end of the bargain. They hadn't touched each other during the full trip from America to Paris, and then on to the French Riviera. The entire ten days had been an eternity for him. He abstained, abiding by her wish, cleansing both their souls, prior to marrying.

The countryside religious retreat with the French priest was enlightening. It was real, honest, philosophical, and a no-nonsense spiritual preparation to their future life.

The priest spoke about the challenges they would encounter along the road, the hardship of life, illness, and death. They absorbed it with pure hearts, and more determined than ever.

Now his massive cock head was bouncing on Felicia's fragile anus with impatience, triggering unstoppable waves of pleasure through her phenomenal body. Djambo's round extremity found the fold of her newly shaved lips right below it.

He kept beating on them, harder and harder, as to prepare her for the road of life. Felicia responded, further opening her legs, barefoot on the terrace, wind in her hair, fully nude, except for the light and sexy wedding dress wrapped around her hips.

His undulations behind her were rhythmic, powerful, and natural. Seen from the ocean, he would have been a dark shadow, towering over her, bald headed, his hips rolling back and forth elegantly behind his wife.

Felicia felt it raising her to her toes every time. She cherished the extreme heat of him at the very center of her. She began screaming savagely deep from her throat and into the ocean. He kept pushing, and conjugating their love. He had found his match in the exceptional length and softness of her free lips. Well lubricated, they seemed to espouse his thickness like a glove, staying with him all the way.

But Felicia preferred the opposite: His profound intrusions to her core, her womb. She wanted to be inundated with the powerful jets she grew accustomed to over the years. Except on that night, she wanted even more.

She wanted their love to take the form of life, at her very core. She wanted a child.

Impaled on him, unable to move an inch further, blocked by the stone ledge, holding on to it, fully filled by her man, she welcomed his powerful orgasm with ferocious spasms of her own. It was the forth time she came in an hour.

III

INDIAN SUMMER

" And also prohibited to you

Are all married women?

Except those your right hands possess."

~ Quran 4.24

Felicia did not hear Djambo come home that night. There were plenty of weeknights when it was that way. She knew it, and accepted it. It was part of their life as an ambitious young couple in Chicago. When she woke up in the morning, he had often already left for work. He would quietly turn off his phone alarm, and slip into the shower. Then he went to the gym, ate breakfast, and selected a suit in their spacious walk-through closet. Once ready, he kissed her lips to wake her up, and he was out the door.

She opened her eyes, looked at him vaguely, and he was gone in an instant. She looked at the thick wood beams above her, curled herself back towards Djambo 'side, and decided to skip her morning workout. The day ahead was daunting. The brief thought of it made her refuge in the sweet warmth and lavender scent of the sheets.

A remote cat's meow peaked through the ceiling an hour later. It was distant at first, and then repeated itself. The cat seemed to call for food. It appeared locked up like the city pets she heard in the building throughout the day.

Small and exclusive, 991 West Adams, featured only twenty-four 3000 square foot units that some owners often combined to double up on space. The neighborhood caught up to the New York loft craze. It became as vibrant as Soho, and was the perfect home for them. They both could walk to the center of the city early in the spring, as soon as the temperature became tolerable.

Now it was early November, and Djambo's morning twenty-minute walk was still very manageable under his Italian cashmere overcoat. The days had shortened considerably. It was still dark inside the bedroom. Felicia finally opened her wide eyes, like a newborn baby ready to face the world. The cat's meow from the bedroom above theirs had grown more persistent, and more intimate.

She straightened herself in the bed, puzzled, and looked at the wood beams and exposed metal tubes of the loft's sprinkler system running around the ceiling. She realized it was a woman's voice. It was a sweet, repetitive, and delicious longing.

It grew clearer, more distinct, ever more present.

" Oooo! Mmmm! Uh! Aow....Mmmmmm," right above her.

She never met the woman upstairs. They rarely saw their neighbors. Felicia guessed, from the usual silence of the unit above, that it must have been a single woman. There had never been a male's voice, the sound of beer bottles, television, or even music coming from above. She only heard a vacuum cleaner early in the morning, usually late in the week.

She realized she was behind in tempo. She rushed her thumb and index finger towards her clit, and found it quickly. It was already awakened by the delicious morning vocal prelude. Her thumb was filing the top of her bulbous flesh with the speed of a Vietnamese manicurist: fast, precise, repetitive, eager to finish the job and get paid, while carrying conversation at the same time.

Her clit, already disproportionate when at peace, had been her secret all of her life. Only Djambo knew about it. Only him had privately marveled at the sweet enormity of it. Only it deserved the tender yet devastating circumference of her husband's aggressive and fulfilling cock head.

The moaning grew crisper, coming from deep in the woman's throat. Until then Felicia could have believed that the lady upstairs was alone, but robust pounding began. It seemed to come from a metallic frame bed, perhaps a Versailles style four pole in black iron. It sounded hard, crisp against the hardwood floor, scraped with rage by the metal feet.

" AH! UH! FUCK! OH FUCK!"

It was a change from her solitary pleasures. This encounter had punch to it. Felicia could feel it through the twelve-foot dry wall. It vibrated through her entire back, during each thrust.

The man was not talking, and seemed somberly focused. Felicia let go, and submitted herself to the imagined intensity of his intrusions. She could only hear the woman.

" OH FUCK! FUCK! AAH! MMMMM BABY! OH...!"

She pulled her foreskin and her pink jewel emerged from her plucked, and impeccable baby lips. It was ambitiously pushing forward. It came further out, under the sweet guidance of her thumb. Her violent heartbeats aligned with the pounding above. Her clit was erect, proud, thick, and eager for more as she looked towards the ceiling. She allowed her humid puppy to look up also, and listen to the ravaging screams.

Her left index and middle finger joined the dance, and were now stroking her elegant miniature penis, fully fleshed at its base. Its length was moving side to side. The pleasure became too much to remain quiet, so Felicia too began to liberate herself. She opened her mouth and joined the moaning.

She visualized Djambo pressing on her Venus mound. He made it more erect when he teased it with the head of his long and enormous cock. He did it for minutes at times.

Then he would let her savor the sweet deliverance of his overwhelming penetrations. He would bounce it like a disciplinarian master at first, in order to make her wait.

His abundant black lips, pink on the inside, would meet her tongue. His bald chocolate head and fabulous features outlined her face as he moved above her wild blonde hair.

The furious scraping of the metal frustrated her being behind in tempo. She wanted to join them. The woman was close to it, very close. She was screaming like a lioness in heat, and her throaty calls became more masculine, more ferocious, more authoritative, and more mature.

This was no younger woman. Her voice was deep, vulgar, and unrepentant.

Felicia turned around on all four, grabbed two pillows, and fingered herself deep. She slapped hard on her pussy's entrance. She was trying not to miss her ambitious puppy. The man above still wasn't talking. Only the woman's voice was invading the privacy of Felicia's bedroom.

" OOOOH! OOOOH! OOOH! HAAAAH! FUUUUUUUCK!

He must have been taking her from behind, there was no other way: The pounding was too strong, too brutal. Felicia felt it, deep, her long fleshy clit moving aside to let the man possess her fully.

" OOOH SHIT! RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE!"

She curled up her toes, their pastel nail polish pointing downwards, her clit free and relieved at last. She gushed over the immaculate 800-point count ivory sheets overwhelmed with pleasure.

Silence settled from above. There was not a single sound. Everything magically disappeared into the nascent day. Light emerged, with frost against the tall bedroom window. The first snow, all white outside, was bulging like a warm blanket over her soul.

Felicia worked from home. She decided to launch her own executive search firm and capitalize on Djambo's business contacts. It hadn't been easy: She was excellent in public relations with men; women however, held many senior HR positions. Her stunning looks were like a fantastic, invisible barrier to entry to the Chicago business scene.

One could do it if fully capitalized. One needed a full book of clients, just like in Real Estate sales. Building a business from scratch was another story. It was a sales job: Modern prostitution with a white collar, and in her case, a white silk blouse.

When they came recommended from Djambo, clients were suspicious, cold, and jealous of their union. They enjoyed dealing with Djambo, especially if there was money in it. It was no big deal. Having his wife profit from his Rolodex was another matter. Their marriage was secretly despised.

Felicia smartly removed her LinkedIn black and white photograph, leaving blank the little square in the upper left corner of the identity page. Her profile only read: " Felicia Katz. CEO. Katz Global Executive Search." It was much better. Even with " Diallo", they easily looked her up, and deducted her marriage to Djambo. She would be pronounced dead upon arrival.

Only in the West Loop did they find some resemblance of racial harmony. The libertarian mood was fostered by the financial success of most of their cosmopolitan neighbors. Other parts of the city remained very segregated well into the new century.

Felicia realized early that pretending to be a Democrat went a long way in Chicago. She learned to navigate, become astute, and politically correct. She presented herself as a single white, gorgeous female, professional, unattached, and open to meeting married men in the loop for business.

She knew of a woman who had entered such a bargain at a large automobile manufacturer in 1973 and successfully managed to keep her accounting position for over four decades.

" Hi! Good Morning!"

" Hi! Felicia Katz?"

" This is she." She had been waiting for the call all week.

" This is Sylvia Miller with HR at Star Airlines."

" Yes Sylvia, how are you? I'm glad you called!"

" Yes. We said Friday 10 am right?"

" Yep."

" I spoke to Tom Dillard, our Chief Human Resources Officer; He will not be able to meet with you for another two weeks but he does appreciate your reaching out to him on LinkedIn. He looked at your profile and website, and is very interested in getting acquainted with your firm and your services."

" Wonderful." Felicia replied. " I look forward to meeting him as well."

" Thank you Felicia, in two weeks, November 20th, right before Thanksgiving."

This one came out of two hundred phone calls the prior week, and probably five hundred messages she sent out on LinkedIn. Once they crossed over to her website, the men drooled over her sexy pic. Nowhere did it mention she was married: not on LinkedIn, and not on her website. When the female gatekeepers saw her photo, it was already too late. Their male superiors had already requested an initial meeting with Felicia.

Her weekly routine was similar to Djambo's. Except that it started two hours later: She would wake up, shower, exercise, and enjoy a hearty breakfast with red fruits, yogurt, fiber, and a warm cappuccino. She had the luxury of brewing hers at home while reading the Wall Street Journal.

She turned on her Mac, and targeted the heads of HR in the entire Chicago area and the Midwest:

Wisconsin, Michigan, Indiana, Missouri, she even contacted firms as far as Peoria and Minneapolis-St Paul.

She would send an email and wait for the males to reply. If a woman responded, she would skip it at first. Once she ran out of men prospects, she reached out to the women. Her new contacts trickled in slowly over her first two seasons. She had not managed to land a meaningful search assignment yet.

It was all about networking: The firms were large, deployed economies of scale, and impressive capital. But fierce young entrepreneurs like her, were determined to prove the contrary and succeed as self-starters.

Djambo knew it as he had been in that predicament too. As a young commodities broker on the floor of the CBOT, he was given lists of prospects to call all over the world.

He didn't sound black on the phone, but French instead, because he had an accent. With French firms, he was very successful because he could speak the language. Culture was his comparative advantage. Later, he grew his clientele to all of Western Europe, and eventually, the Middle East. He knew what his wife was going through. He also understood the curious and negative prejudice that came along with her very attractive physical appearance.

He called her at noon, and she immediately told him about the morning surprise after his departure.

" Was it any good?" Djambo enquired.

" Fuck, honey. It was royal."

" Royal? HAHAHAHAHAHA! You crack me up. I should call you Sparkie,"

" Sparkie?"

" Yeah. I think it fits you well. I never gave you a nickname, I think now is the time."

" Okay, Mister."

" I have a surprise for you."

" Don't tell me."

" Okay then I won't. You'll find out soon enough,"

Their surprise getaway had to be seriously planned by Djambo. Indian Summer was a moving target on the calendar. It came a week later. The first snow had melted and given way to a magnificent draft of warm air. Everyone knew it would only last a few days.

Chicagoans loved it, and they were no exception. He led Felicia to the 740i after breakfast the following Friday morning.

" You're here. Not going to work?" she asked.

" Nope, my darling. Not today."

" Wow. You've got me," she said.

Felicia was smart and charming at the same time. Her wicked sense of humor easily blended with her academic culture and professionalism. She was happy face goofy, unlike Alexandra whose classical Scandinavian beauty came with a more conservative personality. Felicia was a devil at heart. She had been Djambo's girl next door since day one and never changed.

As they whizzed around the bottom of Lake Michigan that briefly licks northern Indiana, he still hadn't told her of their ultimate destination. They never had explored Michigan over the years. They preferred trips to Europe and the Caribbean on their rare vacations.

Now in the heartland, at eighty miles an hour, they rolled down the windows to fully inhale the unusual 78-degree warm air. They were marveling at the last incandescent melting yellow leaves. It was as if the rejuvenated colors all along the shore where the snow had melted were opening the world to them.

" Honey bun, we have to talk..." Djambo said.

" What?" she looked at him as if someone had died.

" Nothing. It's not that bad, just work. Stuff with work, I want you to know where I am."

She looked relieved. She thought, for a second, that it was about them.

" The fund isn't doing too good baby. We're down another 4% since the beginning of November, for a total down 10% so far this year: Bad trading, bad decisions, and mitigated outcomes. I'm trying to hedge it, but I can't quite reverse the downturn."

She knew Djambo's lingo. She learned it over the years. She understood the technique of trading, its complexities, and the challenges her husband faced.

" Seems there's no way out. This long, gradual decline; first time it's happening."

" Bad spell, that's all." Felicia said. " It will pass, it always has."

" No sweetie, not this time. It's structural. I can't quite explain it, but the slide is worrisome"

" What do you mean, worrisome?"

" It seems we're on a downward spiral, no matter what I do at the controls. Our equity is dissipating, we're down ten million dollars, and if we stop trading now our investors are going to pull out. It goes fast."

" Let them pull out," Felicia said.

" And then what?"

" Then we'll figure it out. We always have."

" I spoke to Alexandra. Last month."

" Alex? That bitch?"

Felicia did not like her a bit. She knew her history with Djambo. Alex drafted his immigration dossier before their marriage years ago. Djambo's hiring of Alexandra at DCM struck a nerve with Felicia. She knew Alex, and despite Djambo's assurances, she had never been trusting about the woman.

" It's not about what you think." Djambo said.

" It better not be."

" It isn't. It's about a trading idea, structured products, a solution to our worries."

" Carry on...sweetie." Felicia said.

" Alex suggested to me we participate into a structured deal out of Paris, it's worth millions, and it could save the firm, save us."

" I don't need millions to save us, honey. I just need you."

" I know sweetie. But I'm worried. I'm always worried about the future,"

" I know. So what are you going to do?"

" I thought about it. I don't like it. Something's not right. The money is there, but it seems too easy. Lending twenty million bucks while holding commodities as a security is fishy. They tell me it's only because they don't want the funds to transit through Switzerland, which I can understand. But there is something else about it that doesn't add up, and I can't put my finger on it."

" Well. I get that." Felicia said.

" So I think I'm going to pass. I'm happy with you. I like the way it is now, between us."

" Let me go down on you while you drive," Felicia said.

" Felicia, not now." He reached for her hand, and held it strongly.

" Look at this fucking landscape, it's gorgeous, look at it."

It was. Along the eastern Michigan coastline, the sinuous country road was unfolding under the wide tires of the 740i.

The colors bloomed at every corner, around the small towns, at every turn. It was there, for them, and forever. He intended to drive her even further: Beyond the Sleeping Bear dunes, through wine country and the entire splendor of northern Michigan in autumn. There, he thought, they would find themselves.

Like a lover, he had meticulously planned their weekend. He knew his wife's heart, its vibrations. She was the Felicia who had kissed him in the laundry room and made love to him in Paris. She was a woman in full, even though she eternally refused to grow up.

She had her occasional outbursts. She was frank like a man, surprising and mythical, funny and unpredictable. She loved to have him around and he wasn't going to Paris for some business deal with a seedy arms merchant.

Alexandra gave Djambo plenty of time to think about it. DCM had until January to commit. Weeks were running fast and he hadn't given her an answer yet.

Now he was with his lady, no longer concerned, no longer worried, free as bird. They felt like Boney and Clyde, advancing into territory they had never explored before. And his wife was with him, fully with him.

He inserted in a CD through the thin opening in the dashboard. He only wanted her to hear one song, their song. She first heard it in France, many summers before. Now it was with them devouring the open landscape of their hearts, and all of the Indian Summer with it.

The bed and breakfast on Mackinac Island was a surprise to Felicia when they reached the bridge at twilight. It was Djambo's gift for their getaway weekend. The small island allowed no automobiles, and only horse carts moved about.

The Island Hotel was the most luxurious property on it, grandiose, stately, and nestled amongst the topaz leaves of autumn. Djambo had opted for a quainter bed and breakfast quietly run by a middle-aged couple.

It looked terrific on the Internet. The Victorian mansion, with its ivy running on the red brick and the way it stood upon a hill overlooking Mackinaw Bay in the chill of autumn, was simply majestic.

The owners handed the keys to Felicia graciously, thinking that Djambo was her chauffeur. He remained in the living room with them, and corrected the misunderstanding. He asked about the morning buffet that looked absolutely enticing online, and headed back out to the BMW to grab the suitcases.

Felicia was already upstairs. The teak rooftop, protected by a modern rectangular glass partition, stood like an oddity overlooking the surrounding forest.

" What a view! Baby, you scored," she said.

She had changed in a long white cotton dress, and was resting on a towel, next to the fire pit. They exchanged a long wet kiss. Felicia put her right hand around Djambo's dark neck. She looked into his eyes, his ears, his perfect nose, and his lips.

The fatigue of the journey had dissipated. She was secretly reassured by his apparent decision not to go to Paris. She nudged closer to him, and found the soft skin of his chocolate pectoral muscles.

When she stood up, he realized how thin the long cotton dress was. It was as soft as silk, espousing her curves perfectly. It felt almost like a second skin, but much whiter, bright in the evening light, and through the glow of the fire pit Djambo realized his wife was already completely nude underneath.

Her led her back inside, along the narrow teak path of the rooftop. She closed her lips, held his hand with both hers, and walked right behind him.

The owners had done wonderful work modernizing the property. They kept the classic Victorian shell of the estate intact and the bedrooms were very cozy.

The wooden living room downstairs was also Victorian, but the bathrooms were updated to ultra modern and with much taste. Theirs was deep, ivory colored, and well lit by spotlights. The window at the very end, behind the large Jacuzzi, overlooked the bay. There was even a large red Persian rug filling the entire floor, from the stone sinks to the steps leading up to the Jacuzzi.

The only dark sign of life in it was Djambo's delightful and muscular skin escorting Felicia to the middle. He stopped to caress her womb under the cotton of the dress.

She seemed taller for a moment, perhaps because of the high heels she had slipped on to visit the teak deck ten minutes before.

She arched her back. Her belly rounded forward, and she briefly appeared pregnant to her husband. He liked it. He ran his fingers around her womb as if he were caressing their imaginary child, and Felicia became instantly aroused.

They had no neighbors directly looking into their bathroom. The owner, unbeknownst to his wife, had installed a high definition miniature camera outside of the large window. It was invisible, hidden inside a bonsai tree, and he relished in the practice of recording his guests for posterity.

They were taking it slow: Gently kissing, licking the tip of each other's tongues, carefully, with no rush. Felicia enjoyed her man that way. Coming home, at the end of business trips, he always carried the enticing spice of Africa. He was unique.

The grain of his skin was very dense, very tight, and extremely soft. She felt a direct belonging to it from the very first time, in the laundry room.

Now, near the Upper Peninsula, under bathroom's bright lighting, she was breathing hard. She licked his spectacular chest, the hair below his belly button, and gently bit the bulge on his designer jeans. She was already hot.

Djambo was too. The trick was to manage the rise of their mutual impatience. He was looking down at her, and the circling of her expert hands around his buttocks and through his jeans was becoming quickly unbearable. He closed his eyes, and put his trust in his wife. She gave him the look of a panther in heat.

He decided to give Felicia a reprieve, and popped open the top of her dress. He quickly found her left pink areola, and then, her entire breast. He licked it. It was already erect like an ambitious little button of protruding flesh. Now tall, almost motherly in her stare and her high heels, she was looking down at her black baby sucking her. With her free hands, she caressed her womb, her hips, completely turned on.

He kept licking both areolas. They were equally pointing towards him. He went back to her lips, and kissed her more until she moaned. She was still on her knees, and he bent forward so that she could join both her hands behind his neck.

"Mmmmmm," she gasped, unable to say anything else.

She unbuckled his belt, and pulled down the zipper with her teeth. It produced an enticing crackling sound. She began licking the tight and curly pubic hair above his trapped cock, and managed to extract it from his boxer shorts. At first, it was semi-erect, and she was able to have it all in her mouth. But then it quickly grew massive, and began extracting moans from Djambo:

"Ahhhhhhh" he let go.

When she finally pulled down his pants, Djambo's penis was powerfully gorged with blood. It pointed up strongly from its base. She found other ways to grow it, cultivated it like a plant, and worshiped it.

She licked underneath it, back and forth, and extended her exploration down to his balls. Her hubby was a massive buck, and from above her, all he could see now were her thin lips wrapped around him with difficulty. He caressed her blonde hair, and his eyes lost the red of the Persian rug.

Felicia kept sucking, completely focused. She occasionally looked up in his eyes, blinded by the spotlights above him. He grabbed her neck, and she fucked him fast with her lips just for a few seconds, going back to slow sucking again, unable to go further than half way.

Djambo was now erect like a pure bred Arabian stallion, powerful, unnerved by his wife's patient's teasing, and it became almost impossible to watch her continue. At last, he raised the thin white cotton dress to reveal Felicia's formidable nudity. On her heels, she looked like an Egyptian queen, except that she was white, curvy, and blonde.

She stepped up to the tub, and offered him the whiteness of her butt, moving from side to side. She disappeared inside the bubbles, and invited her husband to join her.

They kissed again, and the light outside the window had changed to silver blue. Glistening with foam, Felicia raised herself up to the edge, opened her milky thighs, and invited Djambo. She was looking down, fascinated at his comings and goings between her fleshy pink lips.

Unusually long, they stayed with him when he exited her, and plunged back in unison when he came back in.

What a spectacle. He found her cervix every time, generating more surprise from her.

" Oooh, God yeah....Oooooooooo! "

Djambo kept working like a dedicated buck to his female. She closed her eyes, so that she could only feel and no longer see.

" Oh God, baby, my pussy is so wet," she confessed.

" Right there, baby, right there," she said.

Unable to move back any further, stuck to the wall, thighs and feet open, she welcomed the undulations of his muscular brown back until she could no longer hold it. She ejaculated with several screams, planted her sharp nails deep into the ebony back of her husband, and kept fucking.

Now Djambo turned her over, so that she could watch the both of them in the mirror, and take Felicia from behind. All his abdominal muscles tightened in full-force, he kept pushing forward, deeper, and made her scream louder as he moved faster.

She pulled up, straightened both her arms, and looked like a blonde lioness in heat taking her bull. The mirror enabled them to look at each other, and she was staring at it.

" Oh God, baby I'm going to come again!" she said, watching both her heavy ivory breasts dancing in the reflection.

Djambo, child of the savanna, kept going. He wouldn't stop until Felicia came again. Her last orgasm triggered an overwhelming sensation in him, and he finally let go.

They crawled out of the tub, still wet, with no towels, and collapsed on the Persian rug. They embraced, tight against each other, under the cruel and unforgiving spotlights. They stayed there, unable to move, until the thick Michigan night enveloped them completely, it seemed, forever.

IV

THANKSGIVING

" Man has three friends on whose company he relies.

First, wealth, which goes with him

Only while good fortune lasts.

Second, his relatives;

They only go as far as the grave, leave him there.

The third friend, his good deeds, go with him beyond the grave."

~ The Talmud

November arrived, violently cold. An Artic wind rushed through the steel and glass canyon of the Loop. Djambo suddenly realized the days had shortened. It was now completely dark when he left Felicia in the morning. Thanksgiving would come in two weeks. Felicia's meeting with the head of Human Resources at Star Airlines arrived at last. It had been postponed week after week since mid-October, and she was about to give up.

The headquarters stood on Monroe Street, on the other side of the concrete Interstate Highway. All she had to do was to cross the bridge and she would be there in no time. She reached the Northwestern train station, and melted into the 8:30 am ocean of commuters. There were millions of them, faceless, secretly angry at their fate. They converged like winter ants from the north and northwestern suburbs of the city.

Winter gear was full on. The temperature had dropped to an icy thirty-two, twenty-nine even, early in the morning. At precisely 8:55 am, Felicia stopped at the crowded Starbucks on the ground floor of the glass tower. She ordered herself a tall non-fat, skimmed milk cappuccino.

She took off her gloves, her hat, and her long puffy silver overcoat revealing her black business suit and a white blouse underneath. Upstairs, in the airline's reception area, a bubbly young lady led her directly to Jeff Dillard's office. As the head of HR, he occupied one of the corners on the 28th floor, above the Chicago River.

" Good Morning Felicia! Have a seat! "

" Mr. Dillard! Finally nice meeting you."

" I do apologize for the numerous delays; Year-end strategy, budgets, you know how it goes."

" I sure do."

Felicia set her overcoat on the chair next to hers, directly facing Dillard across his desk. Right behind him, she noticed the photo of an average looking blonde Midwestern wife, two kids, and a Labrador.

" So you're here for our CFO search, right?"

" That is correct. I began six weeks ago..."

" Contingency, right?" he asked.

" Yes. Absolutely."

Contingency meant one was paid upon the contingency of hire of the submitted candidate. If the candidate produced by the headhunter were not hired, there would be no compensation.

Just like in Real Estate sales, a woman could work all as hard as she could, upstream, without any guarantee of income. It was a modern day America innovation, like charging for overhead bins in airplanes. With Djambo' support, Felicia had nevertheless taken a crack at it.

Brave, courageous, hard working, she had exercised her due diligence, conducted the search, interviewed, and narrowed down her pool of potential matches to five top candidates. In all, she had invested six weeks worth of work on the telephone, LinkedIn, search engines, social media, and word of mouth. It was time to present.

At 45, red hair, glasses, and twenty years in the business, Dillard knew how Chicago worked. Male headhunters pitched him daily. They were salesmen. But he tracked down Felicia's photograph on her website, and her superb almond shaped brown eyes framed by her stylish hairstyle did the rest. She was a gorgeous woman indeed. He could care less about her professionalism or intellect as a headhunter.

" We do work contingency," he said. " We don't do retainer."

Retainer was the practice of paying for the search, in installments, generally in thirds, to compensate the headhunter for their ongoing work.

" Yes. I know it is your practice, I discussed it with Mary, and I'm fine with it."

" Wonderful. So what do you have for us?"

" I have five candidates; all currently CFOs or Controllers, very interesting backgrounds."

" Great." Dillard replied. " I'm excited! Did Mary give you the agreement to sign with us before presenting the candidates?"

" No. She hasn't. She suggested we'd go over it today."

" No worries." he said, and pulled a blank agreement from his left drawer.

" I'll sign it when we're done, and it will pretty much seal our collaboration. It is non-exclusive, which means that we do reserve the right to concurrently use other professionals in our search."

" Understood." Felicia said.

" Is that ok with you? You seem worried..." Jeff asked.

" Well. I wasn't expecting that clause: Concurrently use others..."

" I wouldn't worry about it. The buck stops with me anyway, I'm sure you'll be fine." he assured. " The final decision is always made between myself and the CEO. We keep it tight here, and quiet."

" Sounds good to me." Felicia said.

" Of course, I can always give it a little push, Felicia. I know how important this is to you. You've done a fine job; I mean, five top candidates in six weeks, that's unheard of. And I know the payout is huge for you: 20% of a $ 500,000 salary package, you're looking at a hundred grand here."

He stood up, and turned around to look at the river below. The morning cohort of commuters was crossing the Monroe Bridge, heading into the city.

Felicia smiled, and briefly stretched in the chair to relax. She remained straight in her impeccable posture, ever so slightly arching her back. Her bosom came forward imperceptibly under her white blouse, and Jeff felt it. He pivoted back around, and looked at her with a smile.

" We should have drinks after work sometimes, and explore all this," he said. Drinks after work, in his mind, meant Felicia's huge pink areolas stretching her bra's black lace to the max.

" Sounds great." she said, " Anytime. My schedule is wide open during the week." She knew exactly what the he was hinting at.

" I usually go to the X lounge, a block away from here at around 5:30 pm or so. Let's meet there," he continued.

" Would love to."

Her presence, the volume her hidden breasts suddenly occupied all of the corner room and was doing wonders in Dillard's mind. He could already feel his cock's urging tension under the dark grey softness of his pants.

" I'd love to find out more about you Mr. Dillard, as well as Star Airlines."

Dillard was elated. It was a cold power play: Felicia needed the money, and he was going to make her work for it. Work, to him, meant the darkness of the X lounge where he used to meet young city women looking to score. He met them between precisely 5:30 pm and 6:30 pm, on weekdays, right before his 6:55 pm direct to Schaumburg.

That's how he rolled, and he had a big cock too. His thick, ugly neck, perfectly matched his hypocritical face. His red complexion was a turn off. His skin was rough and hairy. He had bad breath.

The thought of him in the darkness of the X lounge made him despicable. Occasionally he lucked out, quickly, before going home to his wife. A fine Chicago professional he was.

On the surface he was faithful husband and family man: The perfect head of Human Resources for an airline headquartered at O'Hare. Felicia quietly set her tall Starbucks cup on a folded paper napkin over the corner of Dillard's desk, and opened the very top of her white blouse.

" Hot in here..." she said. Her tanned cleavage erupted, along with the fine grain of her skin in the milky morning light inundating the office.

" I know! " Dillard said. " They always seem to turn it up, and go overboard with the heat this time of year. They never seem to get it right."

Felicia felt his wife watching her from the happy family picture frame behind him.

" Does this mean I'm in?" she asked.

" Absolutely!" confirmed Dillard. " You are in, and one of your candidates will be retained by us, I can guarantee you that." He said with enthusiasm.

" I assume your payment scheme is 100% upon hire?"

" That's exactly right. We don't mess around when it comes to that. You deliver. We hire. We pay. No questions asked."

" That's fantastic! I'm elated! " Felicia said.

" You got yourself a deal." Dillard smiled.

He extended his right hand over the desk. She shook it, and slightly bent forward to give him a good look at her gorge, far above the pink nipples he was hoping to see. The second button of her blouse was sufficiently high that it prevented any kind of visual intrusion into her fleshy intimacy. He moved the five-page contract front and center, and pulled his ballpoint pen, about to sign, fully satisfied from his morning business meeting.

" Tell me about your wife." Felicia asked.

" Uh...." Dillard said, shocked at the question.

" She looks beautiful, and your children too!"

" Oh yeah." he said.

" You should definitely invite her along when we have drinks at the X."

" She's in Schaumburg. She rarely makes it into the city."

" Better yet. It would give her a reason to come!" Felicia said.

" I don't know about that." Dillard said, turning pale. " What about you? Are you married?"

" Oh yes. Happily married. We just celebrated our 14th anniversary."

" Wow! Fourteen years? You don't look that old to me."

" We married young." Felicia said, and smiled.

" I see..." Dillard paused. " No children?"

" Nope! Not yet. Not that I know of anyway!"

" Good marriage huh?" Dillard asked.

" Oh yes. I love my man: Never cheated on him, and never will." she said.

Dillard's plan collapsed in an instant; No more hope of fucking Felicia Diallo. He had fantasized about her shapely thighs in the darkness of the X lounge. He imagined her breasts, firm, ample, magnificent, like a perfect pair of oversized peaches, and their two deliciously erect nipples.

" Does he work in the city?" he asked.

" Oh yes. A few blocks away from here, on LaSalle, he's a hedge fund manager. He runs his own firm: Diallo Capital Management.

" Diallo. Yeah. DCM. It's run by an African-American man isn't it?"

" You got it. He's my husband."

In Felicia's malicious smile, Dillard grasped the hidden meaning of her simple sentence. He was envious. He cheated on his wife and neglected his children. He commuted every morning on the Amtrak with the stiffs reading the Wall Street Journal. That was his world.

Felicia was a gorgeous city girl. She looked like she was completely fulfilled by her husband every night. He suddenly retracted his collaborative offer, rescinded his word, the contract, the big commission payout, everything. There would be no drinks at the X after hours. No deal.

Felicia knew it. She walked out head high, her overcoat under her arm, still holding the portfolio of candidates she had brought to present that morning. Dillard didn't even show the courtesy to escort her out of his office. She wasn't surprised. Out of state consultants behaved that way too. They would show up, all hip, and wearing intellectual glasses. They would make small talk, and bullshit the women when the opportunity surfaced, usually in one of the conference rooms.

She walked past the blonde receptionist, the elevator, the Starbucks downstairs, and reached the cold sidewalk with her dignity intact. Thanksgiving was right around the corner.

It was not even 10 a.m. when she was back at the loft. A pressing knock on the massive steel door of the apartment made her jump. She was not expecting anyone. A Cook County appointed deliveryman made her sign for receipt and handed her the document:

IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF COOK COUNTY, ILLINOIS

Euro Bank National Trust Company as Indenture Trustee for Universal Home Mortgage Corporation Investment Trust

V.

Djambo & Felicia Diallo

991 West Adams

Defendants

DUPLICATE ORIGINAL MORTGAGE FORECLOSURE

SUMMONS COPY TO BE SERVED IN COOK COUNTY, ILLINOIS

To each defendant:

You are summoned and required to file an appearance, pay the fee of $ 203.00 unless the court determines you cannot afford to pay this fee, and answer or otherwise plead in response to the attached Complaint within 30 days.

You can file your appearance and pleadings in the office of the Clerk of this Court in Room 872 of the Richard Daley Center, 50 W. Washington Street, Chicago,

Monday through Friday between the hours of 8:30 A.M and 4:30 P.M.

YOU MAY STILL BE ABLE TO SAVE YOUR HOME

DO NOT IGNORE THIS DOCUMENT

IF YOU FAIL TO DO SO, A JUDGMENT IN DEFAULT MAY BE ENTERED AGAINST YOU FOR THE RELIEF OF THE COMPLAINT.
It had to be an error. Djambo had always handled the finances. He was on top of it and the mortgage was on auto-pay. He was extremely busy on mornings at DCM, especially as of late, and Felicia waited to call him. He was rather curt on the phone when in the middle of trading sessions.

November gave DCM no relief, and even though there were no investor's redemptions. Funds were locked until December 31st. Djambo was assailed daily with telephone calls regarding the continued negative performance.

Analysts were not privy to DCM's trading strategies, nor were the general public. As all hedge funds, its inner workings were pretty secretive – but Djambo always insisted on full transparency on the general trends, opinions, investments, and overall philosophy of his investment house.

It celebrated diversity, original thinking, and sought opportunities in the emerging markets.

The research on the targeted companies was conducted in Chicago, but Djambo took several yearly trips to African and Middle Eastern countries.

His team examined the books, and led a fully-fledged financial analysis of the target investments. There were outliers in compliance and ethics, but most of the time, young African entrepreneurs educated in the West were very transparent in their management practices. They were open as to their ambitions, modus operandi, dreams, and the numbers that went along with it.

He was very successful turning the stones over, and picked winners in Malawi, Ghana, South Africa, Nigeria, and the Congo. It worked; the return on equity was terrific. Performing well above U.S. benchmarks, DCM had generated excess returns until now.

There was no secret: Thorough valuation and analysis was the method, and only the best young researchers would do. He handpicked them, as well as his trading team. That was his value proposition.

When the U.S. equities market stalled in August 2015, the rest of the world followed, and the emerging markets were first in line. The ripple effect was devastating. Despite the relief of the Greek debt crisis, third world investments were severely affected by the slowdown in U.S. equities.

Pulling out now would be realizing a loss, locking it in at negative fifteen percent. Staying in would only increase the risk of the firm since less capital, dollars at hand, meant more vulnerability. Djambo was between a rock and a hard place. DCM operated at the center of the trading world, and much exposed to world news.

Alexandra knocked on his door.

" Well hello, good morning! "

" Good morning Mister Diallo." Alexandra said, " Did you make a decision on the Paris deal? "

" Not yet, Alex. I'll let you know in the coming days, probably right after Thanksgiving. I know it's slated for the turn of the year and you do need an answer."

" No problem." she said, and disappeared in the muted hallway.

The markets kept tumbling for the rest of the day, and Djambo initiated a short position in order to hedge for the decline. It worked great, and by the time 3 pm rolled around, he had neutralized the losing trades of his downstairs desk, and even made a small profit. The firm's value at risk indicator turned green again, and it brought an optimistic smile to his face.

Outside, a light evening snow began falling, slowing the evening commute on I-94 to a crawl, and finally a complete halt. Felicia cooked some delicious hamburgers for their "stay-in evening". The aroma filled the entire 3000 square feet of the open loft, and found its way to Djambo's heart.

" We were served documents this morning," she said.

" What?"

" There. I'll show you." She said and pulled the legal packet.

Djambo looked at it incredulously.

" What is this all about darling?" she asked.

" I was going to tell you about it."

" About what?"

" I cancelled the auto-pay last month and switched back to checks."

" Why?"

" Cash flow. Better control on our cash flow. With the firm's payroll on the first of every month, I needed a couple of extra days."

" You could have changed the date of the auto-pay, no?"

" I guess..."

" You guess? Darling, this is 90 days overdue."

" I know...Shit. My bad."

" Is there anything else you're not telling me?"

" Well, yes: We're behind darling."

" Why did you not tell me about it?"

" I didn't want to have you scared sweetie, that's all."

" Scared? I'd rather know the truth, at all times, regardless..."

" I know...I know..."

" Do you know how shocking this was to me this morning to find out?"

" Sweetie; I understand."

" Now what?"

" I don't know sweetie. I've got to figure it out. We're not going to lose our home."

" Even if we did..."

" It won't happen. I won't let it happen."

" What are you going to do?"

" Reconsider."

" Reconsider what?"

" The Paris option. The deal I told you about. It could save us."

" Sweetie, you don't have to do that. No matter what, we'll survive."

" Survive??? I don't want us to just survive. I want us to continue striving."

" I know but..."

" There is no but. I'm seriously considering the Paris deal. We're looking at $ 20 million. It's a lot of money."

" We don't need all that money. We'll be fine."

" We won't be fine. I have to find a way out of it."

Djambo had raised his voice, and Felicia grew suddenly quiet. It was perhaps the first time since his initial immigration fight against the INS, that he found himself in this kind of situation: Threatened in his very existence, his very own dream.

At the time, the INS officials denied his initial permanent residency status because they believed his marriage to Felicia was fraudulent. They fought it, tooth and nail, together, ready to go to the Supreme Court to prove their love if necessary, and eventually succeeded.

The ordeal took a lot out of Djambo, but Felicia was amazingly supportive, and they won the first fight of their life as a couple. This was a different deal. They could lose their home, and find themselves out in the streets within weeks.

" You should have told me about it." Felicia continued.

" Told you what?"

" The predicament we're in. I can't believe you sometimes. You think you can resolve it all, don't you?"

" Yes, I do think that."

" Well, it's not about that anyway. It's about telling me the truth, not hiding things from me. That's what gets me upset when you get in that cave mode."

" Cave mode?"

" Yes, cave mode. We don't talk. We don't fuck. And we're out of money."

" Why the fuck do you think I do all this?" Djambo asked; "You kill me Felicia: I'm out there busting my balls for us, and this is what I get when I get home. A fucking foreclosure notice!"

" YOU FUCKIN' LIED TO ME!" Felicia said, and started crying.

Djambo stood up, and moved close to her, but it was too late. She left the table with a " LIVE ME ALONE!" and slammed the bedroom door.

Wednesday before Thanksgiving at O'Hare airport was quite a scene. Departing cohorts of shivering travellers converged by the thousands. Green cabs covered with snow puffed along the concrete walls of the airport. It took Felicia an hour and forty-five minutes from downtown. Her parents could have taken the elevated subway but she did not want to put them through it. Driving in from Minnesota in the snow would have been worse. It was a six-hour drive from Rochester where Gretchen Katz, Felicia's mother, was undergoing cancer treatment.

She had been diagnosed with breast cancer two years before, but held strong through the chemotherapy and the radiation. Wolfgang was extremely supportive of her, and Felicia had made the trip to Rochester several times.

On the drive home from the airport they talked about it. Felicia kept Djambo out of the extremely painful details of her mother's therapy, indicating only to him that Gretchen "was doing well." It was also Wolfgang's request to keep his wife's illness news in the family.

Felicia loved her mother. At sixty, Gretchen was still a remarkably great looking woman. The therapy and her illness had not diminished her resolve to fight it.

" How is it going, Mom? " Felicia asked as soon as they were in the BMW.

" The doctors have been fabulous."

" Amazing folks." Wolfgang said.

" Is it hurting?"

" Of course it hurts. Otherwise, it wouldn't be cancer. But I am in good spirits."

" Awesome."

" You know, there is this fight against time when one goes through this. That's why I insisted to come, as we always have. My days are counted now."

Felicia's eyes turned moist, she looked at her mother in the rearview mirror.

" We could have driven up your way,"

" Well, we figured with Djambo, and what he's going through right now, we would make the trip. It's the tradition anyway. We always come to Chicago for Thanksgiving."

" We're going to make our way up there. I promise you, Mom."

" How is Djambo doing?" Wolfgang asked. He always worried about his daughter's husband professional life. He knew what it meant.

At the beginning of the relationship, he wasn't too big on Felicia dating an African cab driver – but she had reassured him. Still, Djambo's race was an unresolved issue with the old German. He knew Gretchen had no problem with it, but his take was different.

" Djambo is going through challenging times," Felicia said.

" Stock market?"

" Yes: The current downturn. But he says it's going to be alright."

" It better be." Wolfgang continued. " It's a very unforgiving world."

He knew it too well. He had dealt with investors at his beer company all of his life.

" Oh, live it alone." Gretchen said. " You're always so pessimistic."

" Not pessimistic, just realistic. The markets can be very dangerous."

" Dad..."

" Dad what? I don't have the right to worry about you anymore?"

" Worry about mom, ok?"

The car was silent and they were approaching the Loop skyline vaguely illuminated under the falling snow. Gretchen's mortality had been with Felicia and Wolfgang from the first day of her diagnosis, but it grew more palpable in recent months. The more optimistic and cheerful Gretchen sounded, the more alarmed they grew. They were keenly aware of the irreversibility of the disease. It was sad, inescapable, and unfair. Sixty, that's not old nowadays, Felicia thought.

Wolfgang also had a difficult time coping with it; the clinic every day, the therapy, the radiation, and caring for his wife was challenging. It was the first crack in his otherwise solid stature as an elder German executive. He managed his personal shock of Felicia marrying a black man, but Gretchen's health predicament was a matter of life and death.

Born in 1955 from a wealthy Norwegian family, she met Wolfgang when she was barely 20. He was ten years older than her. In the fever of a mid-1970s Italian disco on the Adriatic, she was seduced by his energy and ambition. He was young executive on the rise. She loved his nonchalance, his sense of humor, and quite a dancer too. He had big plans for them.

He was going to go to America, bring his Bavarian brewing savoir-faire to Milwaukee, and take his small family business global. Gretchen loved it. She was a gipsy at heart, and the idea of travel, adventure, love, was exactly what she was looking for. They did it, and Felicia was born three years later, in the summer of 1977.

Now her baby girl was a gorgeous woman approaching forty, and married to a handsome and successful man, living it all in the Windy City. She was very proud of her daughter. Everything had worked out, including Felicia's Catholic upbringing.

A stanch Roman Catholic from southeast Germany, Wolfgang insisted on Felicia's baptism, first communion, and confirmation. Since Djambo was Catholic as well, their wedding in the south of France in 2000 came as a true blessing.

Celebrating Thanksgiving was for the Katz's, one way of becoming more American.

By it, they embraced the American Dream, its traditions, and its culture. The practice became natural over the decades, sometimes with friends, and more recently strictly with Djambo and Felicia in their spacious Chicago loft.

Djambo loved to cook when he had the time. He always created original meals for Felicia on weekends. His cuisine was very exotic and delicious. Over the years, he transported his wife to Africa with sublime grilled chicken, white rice, and exquisite onion sauces. He concocted formidable fish curries, extremely hot and spicy; Felicia loved it. He also knew all of the Mediterranean classics: Grilled tuna or trout, healthy steaks, mussels, lobster, which he always served with homemade fresh linguini.

On weekends, when they didn't have to go out and face social or business obligations, the entire loft was always filled with the sweet scent, aroma, and flavors of world cuisines. Felicia never knew what to expect and usually found her man in the kitchen.

He was in front of the gigantic steel appliances, chopping green onions, tomatoes, cilantro, parsley, and mixing them with finer notes of curry, chutney, or cumin.

Despite the frigid cold on Thanksgiving Day, Gretchen insisted Wolfgang, Felicia, and Djambo joined her for an afternoon stroll on Michigan Avenue. She cherished the pre-Christmas spirit and beauty of the scene, and often opted for a Thursday walk, a day ahead of the shopping craze.

" I will stay home and cook." Djambo said.

" You sure?" Felicia asked.

" Absolutely sure, darling." he said.

In the pale afternoon light, along with African music and some Zouk melodies from the French Caribbean, he prepared the family's evening feast with love: Love of his wife, love of his family, love of country, and love of God.

The menu was enticing: Spiced pumpkin seeds, fresh broccoli salad, rosemary roasted turkey, blackberry cobbler, butternut squash bisque, cranberry sauce extraordinaire, a broccoli cheese casserole, a Turkey soup, pumpkin dip, baked sweet potato sticks, bacon wrapped pork medallions, roasted butternut squash, as well as Gretchen's favorite: The eggnog cheesecake.

Cooking, for Djambo, was an act of love. He loved the sense of community and family. That instinct was natural, and came from the first seven years of his life, in a red clay thatched roof hut, way up in the north of Ivory Coast.

He remembered the wonderful panorama of the African savanna, the elephants, the buffalos, the lions, and the gazelles. His village called him The Cheetah. He was the fastest boy around, even at six years old.

His hundred yard dashes around the edges of the burnt yellow brush were unmatched. Always fast, curious, on the move, he accompanied the older boys on epic spear hunts.

They admired his approaches, low to the ground, and his crawling, before the final explosive drive towards the lions.

He was about that age, six or seven, when Robert Martin, the great white hunter from the big city on the coastline met him for the first time. Robert was immediately charmed by Djambo's killer instinct and his tracking skills. He came to hunt three times a year: Once in in September, generally before the business year started, then at Christmas with his wife Francoise, and finally at Easter.

Felicia, Gretchen, and Wolfgang walked in and took off their shoes on the hardwood floor near the entrance.

" Phew! Cold out there!" Felicia said. She walked up to Djambo to kiss him.

" How is the cooking going?" Gretchen asked.

" Going great! Almost done. I hope you like it!"

" Felicia tells me you're having issues with the house?" Wolfgang asked.

" Dad! Not now!"

" Wolfgang, please..."

Djambo raised his gorgeous and piercing brown eyes from the huge smoking casserole on the granite island in front of him, and gave a long stare at Felicia. She felt it. Her disclosure to Wolfgang was no longer secret.

She knew her father too, his temper, his racist outlook; she witnessed it all through of her childhood. Despite it, she loved his way of protecting her from the world. She always confessed her sins to him before addressing God. He, was able to talk back, give her guidance, tell her to avoid temptation, and walk her down the right spiritual path.

Djambo replaced Wolfgang when she turned nineteen, but the little girl in her never completely disappeared, especially the prankster. Now she was between a rock and a hard place, and worried about losing her home.

" Yes. We've been having issues, but we're working on it." Djambo said.

" Issues? What kind of issues? Felicia says you're ninety days overdue."

" We are. But I'm working on it."

" Djambo; we've always told you: Never hesitate if you or Felicia need anything; we are here for you."

" I know, Wolfgang. I know. This was kind of unforeseen. It crept up on us."

" Crept up? Ninety days is plenty of notice. You should know. You're in the markets."

" Exactly! So much so that I'm forgetting about my own finances."

" Forgetting? I thought this was deliberate?"

" Well, a deliberate delay you can call it. Until I can pull money out of the firm."

" I don't understand, I thought you had millions under management."

" That is correct, I do. But it isn't my money. It is other people's money, OPM." Djambo said.

" I understand that." Wolfgang said.

" There is such a rule as commingling of funds, and I'm not going to do that. I play it straight. I pay my employees, pay myself a salary, and that's it."

" So when the month is too tight, you don't draw a salary I assume..."

" You're assuming correctly. That's the problem. With the markets behaving the way they are now, it is impossible for me to draw any funds out."

" Then speak to us." Wolfgang insisted.

" We'll be fine. We have options. I'm going to Paris early in January to work on a structured product deal..."

Gretchen and Felicia were sipping Pinot Grigio behind the island granite counter. They sensed Wolfgang was probing, looking for a fight, but didn't dare speaking up to him.

" Structured products; I don't even know what that means." he said.

" Custom work you could call it; Custom financial work."

" Nothing illegal I hope."

" Hell no. I don't want to spend the next twenty years behind bars. Look at the CFO of Enron. He got a stiff twenty years, I sure don't envy him."

" Well then, what about the mortgage?"

" It is in arrears, it will get paid off, and we'll get caught up."

" I sure hope so." Wolfgang said. " I don't want Felicia to end up in the streets."

" Wolfgang! How can you say that?" Gretchen said.

" You know what I mean: It goes fast, especially in America."

" My baby Felicia is never going to sleep in the streets." Gretchen said.

" Plus we have the house on Lake Geneva, if worse comes to worst you can always move there."

" That is categorically out of the question." Djambo said," We are not moving out. We are not leaving Chicago. We're not going to Lake Geneva. It's here that things are happening, not there. The stakes are here. Not in Wisconsin."

" Enough you guys!" Felicia cut. " Enough! Let's eat!"

Wolfgang was upset. He couldn't believe the arrogance of his son in law. Djambo had made it, on his own, without ever asking a dime from him and Gretchen. He built himself up, confidently, fast, and took Felicia for the ride. Now, his son in law was risking losing it all.

After dinner, Wolfgang and Gretchen retired in the large corner guest bedroom of the loft. It was opposite Felicia and Djambo's. Felicia waited for her man to emerge from the late night steamy shower, and kneeled down in front of him as he was still drying off.

His skin was tender, dense, muscular, soft, and projected the perfume of the orange Nivea shower gel. His abdominal muscles were chiseled from three nights of tennis per week plus the weights, and he had not gained a pound in twenty years. Elegant, feline, tall, lengthy, muscular, masculine, he towered over her by a good head and a half. When standing, she barely came up to his neck. When kneeling, her 5'6'' height was perfect to address his sumptuous dark cock.

There, she always found the tender skin under his immaculately shaved balls. Enormous too, filled with life, gentle, soft, unthreatening; they rolled under the sweet advances of her pink tongue.

She was the ultimate female. Her eyes, wide open by the dimmed bathroom light seemed to have grown even wider when she looked up to him. He gently pulled her blonde bang back to take a better look at them. He admired her high cheekbones, her wide happy face, and the thin lips that were now parting ways for the enormity of his turgescent head. He felt her expert tongue, underneath the head of his cock, and the sensation alone made it double in girth.

He grew erect, mean, powerfully threatening to her tiny throat, and he pushed in at once, protecting the back of Felicia's head from the hard edging of the granite bathroom counter.

She kept licking. She wasn't even sucking. Only her tongue was exploring the massive tower of flesh. She could feel his heart savagely beating through it.

Then, quietly, she gently grabbed it with her left hand, just to appreciate its fullness. Her hand covered maybe half of it, not more, and she stood up, his cock still in her hand, gave him a long, passionate, swirly and wet kiss, and led him to their king size bed. The blinds were still up, and they could both see the blue television glow from the flat across the alley.

V

CHRISTMAS

" Love is patient, love is kind.

It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

It is not rude; it is not self-seeking,

It is not easily angered,

It keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil

But it rejoices in the truth.

It always protects, always trusts,

Always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails."

~ Corinthians 13:4-7

The call from Paris came at lunch break when most of the DCM offices were deserted. The head trader and Alexandra always left for lunch after 1 pm.

" Mr. Djambo Diallo? "

" This is he."

" Alexandre Lemercier from the Ranelagh Law Firm in Paris."

" Yes, sir. How may I help you?"

" I am reaching out to you on behalf of the Martin's estate. Mr. Robert Martin has just passed away,"

Djambo was stunned at the news. Robert Martin had been like a father to him. Monsieur Martin ran a bottling company in the Ivory Coast. His life passion was big game safaris.

Robert was a tall man. His silver hair, impeccably combed to the sides, gave him the confident and aristocratic allure of an Italian count. He was always accompanied by two magnificent leather cases housing his rifles. He held them in each hand after disappearing behind his tall, olive green, classic FJ 40 truck.

" Mr. Diallo, are you there?"

" Yes, yes, I'm here." Djambo said.

Monsieur Martin noticed his speed as a young boy. He heard of Djambo's exploits as a young tracker when the village men hunted lions with spears. Fascinated by Djambo, Robert asked the gun bearers to bring him along during his afternoon hunts.

" He passed away in Paris two days ago. You are named in his will. You are mentioned along his wife Francoise Martin, 60, his daughter Sofia, 38, and his son Paul, 25. It took me a while to track you down, Monsieur Diallo."

" How is Madame Martin doing?" Djambo asked.

" She is doing ok, given the circumstances. And so are the children; they are coping."

" How can I help?"

" According to French Law, your presence is required to close the estate. All four of you need to appear in front of a notary to legally acknowledge Monsieur Martin's will."

" Very well." Djambo said, " I will be in Paris the very first week of January. We can take care of it then."

" Not any sooner?" the attorney asked.

" I'm afraid, not." Djambo said; " We are closing my firm's books for the year, and I am going to be extremely busy for the next couple of weeks."

" Understood, Monsieur Diallo, understood. I shall transmit your intentions to the family."

" Very well, thank you; As well as my heartfelt condolences please."

" I will do. You can count on it," the lawyer said.

Djambo spun his chair around to take a good look at the grey winter sky behind him. Snow had fallen over Grant Park. It extended its whiteness as far as the lake which was now completely frozen in the early December chill.

During a hunting trip to the village, Robert Martin offered Djambo's parents to adopt their child. The practice was common in those days. He lived in a comfortable villa on the ocean with his wife Francoise. Djambo's parents gladly accepted the opportunity: Papa Martin was a nice man, a kind man, and a compassionate man.

His hunting always brought joy to the village. He offered the small, recluse community in the red huts, the fruit of his passionate hunts. Kudus, impalas, wild pigs, waterbucks fed the entire village for weeks after he left. Robert usually kept a small filet to bring back with him to the city, and he would leave the village with a bounty of red meat to feast on.

He always paid the trackers, the guide, and even Djambo, a generous fee after each safari. He was grateful to their dedication. He marveled at the grandiose and eternal panorama of their land, their hospitality, and generosity.

It always took Robert Martin a good two days to reach Djambo's village. It was a lone spec of humanity lost in the vast northern plains of the Ivory Coast. Adjacent to the border with Ghana, the river next to it was also a crossing point for smuggling illegally poached elephant and rhino tusks.

Robert also financed the struggle against it for decades.

Djambo was to stay with Robert Martin and his wife Francoise until the age of 18. Three times a year, during French religious holidays, he would return to his village and hunt with Monsieur Martin. The rest of the time, he would learn French, and attend school until the rigorous Baccalaureate exam. Papa Robert's ambition was to send Djambo to college in France afterwards.

Djambo was raised in archetypal African family. Loving, with strong spiritual values, his community had instilled in him the moral understanding between living and dying, hunting and killing, and right from wrong. His only obligations while roomed and boarded at the Martin's coastal villa would be to participate in household tasks, cleaning, cooking, and help maintain the grounds.

Francoise Martin was not much of a homemaker. She came from a traditional French catholic family from the Vendee. A graceful socialite since the age of sixteen, she made her entry into the world at the coveted Paris debutante's ball in 1968. She lived for cocktail parties at the French embassy. She loved to dress up for glamorous dancing soirees in the colonial homes of Abidjan. She danced to disco tunes, played tennis, and tanned around the private villa's pool. This was her life. And she wasn't too keen on Djambo's arrival at the beginning.

Djambo heard Maman Francoise and Papa Martin fight over Robert's insistence, as well as the meaning of his adoption. They already had one daughter, Sofia, whom they had left in France, but no son. Papa Martin's deed would be their family deed, their good deed for Africa.

Francoise understood the spiritual meaning of it, but it was difficult for her at first. It was mostly her husband's idea. It came more as an insisting suggestion, than a couple's reasonable discussion on the subject. Robert nicknamed Djambo " Le cheetah " in honor of his reputation at the village. When they hunted together, it was exhilarating. Those moments with Papa Robert were his most exciting memories of the man.

When he first arrived at the villa, he made himself as discreet and quiet as he possibly could. He was invisible during his long afternoons of homework. Yet his presence disturbed Francoise' social life. She was a woman of the world, and also very private. She was approaching forty at the time.

Robert had already turned fifty, and she felt adoption came a little late in their marriage. A brilliant and successful expat executive, Robert often worked late in his air-conditioned office at the bottling plant. Sometimes, at happy hour, he would venture for a drink into the exotic underground of the great African city.

On weekends, him and Francoise attended grandiose expatriate dinner parties, and social luncheons at the beach. During the holiday season however, he would go hunting without her.

Francoise had masterfully weaved her local social network. The home was located on the ocean, away from the city, and the probing eyes of the expat circle.

Hidden between tall white walls cascading with purple bougainvillea, the garden had been meticulously designed by Francoise. It was her personal Garden of Eden.

In her husband's absence, she scrupulously optimized her afternoon date book to finally act on her erotic fantasies. It had taken time, courage, resolve, and seduction. But she eventually became a refined master of it. Long repressed in her imagination and the camisole of French societal codes, her need to live her passions grew unbearable. Djambo arrived at the villa when he was seven years old, and she suddenly had to re-become a mother.

Thirty years had passed in a flash. Monsieur Martin was fifty when he was eight. Djambo reclined in his office chair and covered his face with both hands. He was unable to speak, shocked by the news. He was also surprised Robert had gone as far as naming him on his will. He knew about his stepsister Sofia, but not about the younger child, Paul. Over the years, after he made it to America, it was always Papa Martin who corresponded with him and inquired about his wellbeing.

He wrote his stepfather that the early years after his arrival had been hard, trying, bitter, and cold. But that he had met a young lady named Felicia who gave him hope and warmed his heart. Monsieur Martin had been proud of him. Occasionally he even wired small sums and wrote a word or two about Francoise.

Alexandra Parker suddenly knocked on the glass door.

" Everything ok? You seem worried..." she asked.

" We're back down in equity Alex. We no longer have a choice. We have go to Paris. Tell your contacts we'll fly there right after New Year. We have to give it a shot."

" Excellent." she said. The news lifted her spirits.

" I owed you an answer, Alex. Sorry about the wait."

" No worries. I know you needed the time to think it through. I'll contact Paris as soon as I return from lunch and lock us in. I think we have a pretty good chance of getting it, you know. "

The $ 20 million payout from the deal would make the firm whole on the year. There would be no gains, and no losses. In terms of accounting it would be a wash, a flat year. This would reassure the investors. It would also guarantee a reasonable year-end bonus for all of DCM's employees, and clear out his personal mortgage issue. They would be able to start 2016 fresh, with new ideas.

That perspective came as a relief; the fourth quarter had been dismal. Year-end figures would not have to be published until January 31st. If it went well in Paris, the proceeds from the deal would hit DCM's account before the end of January. He would be able to explain everything it to DCM's high net worth investors early in February, and everything would be perfect.

From the loft's living room, Felicia called the HR Departments of Global 2000 companies for four hours in a row. She finally allowed herself a break. She endured negative answers all morning: " We're not currently hiring"," we already have other vendors", "call us back after the turn of the year", "we're going through year-end inventory", "we're not interested."

Pharmaceutical and insurance companies always hired very attractive young white women to sell. In Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, they were a dime a dozen: Blondes, brunettes, red heads, it didn't matter. As long as they were young and had cleavage, they were hired.

Comparative literature was much more exciting than business to Felicia but she had no choice. She was not going to stay at home, without a child, and spend her days at Mario Napoli's Spa on Michigan Avenue. It was against her grain. It was also below her father's ambitions. As a good German father, Wolfgang always told his daughter to try the hardest things in life. So she went for it.

Immediately after her cold calls, professional male contacts checked her website picture. She accepted mild flirting during business calls as a cultural practice that existed in America since the invention of the telephone. Twenty -something secretaries and gatekeepers were extremely jealous of her looks and natural, happy go lucky attitude about life.

They always crafted excuses to deny her an opportunity to meet with their bosses. Felicia was excellent at her craft, but it didn't matter. There was one thing about the women she met in business; they hated her for her great looks.

Foreign companies were equally challenging: The Chinese wanted to sell to her, but didn't want her to sell to them. Attractive Asian HR assistants never followed up on their CEO's directives to schedule meetings with Felicia. Latin males from Miami or Los Angeles were warm, gregarious, genuine, fatherly sometimes, and always obvious. Senior black executive males were civil, polite, and generally the most open to giving her an opportunity to introduce herself.

Global HR was a fantastic study of humanity. In three years, Felicia had hundreds of opportunities to navigate its myth. Human Resources exposed sexism, racism, nationalism, and personal greed better than any business course on the planet. She travelled through the most evil corners of the international mind and soul. The winners were the consulting companies who produced glossy reports on the state of international labor, and the consultants. Above all, New York investment banks made out like bandits.

The big box firms let go of tens of thousands of workers from the 1980s, the 1990's, the 2000s, and again after 2008. They held a monopoly position in a winner takes all economy. Hard work, dedication, and entrepreneurship no longer meant anything in the new world. It was about sex and money. That is all they wanted from her. But Felicia had always been faithful to Djambo.

She preserved her mind, body and soul for him. There was nothing religious or stiff about it. Faith, to her, was a personal choice. To Djambo, being faithful came granted by higher spiritual powers through the unique experience of marriage. And Felicia was fine with his approach.

She took the afternoon off to go shopping on Michigan Avenue with her best friend, Sally Jones. Sally was one of the few African-American neo-natal neurosurgeon in the United States. She was forty. She spent her days hustling between the operating rooms of Chicago's hospitals.

She also conducted medical research, published it, and lectured around the country in the summer.

Born in Detroit in 1975 from an autoworker and a homemaker from Alabama, Sally inherited her parent's Baptist faith and their work ethic. Her father went through excruciating efforts to make sure she succeeded in medical school. He supported her financially and emotionally. It is only during the neurosurgery program at John Hopkins that Sally began contracting colossal student loans.

She was a gorgeous black woman: Straight hair, lovely brown eyes, she stood 5'8''. She always managed to hide her spectacular curvy figure for professional reasons. Shopping was her therapy, and her sentimental life was empty. She had dated Black, White, Asian, Hispanic, men, women, younger men, older men, but it never lasted long. She was a very successful woman, highly educated, and had very little time for a deeply committed relationship.

Her endless 24-hour shifts did not allow for it. She spent her time rotating between hospitals, sleeping alone next to operating rooms, and answering the call of her vocation. It was to save babies threatened by early neurological conditions. She immersed her heart, mind, and soul into medicine. Felicia and Djambo had been an anchor for Sally for the past fifteen years. They always were there for her in times of sorrow, and also in the happy moments.

In the early days, they often invited her to their small Hyde Park apartment. Once Djambo became successful, she came for dinner to the West Loop loft. In the summer, when she could, the three of them would drive together to Felicia's summer home in Wisconsin.

After medical school, Sally took assignments in the north side, the south side, and downtown. She wanted to live in the vibrant and centrally located Wicker Park corridor. It was full of twenty-something students, and hip coffee shops. She always talked about moving, and hesitated between Lake Shore Drive, the West Loop, and Lincoln Park.

With her six hundred thousand dollars a year salary, she could afford to live anywhere in Chicago. But she was waiting for a man. Until then, she told Felicia she would remain young at heart, live her life, and enjoy the single scene. She had recently bought a Porsche 911 Convertible and picked up Felicia in it.

The car was great in the summer for her road trips to Michigan, and equally stable on the Chicago winter snow. She rolled it out of the warm garage and the heated seats in the small cockpit were a true blessing to both.

Sally Jones loved to shop, and loved Felicia's personal input on fashion. She was materialistic yet spiritual. She collected Gucci, Prada, and Vuitton purses. She was also going on a dozen pairs of outrageous designer sunglasses at a thousand dollars a pop. Sally Jones had a heart of gold, and she always insisted to pay for lunch or dinner when out with Felicia.

They decided to take a break from their marathon. Hands full of colorful Christmas boxes they chose to have lunch at the top of the John Hancock building. Sunsets were spectacular from the 97th floor restaurant between June and September.

In winter, the three hundred and sixty degree panoramic view melted into a desolate monochromatic white. But the cuisine was still great. Felicia selected an almond trout with a glass of Chardonnay, and Sally chose the grilled shrimps over angel hair vermicelli.

" So tell me the truth," Felicia started " Am I ever going to get pregnant?"

" I can't answer that for sure." Sally replied.

" Why not?"

" It depends on a variety of factors: Genetics, your general health, your stress level, your partner's fertility, and God."

" God?"

" Yes, God. At least that's what I believe."

" I thought you were a woman of science?"

" I am, but science doesn't exclude God. Think about Planck. Science can trace humanity back from the present day all the way to the Big Bang. Well, almost the Big Bang, but not quite. No one has proven what happened at exactly instant T, the moment of ignition of the universe. There are theories on it. But the moment of creation, the original moment, at exactly zero, has not been explained scientifically. Science stops a fraction of a second after the Big Bang. And I think it's the same thing about human life.

Why are some babies born healthy, and some sick? How come some cancer patients survive for decades, yet there are perfectly healthy people who die suddenly? Medicine can't explain everything, you know."

" I know that, but what about me?"

" Felicia: We've ran the tests, every year, since you were twenty-eight. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you and Djambo. You are both extremely healthy and fertile. Personally, I just think it is work stress on his part. You are ready for a child, but he may not be."

" We do love each other, very much, we both want this child, maybe two, even."

" I know sweetie, but sometimes in life, you have to leave it to God. You have to take a leap of faith. I know you've been off the pill for some time, but that doesn't guarantee success."

" I know...." Felicia said. " I know...." She took a sip of Santa Christina and looked at the pale December sun vaguely piercing through the heavy silver sky, west of them.

" How is your gig going with the head hunting?" Sally asked.

" It's bullshit, pretty much, it's all about cold calling. It's a sales gig. Nothing else. It keeps me busy, but I'm beginning to have serious doubts about it as a source of income.

I think I lied to myself. I thought I would meet interesting people, interact, socialize, and give them my best. But I don't like the way it has been panning out"

" How come?"

" It's about sex, money, and power, greed; it's not about people and love."

" Talking about sex, how is your sex life these days?"

" Not enough of it, but it's great when it does happen."

" Djambo?"

" Yeah. He's super worried about his firm. He's in great shape though. He works out, plays tennis religiously, and eats well. But I think the pressure is getting to him. On top of it we just were served a foreclosure warning notice last month. He hasn't been straight with me. He never told me we were behind on payments."

" Maybe it's just an oversight."

" It's not an oversight Sally, it's an omission. He lied to me about it."

" Let it go, baby, let it go. It will all work out. You know I'm here for you guys."

" I know Sally. And so are my parents, but that's not the point!"

" How's your Mom doing?"

" Well, now it's Stage 3. It doesn't look like chemo is working. Extreme fatigue. She gets up at eight in the morning, and goes back to bed at ten.

" That's normal." Sally said.

" They're looking at starting radiation after the holidays. And that's just when Djambo is leaving for Paris, SHIT!"

" Felicia; you're strong. And I'm here for you."

" I know baby. But I feel I'm drowning these days, you understand, Sally? Drowning...."

" You've never drowned. He has always figured it out. You know that. Stand by your man, baby. That's the only way."

" What about you? Anything new?"

" Well, you know what they say: All the good ones are taken or in jail."

They laughed, and filled up their glasses with the sweet tasting wine. The waiter came to offer dessert, and both girls settled on the chocolate mousse.

" Why don't you come over on Christmas day? I'm going to hook you up." Felicia said.

" You're going to hook me up? Baby, I'm working on Christmas Eve. I'm the only doctor who is single. I may even have to deliver babies that night! "

" What time do you get off?"

" I don't know. Ten, eleven a.m. I'll be at Rush. They have no attending physician there that night."

" Come on over afterwards. I know you'll be tired but it doesn't matter.

Djambo has invited a European investment banker to have lunch with us on Christmas Day. It's a friend of his, on business in Chicago. His name is Jean-Paul."

" A European dude huh? I like it!" Sally said.

Night fell at 4:30 p.m. All the office lights were already illuminating the Loop. Djambo began his twenty-minute brisk walk from 11 South LaSalle to 991 West Adams. Under his long warm and elegant overcoat, he confronted the cold fearlessly. He covered his baldhead with a wool black hat from Patagonia, and held on tight to his leather briefcase. His French Westons were crunching in the snow. He never succumbed into buying tennis shoes or boots for his winter commute.

He always insisted on the elegant Westons instead. He had two sets of shoe polish, extra laces, both at home and at the office. He despised the big, chunky, yellow Timberlands. In the heart of winter, Djambo Diallo always took pride in the bygone elegance of the Ivory Coast.

He fought the vicious sting of winter, and embraced it. He felt no difference between the scorching heat of African soil under his bare feet, and the cold hunt for the prize in the heart of the American jungle. He felt a spiritual belonging to both.

He was an immigrant, ferociously hungry for a new life, financial success, and love. He had found it in Felicia. That hunger lifted him.

When, in the early days, he drove the taxi until his eyes were swollen with fatigue, he always thought of her.

Graduate school was an intense, rote memorization of facts. He knew Sally faced the same medical school. In his case, they were equations, theories, balance sheets, accounting, finance, stocks, bonds, commodities, foreign exchange, mergers and acquisitions, business law, sales, international business. He managed to turn the challenge into a puzzle, a game, and eventually conquered it.

Under the sparks of the elevated train peppering the snow, he savored the reminiscence of his humble beginnings. Like him, there were hundreds, thousands of hungry young men going home, waiting for the subway on the wooden platforms. He noticed the Pakistani convenience stores, the souvenir shops, the McDonalds, the banks, the law firms, and the shoe repair kiosks. He was fully part of the freezing crowd silently walking towards Union and Northwestern Stations.

Coconut trees began dancing in his mind, he dreamt of a red African sunset and the eighty-degree twilights of his youth. Through every gust whirling the blizzard powder to his face, he thought of Papa Robert and Maman Francoise. They were his adoptive parents, those to whom he owned everything, his entire destiny. Papa had passed, just like that. In the backyard of his oceanfront villa in mid-afternoon; he failed to wake up from siesta.

Djambo and Felicia were cordially invited to the Kensington Investments Christmas corporate party. It was held in the grand ballroom at the very top of the five-star Laguna Hotel on Superior Street. Two to three hundred guests in black tie were politely conversing over the dimly lit dining tables. The vast majority was white, over the age of fifty, and superbly dressed.

The wives had shopped for weeks to prepare for the event. It was the time of year when the famous investment bank fired the bottom ten percent of its workers.

Systematically, the poor folks were fed through the deluxe meat grinder. And the survivors celebrated handsomely.

" Another year." the President said when he began his speech.

Other corporate CEOs were present and Felicia arrived alone because it was a weeknight and Djambo was working late. She looked majestic in her evening dress. The man sitting next to her with his wife was the CEO of Star Airlines.

" Good evening young lady." he said.

" Good evening: I am Felicia Diallo, very nice to meet you."

" I'm Paul Ritchie, and this is my wife Phyllis."

" Nice to meet you Felicia. What do you do?"

" I am in executive recruitment."

" Tough business."

" That it is. Where are you from?"

" We live in Winnetka."

Naming one's suburb of residence was a national sport in large American cities. It was a badge of honor. Winnetka, Lake Forest, Schaumburg, Naperville, they all sounded the same to Djambo. But certainly, the distinct spelling of each, by a proud resident was nothing to joke about at cocktail parties.

" And you?"

" We live in the city."

" Oh. Lake Shore Drive?"

" No, the West Loop actually."

" I've heard about that place," the wife said. " Wonderful restaurants."

" Indeed." said Felicia.

" Any children?"

" Nope. Not so far. And you?"

" Oh yes, we have three. They are all gifted. They all speak French."

" C'est formidable. Moi aussi." said Felicia, without a hint of an accent.

" That sounded lovely." the woman said and she excused herself.

" Do you have a card?" the CEO asked.

" Yes, I do, actually; here..."

The CEO looked at the card carefully, and put it in his inside pocket.

" Very interesting." he said. " We'll have to talk one of these days."

" Absolutely." said Felicia.

" Where did you learn to speak French?"

" Oh, I spent all my summers in France and Germany as a child."

" That's fantastic. We're trying to do that for the kids. But it's not easy, finding a good host family."

" I know." said Felicia.

It was the age of diversity and transparency: No more meetings behind closed doors to trim the head count. Axel Gassman, the new CEO of Kensington, had emerged after a corporate coup over Thanksgiving weekend. The Christmas party was his first appearance in front of the top executives who came from the entire United States.

As he walked up the steps and took to the lectern, the grand décor of the chandeliers and wood panels was plunged into darkness. Only visible now were the candles on each table glowing on the faces above the immaculate white collars. There must have been three hundred of them; Men, women, young, old, straight, gay, black, white, and a plethora of new Americans immigrants like Djambo.

Axel Gassman had been very clear in the company's holiday mass email: Under his watch, the bank would be restructured, become more nimble, and more efficient.

The bottom ten percent of the employees, including executives close to the inner circle of power in New York, would be demoted. They were condemned to ruin, suicide, and for many, divorce. Being fired, especially those older than fifty, meant the end of their corporate career.

He summoned the Head of Human Resources on the podium with him. The woman was sitting at a table next to the lectern. She was shuffling through hundreds of dossiers and the personal biographies of the executives invited to dinner that night.

The room grew silent. The malfunctioning of the heating system trapped it in a stuffy and suddenly tense atmosphere.

Gassman's management style was new, cutting edge, revolutionary. He began reading the names, carefully pronouncing each syllable. The wives were terrorized, and some of them began weeping. No one expected this.

" Mr. Dee Miaccoca; is he a performer?"

" No. He's not a performer."

Once the Head of Human Resources would confirmed the name, hotel security would walk straight to the employee's table, surround him and his spouse, and escort them both out of the room. It was a walk of shame.

" Ms. Marly Puritani; is she a performer?"

" Yes. She is a performer."

The woman collapsed in tears. She buried her face in a white napkin, and began sobbing. Her husband put his arms around her.

The other guests at the table were too afraid to look at her. Their names had not been called yet. But the heat had grown so intolerable that they began sweating and were using the napkins as well to dry their foreheads.

A young man, fearing the loss of his own position, was mesmerized by fear. He was also sweating profusely. He suddenly stood up, raised his right fist in the dark and began scanting the name of the CEO. The ballroom erupted, following him in unison.

"Gass-man! Gass-man!"

The scanting had grown so loud that the CEO had to pause for a moment. He lit up a cigar, and was puffing blue clouds above the lectern. It seemed incongruous with recent anti-smoking laws but he didn't seem to care. He smiled, extended both his arms towards the three hundred souls he had just converted, and said:

" We're going to do great work together this year. I look forward to 2016 with great optimism."

By the time he reached the end of the blacklist, Gassman had kept his promise: Out of the three hundred guests, thirty or so had been permanently eliminated from the organization. And the remaining employees were now fully devoted to him.

He finished his speech, and magically it seemed, the temperature returned to a bearable level. Djambo arrived at that moment, sat next to Felicia, and said hello to the man and the woman next to her. An army of waiters was now buzzing around the ballroom with silver trays and hors d'oeuvre. The venue was grandiose and the décor fabulous. It had a Belle Époque feel to it. After 2008, most financial firms severely curtailed their year-end company party budgets.

But Kensington had bucked the trend. Foie gras, which had been banned by animal rights activists the year before, surfaced miraculously on every table. Dom Perignon was flowing in the crystal flutes, and the bread toasts were cooked to perfection.

The affair was a who's who gathering of 2015 Chicago business society. Djambo hated social functions. But he realized, coming into wealth, that they were part of life. He accepted the practice. Felicia loved to dance and he did also. After the four-course meal, the New York Strips with the peppercorn sauce, the lobster and the white Bordeaux, the decadent trays of dozens of colorful desserts, they were one of the first couple on the dance floor.

Djambo was in rare form. He danced with rhythm and joy. He was moving sideways, forward, back, in synch with the catchy beat, facing Felicia. She followed his steps, completely free, mind, body and soul. The music was fresh, intoxicating. For a moment, they forgot everything around them.

They were at the very center of the event. Several young ladies in gorgeous dresses, along with men all dressed in dark suits began surrounding them. They were the life of the party.

After they left the floor, the music became more melancholic. The older folks had taken over, and it began looking like the Titanic's last dance. The couple from Winnetka at their table was still there. The woman looked bored. Her husband hadn't stopped staring at Felicia all evening.

Djambo was savoring his espresso coffee, and gently touched Felicia's hand with his. It was a signal, time to leave.

" I will call you," said the CEO.

" Please do. Don't hesitate." Felicia replied.

In the ballroom lobby, a small crowd had gathered in front of the elevator doors. One finally dinged and they politely entered it along with ten other guests. Most were baby boomers in their late fifties or early sixties.

They were managing directors, visiting from New York, and their wives. The women were impeccably well coiffed and the scent of their perfume intoxicated the interior.

When the light reached 15, the elevator started shaking. It rattled with a horrific metallic sound, shook some more, and finally came to a complete halt. The lights suddenly died, plunging the whole group into absolute darkness. A voice emerged from the loud speaker:

" Folks in the north elevator: We are coming to open the doors. We do apologize for this electrical issue."

The door opened on the 14th floor shortly after, bringing full light again.

" Sorry folks: We just had a power failure. All three elevators on this bank are out of commission. We're going to proceed down this hallway, and you'll be able to go down to the lobby safely. Sorry about that." The hotel groom said.

The entire 14th floor of the Laguna Hotel had been reserved for the 2016 Midwest Swingers Kick-Off party. The sign was the first thing they saw walking out of the elevator. There was no time to react.

A chubby naked woman arriving from the other end of the corridor didn't seem shocked at the brigade of business suits and evening dresses. She assumed they were joining the party. When she reached the middle of the hallway, she turned the brass handle of the double door of the floor's main suite, and left it wide open. Vulgar women's laughs were emanating from it.

The hotel valet had already reached the end of the corridor and the group was on its own. The executives' wives accelerated their steps, pretended not to notice, and swiftly walked by the suite. Others peaked discreetly.

It was quite a spectacle. The scene transpired like an Eric Fischl painting. An old man smoking a pipe and wearing a red silk robe seemed to be presiding over it all. There must have been fifty people inside the suite. A tall sixty something fellow with silver hair and a Southern drawl was walking around naked and selling crack cocaine with a big smile. He was good at it. Curious, Felicia pulled Djambo inside the room.

A fat woman strapped in a harness was swinging back and forth and squealing like a pig. Her husband was desperately to have two football players sodomize her, but it didn't look like it was working.

The suite smelled like sperm and marijuana. It was littered with condoms and soiled white tissue. From the back, which they couldn't see, they could hear what sounded like horrific screams of pain.

A middle-aged man with a huge hairy belly was apparently attempting to film his wife's exploits. His miniature penis was invisible between the cascading folds of his belly. He wanted to comfortably sit in a wide yellow velour armchair, smoke pot, drink a beer, and watch his wife.

But he couldn't quite get the right angle for his cinematic ambitions because of the three colorful midgets running around the poor woman. He finally gave up and set his digital recorder on the end table next to him. It unknowingly filmed his hairy forearm in great detail for the rest of the romp.

Six naked women had taken on the California King bed and were pretending to enjoy themselves. Some of them were missing teeth but they were proud to exhibit the vestiges of their prior multiple pregnancies. They were moaning and groaning surrounded by a group of abandoned pink toys.

Erect, lonely, the dildos were shining with fluids under the Victorian bed lamps, between the Dorito bags, the empty Budweiser bottles, and the ashtrays.

An immense loneliness seemed to impregnate the velvet curtains, the stuffy armchairs, and even the chandeliers. The atmosphere was perceptibly faked, staged, strictly to please the husbands.

A white woman with long dreadlocks introduced herself to Djambo and offered him a glass of Kool-Aid. Her face was tan but the rest of her skin must have been fifty shades whiter. She looked like a nude clown. Her breath was unbearably offensive.

" I only date black guys--" she started.

Felicia had enough. She pressed against Djambo's arm and pulled him back towards the entrance of the suite. Two older women with tacky streaks of black in their long white hair were on all four on the kitchen floor. The two men behind them had kept on their favorite football jerseys along with the helmets, and even the price tags.

Djambo quietly closed the double door behind him, and they walked to the left, towards the deserted bank of functioning elevators.

It snowed heavily the next morning. Felicia and Djambo looked like polar explorers as they walked to the old diner on Jackson Boulevard. The place had not changed since the nineteen fifties, and neither did its menu.

" I confirmed with Alexandra yesterday," Djambo said. " We're leaving for Paris on the 1st."

" We're leaving?" Felicia inquired. " Sounds like a couple's romantic get away."

" Don't be silly, sweetie."

" I'm not. Just the way you said that."

" And? You want to come?"

" You know I can't; Mom. Dad called again today, it's getting worse."

" Oh God." Djambo said.

" I'll handle it, you know that baby."

" I know. But I hate not being there."

" I know you do. You've always been there, always made the trip with me."

" Yep. But this time I can't."

" You could..."

" Sure. Actually, we can head up their way before my departure or after my return."

" How long are you going to be gone exactly?"

" I don't know; Two, three weeks at the most. The time it takes."

" Baby, I'm going to miss you."

" Me too. But we have no choice. I have to do this."

" You don't have to do this."

" I do have to do it; Twenty million dollars, one shot. That puts us back to even for the year."

" And if you don't?"

" Well then. We'd be down twenty five percent, the investors will pull out, they have that option after December 31st, the fund will disintegrate, and ten years worth of hard work along with it. Let alone the mortgage, the loft, everything, and our whole life."

" Don't be so dramatic; we'll survive. We always have."

" It's not about surviving, baby. We both can do that together, or on our own."

" On our own? What the you talking about?"

" It's just a figure of speech baby. I didn't mean it that way. I meant we're both strong individuals, and as a whole we're even stronger."

" Shit you scared me for a second, especially when I think of Alex, that bitch. I don't trust her."

" Do you trust me?"

" I do! You know I do..."

" Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?"

" Well, it would be nice if we could have an open discussion about children too, you know."

" Baby, we always have. Always. We've gone through all the tests, everything, you know that."

" It's been two years since we last did. Time's running out; I'm going to be thirty-eight next year."

" This is exactly why I'm doing this. So that we have the time, the luxury of time."

" The luxury of time. You always have a way with words, don't you?"

Felicia had lost none of her legendary appetite. She ate the bacon, the eggs, the hash browns, and drank the mediocre coffee looking at her husband. He was eating his breakfast neatly, and through the conversation had looked straight into her green eyes.

For the first time in fifteen years, he noticed doubt in the expression of his wife's face. She had frowned, without anger, trying to follow his reasoning. There was a subtle maturity in her look that he had not noticed previously.

She was feeling lonely in his very presence. She set the mug down and searched for his right hand with her fingers, found it, clinched to it, and looked away from him for a second. Through the diner window behind him, the blizzard was slicing through the Sunday morning line of city dwellers without mercy.

At midnight mass in Saint Patrick's church, Djambo prayed for Robert Martin. Silently he wished for Papa Robert to reach the heavens without too much commotion. He imagined him, rising in the African sky, towards the immaculate blue infinite. Papa Robert had given him so much love, so much life.

Uplifted by the singing in the wonderful church, standing up from the wooden benches, his gorgeous Felicia by his side, he felt his old man elevate in the skies. Mass was joyful, and Felicia prayed too: For Djambo, for their marriage, for a child.

She wanted a little boy or a little girl. She loved her man deeply. She also prayed for her mother's suffering. She knew of the fragility of life, and its fleeting nature. She wanted to take good stock in it, so that one day, should the Lord give her a child, she would bless it with a love identical if not superior to what Gretchen had given to her.

They held hands tightly, and thanked God together for their fourteen years of marriage. They asked for forgiveness and promised each other faith, no matter what life would throw at them. As of late, it had been hitting them in spades.

Saint Patrick's church was the oldest catholic parish in Chicago. It blessed the western edge of the Chicago Loop. Built in 1850, it weathered the Great Chicago Fire of 1906, survived wars, and the entire twentieth century. It was a haven of goodness in the chaotic big American city. First communions, confirmations, baptisms, weddings, funerals; through all of it, the love of God illuminated even the coldest of winter nights.

On Christmas morning, Djambo and Felicia exchanged gifts in bed. It was one of their traditions as a couple. Felicia had gone full-blown for him: A pair of new tennis racquets, fully strung with a hybrid of natural gut and polyester, a new tennis bag, new Nike Vapor Zoom shoes, size 14, a pair of absolutely gorgeous Louis Vuitton suitcases, a Mont Blanc fountain pen with a bottle of black ink, and last but not least; An exquisite twenty gauge Beretta shotgun, King Ranch edition, so that he could enjoy quail hunting with it.

Djambo had not been cheap either. He had secretly ordered a magnificent hand sewn bra from the last handmade lingerie makers in France. They had inserted the miniature diamonds in it and in the string panties. He knew it would fit Felicia' soft skin like a glove, and he couldn't wait to see it on her.

The bottom of the string panties was open and lined up with three tiny diamonds on each side. It was marvel of French savoir-faire. He also offered her a brand new Leica M camera, with her name engraved on it. He knew Felicia's passion for photography.

She took exceptional black and white shots of the two of them, sometimes in the nude, and had hung a 60x30 enlargement over their bed. She looked at the Leica and then at him:

" Shit, baby. That's gorge,"

" Bora Bora." Djambo said. " I want you to take it with you when we go to Bora Bora, that's the delayed part of my gift, darling."

The Swiss guest arrived at noon, upon Djambo's request. He was a long acquaintance of his, and was staying at the Drake over the holidays.

The man was a very successful investment banker based in Geneva. He was a financial globetrotter of some sorts. He spent his life scouting the planet for start-ups.

He provided early stage financing and the cover of anonymity from predators. Once the young company would take off, he would arrange for its purchase, generally by a big European industrial conglomerate. His discretion and financing enabled entrepreneurs to thrive, and shelter them when they needed to be.

He lived in an airplane, his own; the brand new Bombardier jet covered 10,000 miles without refueling. With it, he was able to reach the Middle East, Africa, and North America. He sometimes refueled in the Maldives on his way to Singapore or Hong Kong.

He made his fortune during the Asian crisis of 1997, the Internet bull market, and again the Real Estate bubble of the early 2000s. Every time, he managed to pull out early, and funneled his millions to a discreet Zurich bank.

Quite a connoisseur in French wine, he showed up at the loft's door with a case of 1991 Petrus, and brought a box of Davidoff Special R, Djambo's favorite on lonely nights. On the rare occasions when Felicia was absent on summer nights, Djambo would climb it to their private rooftop, and smoke a cigar facing the downtown skyline.

Felicia was now fully dressed, in front of the modern kitchen metal appliances, greeting the man. She was telling him about her Sally Jones. The Swiss guest was intrigued.

Sally arrived, bombastic, shortly thereafter. The conversation quickly turned to the 2016 Presidential Election in the U.S. The man was curious about it.

Well informed and well read, he still had a hard time deciphering the socio-political landscape from an American perspective. It was a sort of mystery to him, a puzzle to solve.

" Personally, I love Ben Carson..." Sally started; " He's a good man, conservative, he's no politician."

" I see. You know, we know very little about him in Europe, Sally." The Swiss remarked.

" Is that so?"

" Yes. They are covering mostly Granny Hill and Ronald Grump."

" Ronald Grump...." Sally said, " What a joke."

" He is a joke. But he carries a message. You know, it's mind blowing seen from abroad, that this guy is actually the front runner on the Republican side."

" I know..." Felicia said. She was keenly tuned to the campaign. She had worked for Bore in 2000, and Obama in 2008. She was a liberal, and Djambo a conservative.

" Rubio." Djambo said.

" Rubio?" Sally asked.

" What do you like about Ben Carson anyway?"

" He's an honest man, a fine man. You know, I had a chance to work with him at John Hopkins when I did my residency there. He's from Detroit, just like me."

" How does that make him a good president?" Djambo asked.

The Swiss guest grew silent. It was strange, to him, to discuss politics on Christmas Day.

" Obama is no rocket scientist you know..." Sally continued.

" Perhaps. But why dilute the quality any further. Why take the country down?"

" Ben Carson doesn't want to take it down, he wants to lift it up."

" That's what they all say." Felicia interrupted; " In the end, the level of leadership will speak for itself. Like it or not, Hillary is the most qualified. She was Secretary of State, and benefits from an immense aura on the world stage, vision. She will crush Grump on the finish line. Ben Carson, as much as I like the man, he doesn't have a prayer."

" Excellent analysis." Djambo said, " Let's eat, shall we?"

They all sat around the splendid dining room table. It was a gorgeous piece of furniture, imported straight from San Paolo. Massive and elegant, veins of Brazilian wood ran through it. It stood in the corner of the immense floor of the loft. Felicia and Djambo were moving back and forth from the kitchen with their culinary delicacies. They were playing Stan Getz, and it perfectly matched the puffy snowflakes floating outside the living room window.

The conversation turned to personal finance and Sally had tons of questions for the other guest.

" I wouldn't worry about your case." The man said. " You are in the ideal situation: No kids, no husband, single income, you've got it made!"

" It doesn't feel that way..." Sally replied.

" Trust me. You do. You gross six hundred thousand dollars a year as a surgeon, plus your lectures, plus your books, you've got it made, lady."

" Well, I'd like to buy a home."

" Even with your school loans, you'll be fine. Put 20% to 30% down if you can, and you'll get the best terms. If not, heck, I'll lend you the money at zero interest.

" You would do that?" she asked with her magic gorgeous smile.

" Absolutely. Here is my card. You tell me when you have found your home, and I'll wire you a million dollars. No interest. You have twenty years to pay me. I know you'll figure it out."

He had the means to do it. Djambo's friendship had that much weight with him. It was common practice for his Swiss friend. Sometimes, he carried companies worth up to twenty five million dollars on behalf of Arab investors who wished to remain silent partners. At the end of their five-year arrangement, he would simply hand them the company, its cash flow, and they would pay him the twenty five million, no interest.

The no interest clause was Sharia Law, and he abided by it. Interest, in his world, was the net worth of his global relationships. His deals and his network were worth much more than the 10% U.S. moneylenders charged to those with poor or no credit. Sally's was excellent.

" I am so very grateful. Thank you!" she said.

" Now, let me tell you about the 412(e)(4): With that puppy, you can sock away as much as two and a half million dollars, tax deferred, over a period of twenty years. As a sole practitioner, you should definitely look into it. It blows away your 401(k) and IRA by leaps and bound. I think the limit on it is something like $ 250,000 tax deferred contribution for older physicians approaching 60. In your case, it would be less, but you're probably looking at sixty, seventy five, perhaps a hundred grand a year, no upfront taxes."

" Wow," Sally said.

" With the two and a half million dollar ceiling per person, some couples, are able to sock away five million dollars over a ten year span, ages 55 to 65. It's a very powerful vehicle."

" That's fantastic" Sally said. She was a brilliant physician, but always had a weird relationship with money. She did not exactly know what to do with it, except to spend it. The Swiss guest came at the right time in her life for guidance, and he was quite a looker too.

She couldn't put her finger on it. It was not exactly the way he looked, even though he seemed to warm the room with the deep tan of ten recent days in the Indian Ocean.

It was more what he said. How he said it, with confidence, and the absolute certainty of the outcomes he sought, that peaked her curiosity. He was mysterious. Like Djambo, he came from a different world, remote and inaccessible. They carried on, for the rest of the afternoon, unable to part ways, despite the sudden curtain of night that fell like the blade of a guillotine.

Soon it was New Years Eve in Chicago. Globalization, television, broadcasted every monument around the world, from the Sydney Opera to the Eiffel Tower. Each was showcased with spectacular fireworks. Last on the list was New York City, followed by Chicago, and then Los Angeles for the grand finale.

Djambo was showering, muscular, with a touch of the spotlight shining on top of his magnificent left shoulder. Felicia was still wearing the white business blouse from her workday. She immediately unbuttoned it, and revealed a gorgeous hand knit French lace bustier. It led down to her hips where it met her black skirt.

She looked at him as he turned off the powerful faucet behind the glass. Her husband was a beautiful man. She started moving her hips around, dancing for him on the other side of the glass partition. She opened her huge green eyes, and plunged them into his. Djambo pushed one hand on the glass as if he wanted to touch her, and began staring at her.

Felicia bit her upper lip. She threw away the white shawl above her shoulders, and looked down at her black skirt. Both her hands contrasted handsomely with it. She began brushing up and down her hips provocatively.

She moved very close to the glass where her man was trapped. His breath had puffed a soft circle on it. She had selected one of his favorite African music pieces. It was a pure drumbeat, repetitive, enticing, and sweet. It echoed inside the bathroom's granite walls, all the way from the living room. Djambo could hear it too. He dominated her with his sheer height.

She was a good head shorter than him, and directed her eyes right to the center his tight brown chest. She turned around, bent forward and revealed both sides of the bustier. Her white nylons were cutting deeply into her upper thighs. They were so bright it that the rest of the bathroom appeared pushed into obscurity. Felicia was dancing, in slow motion, like the first slow song they shared. She was shapely, gorgeous, blonde, and looked untouchable.

She bent forward again, this time sliding down her tiny white panties to her ankles, and exposing the three darling Tahiti pearls of the clit dangler. Dark, shiny, impatient, half buried into the rich golden forest of her blonde pussy, they suddenly emerged, full of life.

She looked down at Djambo's masculinity. It was resting, elongated on the glass, eager for more. She looked down at her pussy, and released the white panties stuck to her right heel. She crumpled them into a soft white ball, and brought them up to Djambo's mouth across the glass. The African drumbeat continued. Neither loud nor soft, it persisted like the call of a young hungry male at a tribal dance.

Felicia's eyes were completely open. She soaked them in his, their darkness, and the familiar chisel of his face. Djambo noticed the matching pearls she had selected and elegantly adorned on her ears, along with her necklace. Her lips half open, she looked down again, and carefully examined her superb pink areolas.

She brought them forward, against the glass, so that Djambo could examine them too. He extended his long fingers, feline like a cheetah, and pretended to cover her right breast while she kept rubbing it against the glass.

He played with both generous mounds of flesh, and followed the white nylon strings pointing down to her pubic forest. Her nails met his fingers, and she found the delicious wetness of her own lips.

A distant whistle, like the call of a bird emerged from the drumbeat. It accentuated her pleasure. She could hear it loud and clear, like a mysterious, remote, and erotic call.

Her pussy appeared, like a jewel, underlined by the pearls bouncing gently on her clit. Djambo could feel his wife's tension through the glass and it acutely increased his own. But Felicia wasn't finished.

The drumbeat increased its tempo. It grew more African, and she chose that moment to turn herself around.

Djambo began caressing her magnificent butt through the glass with both hands. Felicia bent forward again. She parted her cheeks, timidly, in synch with the rhythm, and revealed the clean tiny star of her anus buried deep into the fold. Her clit was enduring the bounce of the heavy black pearls.

Djambo realized she had completely shaved the very center of her, the fruit, stopping her blonde fur much above. Her anus too was shaved clean, and was now highlighted by the pastel of her nails pulling away from each side.

He recognized his wife, the peachy perfect fleshy fold, full center, across the glass, the French lace exclusive motif running all around her thighs just below. His desire became more violent, and he kept staring at her lips.

Felicia turned back around, lifted her left leg, provocatively rested her high heel on the solid steel bar of the towel holder, and opened up, facing her man.

Her left arm moved below her back and she found the black pearls. She began gently playing with them and breathing hard. Still undulating from the unstoppable drumbeat, she began caressing herself. Djambo adjusted down to her height, as if he wanted to lick her marvelous areolas. He was sucking, licking, and going back up to kiss her. It was the first time they were playing such a long, sophisticated, delightful innuendo, and neither wanted to stop or open the shower door.

She had completely lifted the blinds in the bathroom and they were both inundated with light yet surrounded by darkness. Djambo was bouncing against the glass impatiently, and frowned with pleasure.

Felicia finally opened the door, and wrapped her left hand around it to lead him to the bed. Djambo noticed Felicia had lifted the blinds. They noticed the shadow of the voyeur across the street, standing behind his tall bay window. He was occasionally illuminated by streaks of television rays, and then receded in complete darkness. Felicia had known of this for some time.

She had noticed the dark silhouette while trimming her pussy at night, waiting for Djambo to come home – but had never mentioned it to her husband. He was completely focused on her immaculate lips. She divulged them to him right before he disappeared inside of her. Their rage that night was animalistic, profound, and savage, like the ever-increasing call of the drum coming from the living room.

VI

MLK BIRTHDAY

" And when this happens,

And when we allow freedom ring,

When we let it ring from every village and every hamlet,

From every state and every city,

We will be able to speed up that day

When all of God's children,

Black men and white men,

Jews and Gentiles,

Protestants and Catholics,

Will be able to join hands

And sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty; we are free at last! "

~ Martin Luther King

Late on New Year's Day morning, Felicia prepped her man like a hero getting ready for battle. She still felt his warm life swimming inside of her, and was extremely hot from her orgasms from the night before. Too tired and too blissed to wash, she kept it inside all night and loved it. Now, in the spacious bathroom of the loft, she inspected her pussy in the mirror running along the granite wall. What a sight. It was still trembling.

The Paris subway ticket shape of her hair remained, but it had begun growing ever so slightly to the sides, and upwards as well towards her belly button. She decided to shower, stay naked, and serve Djambo breakfast in bed. She spoiled him with croissants, coffee, and tender kisses. She fired off the espresso maker, and soon, the delicious scent of roasted Italian coffee permeated the entire loft.

Ice crystals had formed on the windows, and apparently the voyeur across the street had disappeared. There was no trace of him. The morning light was such that the inside of the loft opposite theirs was now plunged into darkness, which completely inverted the illuminated scene at night.

Djambo rolled over, open his eyes, and saw his naked wife holding the silver tray. He looked at his watch.

" Good Morning Sweetie." She said.

" Mmmmm.... smells so good."

" You're going to need it. You've got a long day ahead of you."

" I know. Seven hour flight."

" Shit." Felicia said. She adjusted her bust so that he could take a good look at it.

" I'm going to miss you, baby."

" I know, me too..."

" It won't be long. Three weeks at the most, maybe two if everything goes well."

" Still long. Especially after last night." she said.

" I know baby, I know...." Djambo said, and he took his first sip of espresso.

" Can I trust you with Alex?"

" What kind of a question is that?"

" You know what kind, baby. I've seen the way she's been looking at you."

" It's business. She's a good woman."

" And quite a predator too. A greedy predator."

" You're my greedy predator." Djambo said, and he moved close to her. He extended his warm tongue, and licked her already erect left nipple. It was long, stiff, and eager. Felicia uttered "Ahhhh", and forgot about Alex for a moment.

" She's quite a hot bitch for her age, isn't she?"

" That she is. And she loves the younger guys too..."

" You're a younger guy, a sexy younger guy."

" I know. But I'm also her boss."

" Maybe. But she runs the show."

" She doesn't run the show. She thinks she runs the show."

Felicia smiled. Her man's cock was already strong, instantly erect from the morning warmth of the bed, and the taste of both her superb nipples. She gently held it, in its middle section, and led Djambo to the granite bathroom and the natural stone shower.

She pumped the green Gillette shaving gel, kneeled down, and carefully spread it over Djambo's superb buttocks. They were muscular, and so strong. She found his anus, delicate and tight under her fingers, his full balls and their tender pocket, as well as the sweet and tense little space in between. It disappeared under the green gel and Felicia carefully began shaving the extra tiny curly hair off of it.

The contrast with the silver metal of the razor was stunning. He crossed his powerful arms towards the top of the shower, and she sensed his power above his sculpted abdominal path.

She minutely continued, back and forth, between his anus and his balls, just at the right height, brushing, gently, the silver blade back and forth in the white cream, giving him shivers of cosmic pleasure. She gave it an affectionate lick, inquisitive, and tasty. The massive base of Djambo's cock came last, royal, beating hard, and searching for the shower ceiling. She was scraping more hair, patiently. The tiny pubic curls fell slowly on the luxurious granite floor, like dead autumn leaves in Grant Park.

From above, in the full morning light blazing through the shower window, Djambo could only notice and approve of his wife's utmost concentration. He ran his long, immaculate fingers through her wavy and ample blonde hair. Occasionally, when she pulled back to admire her work, and he would get a glimpse at the unusual length of her erect nipples, as well as her clit, which was now pulling out.

He noticed it, and when Felicia stood up, her task completed, he ran his left thumb through her superbly fair pussy hair.

" I want you to grow that shit out until I come back baby," he said

" You got it. I think it's a great idea. It will take great measure of time..."

" Exactly."

On their way to O Hare he chose to drive the 740i, and Felicia kept her mink coat on. It was made of gorgeous fur, a magnificent coat; the kind that makes animal right activists cringe. The secular practice of fur trade was not illegal in many foreign countries. Quite to the contrary, it was a thriving trade.

On the passenger seat, she opened it to breathe a bit, and revealed her phenomenal breasts and shapely thighs. Emerging from her center, the first of the three pearls jumped forward, suddenly free. It occasionally bounced up when the tires hit a pothole, or a new slab of concrete on the highway. Every time it hit on Felicia's turgescent clit, she exhaled an " Ohhh" mixed of surprise and admiration at her marvel of a little jewel.

Djambo knew it too. He knew his wife needed pleasure, with or without him. As long as she was faithful, he welcomed her self-explorations. It was a sign of trust, faith, belief, and openness between them. Right now, they needed it more than ever.

" That bitch better not put the moves on you, baby."

" What are you talking about, Sparky?"

He called her Sparky for the first time.

" You know damn well what I'm talking about."

" Oh shit. Not now, baby please." Djambo said as they approached the toll.

" Yes, now. You're on your way to Paris with that bitch, baby. How do you think that makes me feel?"

" Shit Felicia. Shit. We don't have to go over this right now."

" Well then, promise me you won't fuck around with her, just don't let her close, that's all I ask. Plus, she doesn't have any of these..." and she lifted both her supple breasts that protruded aggressively from the fur coat.

" We know that!" Djambo said.

" How the fuck do you know?"

" Believe me, I know."

" What you talking about???"

" You've seen her in a bathing suit before, you know what I mean, relax baby!"

" Oh shit." Felicia said. " I was thinking something else."

" You think too much, baby. Relax, will you. Just relax. I'll be home in no time, ok?"

In the curve leading to the airport parking, he inserted his right hand between her thighs, and felt her emerging gooey clit, lonely and eager. Melting black snow inundated the cars with winter mud. Jets, from all over the world, and their colorful tails cutting into the white monotony of the January sky, were slowly rolling around the runways. It looked as if they were calling the both of them to escape to the South Pacific. But it is for Paris that Djambo was leaving, and without her. The new year was already calling her husband.

" I don't think I can meet that bitch today." Felicia said. " I'm not ready for it."

" You totally are." Djambo said. " Look at you, you look fabulous, you have that ' I just got fucked ' look on your face, honey bun."

" All right. Maybe you're right. Maybe it will send one of those " female" signals..."

" There you go!" he said. He liked the idea of the three of them meeting.

Alexandra Parker was dressed in a full black business suit. She had removed her long coat, waiting for Djambo to show up, next to the International Business Class line.

Her red ruby nail polish was assorted to her lipstick. She looked magnificent. Several men had already stopped by to make small talk with her. She replied politely but firmly that she was waiting for her husband. As an additional precaution when travelling, she always slipped an enormous diamond ring on her left finger.

Felicia saw her first, smiled, and kissed her on the cheek.

" Well, here we are. You take good care of my Djambo over there" she said.

" Ohh yesss." Alexandra replied, confident. She turned to Djambo.

" You have the tickets, dear?" The "dear" came a little bit as a shock to Felicia.

" Got them. Take off at 5:45 pm. First class. ORD to CDG, there you go."

" Well, shall we check in? " she asked gracefully.

Djambo turned towards Felicia, stood by her, and asked Alexandra to snap a photo with her I-phone. He kissed Felicia on the cheek, and whispered in her ear:

" You take good care of that jewelry when I'm gone, and don't forget to let it grow as I requested, baby."

Felicia turned red, kissed her husband one last time, and walked away.

After dinner, once the lights were dimmed in First Class, and the jet began its night owl arc over the North Atlantic, Alexandra made herself comfortable. She removed her high heels, sat sideways and revealed her flesh colored panty hoses. They were virtually invisible. Djambo was reading the Wall Street Journal, fully stretched in his seat, and ready for the night.

Alexandra kept her impeccable black cashmere jacket on, and curled around. Her business skirt now lifted well above her mid-thighs, revealed their shape. Her green eyes sparkled in the darkness. She stayed silent, motionless, and watched Djambo read for a while. Then she turned around, and offered him the phenomenal shape of her butt under her black skirt lifted well above the top of her nylons.

The Place de l'Opera was entirely covered with snow. The elegant structure stood there, timeless, majestic, and romantically baroque. Down the avenue, traffic was slowly humming along in the white blanket. All sounds were muted, but Paris was not nearly as cold as Chicago in January. The temperature was a balmy fifty degrees with no wind. The software company's headquarters were right across the street, a quick walk from Djambo and Alexandra's hotel. They were staying at the Grand Majestic on Rue Scribe, behind the Opera house.

They arrived at ten on the dot. All the participants were already waiting for them. The CEO was French of Israeli origin. He made a fortune providing the French government, police, and armed forces, with cutting edge surveillance software. His invention was a powerful new tool, which could trace terrorists and hackers physically down to " Station Zero " in real time. It was proprietary software.

The French Ministry of Defense had begun using it as a bargaining tool, mainly with North African and Middle Eastern allies during trade negotiations. The buyers were eager for it and the French used it to secure arms sales, commodity deliveries, and even prime grade uranium from Niger.

" Well, hello Mr. Diallo: Ms. Parker has told us wonders about you and your firm in Chicago."

" Thank you. Very nice meeting you, Michael."

" Let me introduce you: Mr. Diallo heads DCM, Diallo Capital Management in Chicago and is considering financing the commission due to our intermediary with Qatar."

" That is correct." Alexandra confirmed.

" Who is the intermediary exactly?" the French Minister of Defense asked.

" He wishes to remain a silent partner at this time." Alexandra said.

" A silent partner?" The Ivory Coast Minister inquired.

" That is correct. Given recent commissions debacles, he wishes to remain anonymous through the entire process. He has no problem divulging his identity once the deal is completed however."

" What guarantees do we have?" the Minister asked.

" Well, we know who the seller is, your software CEO is here, and I believe you also know the Qatari Secretary of Defense personally. The Qatari are up front. They just want their intermediary to be properly compensated."

" Understood." the French Minister said.

" How will payment be processed specifically?" asked the official from the Ivory Coast.

" Per your request," Alexandra continued, " it has to remain confidential, hence the three way trade: Qatar purchases Cocoa from the Ivory Coast for the amount of the commission, twenty million dollars. Ivory Coast releases the commodity to a warehouse in Marseille, an escrow account if you will, of which the intermediary takes possession once the deal is completed. He then exchanges the physical commodity for futures contracts on the open market. We, at DCM, act as a financier. We front the twenty million before the deal is completed, as insurance to the intermediary that he will be paid."

" And?"

" And we charge interest, a hard money loan if you will, for the length of it."

" And if not?"

" If not there is no deal. Or you find yourself another hedge fund willing to do it." Alexandra concluded.

" Mr. Diallo?"

" We need a few days." Djambo said.

" A few days? We've been waiting on this for three months Mr. Diallo."

" Then a few days won't matter that much, will it?"

" Ms. Parker: We thought the both of you came to Paris to finalize the deal?"

" We are." Alexandra confirmed, " We are."

" I wanted to meet with all of you." Djambo declared. " My fund had a negative year in 2015, and we are likely to face investors redemptions in the coming weeks. I simply need to insure the capital will be temporarily available to be lent, during the deal. What is your time window?"

" We're looking at two, three weeks at the most. It should be completely wrapped up by the end of January. We've been in close, almost daily contact with the Qatari. They are chomping at the bit, and simply want to make sure their man is compensated, discreetly this time. I admit we butchered the prior contract with them and it has left a sour taste with our Middle Eastern allies. They don't like publicity. They are very private people. Do you understand Mr. Diallo?" the French Minister asked.

" Don't you think U.S. based hedge funds understand discretion?" Djambo asked.

" We're all in agreement then. All of it has to be executed in a foreign jurisdiction. Now, we're showing good faith by coming here, and as Head Counsel of DCM, I would invite you gentlemen to put yourselves in our shoes for a second, and realize the risk we are taking." Alexandra said.

" Very well. You have a week." The French Minister said.

Outside, the snow had stopped, and a soft pink light nudged the clouds away. Alexandra smiled, walked down the front steps, and grabbed Djambo's coat sleeve with both her gloves.

" Let's walk down the Boulevard Haussmann. I know a great restaurant down this way," she said.

She seemed relieved, ecstatic. Now they were strolling along the store windows illuminated with the post-Christmas decorations.

The city hadn't taken down the holiday lights yet, and they could feel the spirit of it. It lingered in the cafes where students on school break gathered around hot chocolates and warm cappuccinos. Alexandra put her cashmere head cap back on and pressed herself closer to Djambo.

Felicia's I-phone rang when she was at Whole Foods.

" I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Wolfgang said sternly.

" No Dad, what's up?"

" Your mother is not well. We're coming back from Mayo. It's progressed rapidly."

" Oh Dad..."

" I know sweetheart. We must be prepared for everything,"

" I know Dad. I know. Do you want me to come up this week-end?"

" That won't be necessary. I can handle it fine. I just want you to be prepared. The prognosis is not good. Three months at the most."

They prepared for everything in the past two years: The paperwork, the funeral, and the burial site. Gretchen wanted to be cremated and dispersed over the North Sea, but Wolfgang had talked her out of it. He wanted her to be interred in a cemetery, in full Catholic fashion.

For the love of her husband and her daughter, she caved in. Her fatigue had become unbearable. Gretchen was spending her days in bed; she had stopped gardening, and cooking.

She was barely was able to write her a diary. She dictated her words to Wolfgang every morning between 8 and 10 am. She loved him, loved her daughter, and her parents who had passed long ago. Felicia was her most precious gift, the gift of her life, and she was worried about her. Wolfgang kept most of the recent progress hidden from her.

Felicia, on the other hand, told everything to her Dad, every detail. She did the same with Djambo. It irritated him that she would confide so intimately to her father. But there was nothing he could do about it. Felicia's beloved mother was living the last weeks of her joyful life. It hadn't been easy with Wolfgang.

He was strict, harsh; even cynical at times, but he always walked the line of honesty. Felicia remembered their vacation days in Bavaria when she was very little. And also the summers in Italy, the South of France, when the three of them had been so happy, swimming in the glittering Mediterranean Sea every August.

" I know you love your mother very much." Wolfgang continued.

" I do, Dad. That's why I want to visit."

" I don't want you to see her in her current state, darling, she's too weak."

" Oh Dad."

" You won't recognize her. The tumor has and grown. She has lost a tremendous amount of weight. She's only bones now."

" Dad..."

" But mind is lucid, perfectly clear, and her heart as well. I just don't want you to see her physical decline."

" But Dad! "

" I know what you're going to say: It's all about spending time with her at this point."

" Exactly."

" Let me think about it ok?"

" You can't keep me away from her."

Wolfgang had done it before, in the past, keeping her away from her mother. He also had done it when Djambo first came into her life. He was German, suborn, righteous, egocentric, and overly protective of his daughter.

Right outside the Whole Foods entrance door, a beggar, frozen in the January cold, was wrapped up in several blankets and surrounded by a vague cardboard. He noticed Felicia's tears rolling under her white wool hat. She saw him too, and dropped her entire bag of groceries right in front of him.

It was early evening in Paris, and Djambo was getting dressed to take Alexandra to dinner. The estate attorney called him at the hotel:

" I hope you had a terrific trip Mr. Diallo. Is everything all right?"

" Yes. Extremely busy this week, but happy to be here."

" Wonderful. When do you think we could get together to settle the Martin's estate?"

" I'm open Friday if the family is."

" You are part of the family, Mr. Diallo. I will check with Madame Martin and the children."

" If not, Saturday is fine too."

" Terrific."

Francoise Martin owned a very imposing estate on the West side of Paris, in a tiny suburb called Chatou. The neighborhood was sprinkled with of turn of the century French mansions from the Belle Époque: Vast, six or seven bedrooms homes, phenomenal ceilings, terraces, gorgeous gardens, beautiful stonewalls, and elegant detail framed the windows.

The Martins also had a picturesque country home in the South of France. It was nestled between pine trees at the foot of the Massif des Maures, overlooking the Riviera. Finally, they kept their colonial villa in Abidjan, outside of the city, directly facing the ocean. It was there, that Robert Martin passed away the month before. It was Francoise's permanent home.

Now back in France, reunited with both her children, she waited for Djambo to arrive from America, finalize her tax obligations, and close the estate.

On Friday afternoon, Djambo jumped on the RER suburban train to head out to Chatou. It would take him an hour from the Place de l'Opera. He would switch at Charles de Gaulle Etoile, and from there, it would be a straight shot to Francoise. He would be back at the Majestic early evening. He left the Opera house behind him and hurried down the stairway.

Beggars, drunks, thieves, Rumanian pickpockets, and the sulfurous scent of urine in the long corridors immediately offended him. Young men were roaming around the tunnels, and prowling for females. The girls felt safe in their overcoats, puffy jackets, and tight pants.

But soon it would it be spring, the perfect time to kidnap and rape young American female tourists. Especially blondes; they seemed to carry a higher price.

The young bucks drooled at the wives of black and Arab soccer players. Without superstar status or money, they were condemned to the HLM life. The drab, grey HLMs were public housing projects. Slowly but surely, the utopic universe imagined in the post 1968 French ideological folly had turned into a breeding ground for urban criminality

There were gang rapes in the infested dark corners of the city, parking lots, shopping malls, where on rare occasions some women ventured alone.

Sometimes, the victims were captured in the projects. The parents didn't have the means to escape financially when it was still time; they had remained behind. The daughters endured the climate of social misery and rampant sexual aggression every day of their lives.

The French authorities rationalized the practice for decades; Lack of education, criminality, and young horny boys. Cowards when isolated or in the hands of the police, the riff raff felt incredibly powerful as soon as it assembled in crews of three, five, and sometimes seven young men. Once they had the poor female cornered, they raped her without mercy.

Young and naive foreign blondes were occasionally found dead in public parks. Sometimes the police caught the perpetrators; fake taxi drivers and the like. Most of the time, the rapists were never caught. Most had no psychological issues. They knew exactly what they were doing.

Others were more deranged. They cut their female victim's throats right on the vinyl subway seats. In broad daylight the blood would splash on the windows under the eyes of the French passengers who never intervened.

They would just watch the scene, terrified, and jump out at the next station. No one ever stood up to criminals in France. It broke Djambo's heart. He was a black man, coming from the pure African plains where animals only hunted to feed themselves.

Mothers cared for their cubs; males protected the family. Males only fought, nobly only other males. The riff raff, evidently, ranked much lower than the savage African animals of his youth.

Western Civilization allowed those kinds of sociological anomalies to occur. The Paris metro was ground zero for violence, injustice, and the maximum degradation of women. Curiously, French feminists seemed to be too busy elsewhere. Their academic sabbaticals were much more important than poor girls getting her anuses exploded in the subway. Such was the harsh reality of Paris in the early twenty-first century.

Francoise Martin's home was a world away from those subterranean pre-occupations. It stood surrounded by large backyards, and immense mansions, minutely preserved. Most belonged to multi-millionaires. The owners were the greying French CEOs of the corporations that made the CAC 40 stock index. In summer, the place looked like the Monet's paintings of Giverny.

Now it was winter and much more subdued. The navy blue rooftops presided over wrought iron fences and gates, distinguishing themselves in the pale winter sky.

Both Francoise's children, Sophia the eldest, and Paul the youngest greeted Djambo at the door.

" Bienvenue a Chatou." Sophia said.

" Ravi de faire votre connaissance, enchanted to meet you, finally! " Djambo said.

" My brother Paul..."

" Paul, nice to meet you!"

The attorneys and the notaries, four of them together, were comfortably sunk in the living room soft and beige canapé. They all rose in unison when Djambo walked in. Francoise appeared, in a full black French dress. She looked at her beloved stepson:

" Maman Francoise..."

" Djambo..."

They hugged immediately. It was a long and sentimental hug. She had not seen him in fourteen years, since his wedding with Felicia. Paul had never met Djambo before, and his imposing height and stature seemed oversized even for the grand living room. He sat down, looked at the tall curtains, and the white men in their cheap suits.

They went right to business: The sharing of the estate left by Robert Martin. Under French law, he gave half of his net worth to his spouse Francoise, with the other half to be split evenly between his three children

Francoise and Robert had officially adopted Djambo. When he turned eighteen, he confirmed his choice in front of the consular officer in short sleeves, and became French forever.

He was therefore fully entitled to one sixth of Robert Martin's fortune. But he wanted none of it. He knew it had been hard for the children, going to school in France and England. Private school is not free in France.

Both Paul and Sophia had accumulated considerable debt. Their father Robert had been strict with them, and now Djambo wanted to make them whole.

" You can pretty much rewrite the will," he said.

" We can't." the notary said, " It's French Law."

" Then what can be done?"

" You can donate..."

" Donate?"

" Yes. Donate your share to be split between Sophia and Paul."

" How about estate taxes?"

" Oh yes," the old notary confirmed, " No way around that one, they'll have to pay."

" How much?"

" Fifty percent."

Francoise stayed quiet over the whole conversation. She abhorred talking about money. Her husband had talked about it all of his life. Now that he had passed, she didn't want to deal with any of it. She deferred to Djambo when probed by her attorneys in the aftermath of Robert's funeral.

At sixty, she was a stunning woman. A gorgeous French brunette, she kept her black hair long and wavy, and her very attractive visage showed little if any sign of aging. She had spent years under the sizzling African sun.

At the beach and the villa's pool, she always protected her face with huge 1970s sunglasses, a large straw hat, and generous quantities of tanning lotion. Her skin was immaculate. She looked barely older than when Djambo had last seen her when he just married Felicia.

Now Francoise was tanned too, even in the heart of the Paris winter. It was one of the perks of living year round in the Ivory Coast. She looked at Djambo from across the long oval acajou table, and could not believe how handsome he had grown.

He was just a kid, still a child, when he left their cozy cocoon for the vast and mysterious appeal of America. Their homegrown cheetah was an American Dreamer.

He never stopped talking about it in eleventh grade. Now, some twenty years later, he had done it. He had transformed into a tall, magnificent, successful, handsome, and proud black American.

" I am donating everything to Sophia and Paul." he said with no hesitation.

" Everything?"

" Everything. I don't need the money. I've done very well for myself in America."

" Well then, that concludes it." Alexandre Lemercier said.

" Thank you for tracking me down so that we could take care of all of his. Sorry about the long wait. I've been held back by business in Chicago for the past few weeks. I couldn't come before the holidays."

The notary pulled out the many forms to be signed and stamped by the Treasury. Once done, it would unfreeze Robert Martin's account, automatically pay the estate taxes to the French government, and release the proceeds to both Sophia and Paul.

It was Martin Luther King's Birthday in America. The day celebrated a man of humble beginnings who changed the state of race relations in the United States forever. He was a good-hearted man, peaceful, a man of faith, justice, and equality. For some white Chicagoans, oblivious to the occasion, it was more important to escape the frigid cold for a three-day jaunt to sunny Florida on a $ 59 flight. The plan was cheap beer, glasses of Margaritas on Fort Lauderdale beachfront with a bottle sunk in them, loud motorcycles, tattooed bikers, huge mamas, and bad sex in cheesy motels.

In Chatou, the notaries, the attorneys, and the children left Francoise and Robert Martin's mansion in the middle of the afternoon in order to beat traffic. They left Djambo alone, on the beige sofa, with his adoptive mother for the first time in fifteen years.

" Look at you," said Francoise, " how much you've grown my little cheetah."

" Maman Martin." It meant Mommy Martin, the colloquial way of calling older white folks in black Africa.

" Robert was so proud of you. Robert etait si fier de toi..."

" I so regret not having seen him, not having visited, throughout all these years." Djambo confided.

Francoise made some tea, and she was sipping it sensually off her delicate China porcelain cup.

" No need to be." she said. " You know son, years pass, children grow, and then they go. It's the same with Sophie and Paul now. That's life."

" Still," Djambo said, " It would have been nice if..."

" If what?" Francoise cut, " You shouldn't live with any regrets, you have way too many scruples for a grown man."

" Principles." Djambo corrected.

" Well, you know what I think about principles, son," Francoise said,

" Principles stand so that we can sit on them," and she lit up a cigarette.

" Tell me more about you." she continued, " your life, in America, are you happy there? That's the most important. That's what Robert and I wanted the most for you: Happiness."

" I have been very successful." Djambo said.

" I didn't say successful, I said happy." She said, puffing a vertical blue cloud of Gitane right above her head.

She lifted the hem of her black dress up to her thigh, and flaunted it carelessly.

" I have been very happy."

" What's her name? Felicia I think."

" That's right: Felicia. Felicia Katz. And now Felicia Diallo."

" Under French Law, she would be Felicia Martin" Francoise said.

They both started laughing, like in the old days, when, not even forty yet, she would lie fully nude near the pool for hours at a time. After lunch, when it was quiet in the neighborhood, she would undress. She would hear the hum of the air-conditioning units of the other exclusive villas nearby. There was nothing else but the tropical afternoon, the bougainvillea trees, and the hibiscus at rest before the evening wind. She took full advantage of the luxury of time.

" I can't believe you just donated your share to Sophia and Paul," she said.

" Why not? I feel it's theirs. I'm sure Papa was worried about my well being in America. I know my early letters were lonely, but things change quickly over there. I made it. I made it big. I have money now..."

" Do you have love?" continued Francoise, still smoking her cigarette. That was her most important question, the most central question for a French woman. It wasn't about multi-million dollar homes in Palm Beach, Los Angeles, or stuffy condominiums overlooking Central Park. She could care less. She was talking about love.

" I have love."

" Are you sure?"

" Yes mom; Tons of it. Felicia is a very loving woman."

" Well, I love you too, son. Don't ever forget that."

" I have never forgotten, Mom. Never forgotten."

" Neither did Papa."

" And I loved him too."

" I know you did. And he did as well, very much. He left you a few things. I have them at the villa in Abidjan: His two hunting rifles, a photo album of all of us on safari, a French bible, and a machete.

Robert Martin was big on that. On top of Djambo's full French schooling, he also had him baptized at eight, in church. Built by French missionaries in the late 1800s, the church stood through colonial times, wars, revolutions, blood, oppression, and finally independence. Robert, Francoise, and Djambo attended it religiously, every Sunday late in the morning, before heading out to lunch at their private beach bungalow thirty miles away.

At his home village, deep in the north of the Ivory Coast, near the Ghana border, a complex matrix of higher powers overlooked the order of men and nature. Natives lived in great fear of it, and it was very mysterious.

Church clarified everything for him, along with Sunday school. It gave him a sense of God. Through faith, he discovered an overwhelming presence and force for goodness. The music, the songs, the chorus, the singing, echoing in the tall and narrow colonial church uplifted his soul. Sunday redeemed the entire community, black and white, old and young, men and women, united in the suffering of Christ.

One never felt alone in Africa, especially him. He was blessed by God to have two families, one black, and one white. Both loved him very much. Later, he felt the loneliness and the cold of America at night. Behind the wheel of his Chicago taxi, he remembered the church singing, Robert, Francoise, and the warmth of their love.

Francoise felt it, like a cold current, a cold breeze slicing through the entire villa the day her husband passed away. After the funeral of the white patriarch in Abidjan, and the crowd sweating under their suits and ties, she perused the entire photo library Robert had meticulously compiled over five decades of their life in the Ivory Coast.

" I will always be there for you now, Maman." Djambo promised.

Francoise looked up into his eyes. She remembered how, at the beginning, she hadn't been too keen on her husband bringing young Djambo into their life: Her life.

In her mid-thirties, when Robert Martin was an expat, she felt lonely at first, missing home, France, and the fun of 1960's Paris. Then she began enjoying her quiet solitude, discovering her own sensuality for the first time in her life. She particularly enjoyed the company of younger men as long as they were over eighteen.

Djambo's arrival at the villa changed everything, and she no longer had the delicious privacy of her afternoons. She became a mother again, and the logistics of loving became too complicated. So she vowed chastity, renewed faithfulness to her husband, and began raising Djambo as her own child.

Now, in the ornate living room in Chatou, looking at her, Djambo remembered too. She had been a wonderful stepmother, helping him with the intricacies of mathematics and science in High School. In the absence of Papa Robert she became his confident when it came to the things of love. He confided to her about his romances at school, his timidity with girls, and his adolescent natural shyness.

Girls scared him at the beginning. They were such a mystery. He was attracted to them, but feared them at the same time.

" It's natural." Francoise had said, " It's your age..."

" I wish I weren't so afraid of speaking with them, inviting them to dance, Mom..."

" You won't be. A day will come and you will meet a nice girl. Let love come to you, you're so young. The world belongs to you. You shouldn't be so worried, so curious."

But he was curious. It was stronger than him, universal. The romantic current that brings men and women together started young, always. Djambo felt it with the first vibrations of his heart, and it stayed with him for the rest of his life. Francoise knew he would be fine. As long as he was heterosexual, all would be fine with her.

She was reassured about it when she felt his presence watch her sunbathe in the nude. Under the sun, heating the inside of her thighs until it burned sometimes, she occasionally overheard a step, a movement, behind the thick bougainvillea bushes surrounding the pool.

The thought alone that it could be him, her little Djambo, her adopted native son, flattered her. His voice had been muting. He was becoming a man. Djambo turned eighteen at the beginning of Junior High but he was still a virgin.

With his stepfather, he only discussed the things of nature, hunting, politics, the things of the world, but never women. Robert Martin had a certain catholic modesty about him that made him almost a puritan when it came to sexuality.

His wife Francoise came from the same vein, from the Loire Valley, but life in Africa had changed her and she became more daring in her thirties.

That early fall in Junior High, he was turned down by a girl at a dance party. It occurred at one of the expats home one afternoon, and Djambo felt rejected and lonely. It was the end of the rain season and extremely hot outside.

Francoise saw it in his eyes, the sadness of youth, and found her own loneliness in them. They were in the villa's kitchen, drinking Coca Cola with lemon to cool off, and he wanted to confess his attraction for her, but he couldn't. Francoise knew; she felt it. She gave him a little kiss on the lips and kept him snug against her. Djambo was already much taller than her. She climbed on the ceramic kitchen counter to reach his height.

Swiftly, she bounced up on it and was facing him, while he stood still next to the refrigerator.

He had kissed some French girls at school, but those early attempts were hidden, quick, and never prolonged or sensual. Francoise knew that too. She gently caressed his neck with her left hand, kissed him more, and offered him her wet and expert tongue, very slowly. He let go of the refrigerator door, which plunged the both of them in the sweltering shade of the kitchen.

Robert was away at an embassy cocktail and wouldn't be back until very late. They had all the time in the world.

Djambo could feel Francoise heels bouncing nonchalantly in the back of his thighs, her hands, up and down his bare back, and her tongue showing him, the cheetah, how to kiss a woman. With his both his thumbs, he hesitated first, and then found the vicious hardness of both her nipples under her thin shirt. Francoise smiled.

She temporarily abandoned her caress to lift up her generous breasts, and offer their wide brown areolas to her son in law.

" Doucement," she said. " Suck them softly."

His tongue reached out to his stepmother's extended nipple for the first time in his life. Francoise closed her eyes, pushed her ravishing extremities closer to him, and began enjoying the moment.

She hadn't had a man in ten years, ever since Djambo had moved in. Robert had neglected her. Suddenly, at almost forty, with her eighteen-year old stepson, she was re-becoming a woman.

She was shy and hesitant too at first, but in the glistening evening heat they were soon entirely nude, locked, and trapped in the promiscuity of the tiny kitchen. Djambo was afraid to go further. He was learning to lick the long nipples slowly, and occasionally it made a little sound on the finish. The slight pinch at their end gave Francoise a cosmic urge to capture him. She did not want to let the opportunity elude as it had so many times before.

She lifted her right thigh and pushed him down so that he could discover more of her femininity. Djambo quickly found the scent of his mother's opulent black forest.

It was delightful, abundant, secretive, and yet unique in the fragile pink oasis it harbored at its very center. She enjoyed her young man's scent as well; His sweat, his strong body odor, and the obedient up and down movement of his dedicated tongue.

He looked up at her brown eyes, now wide open, seeking more. She noticed his ferocious erection. She had never seen him in that state. It was all for her, only for her now.

It needed no attention from her mouth. It stood as if it had waited years for that moment. She gently caressed his chocolate softness, brought it up close to her, and slid back further to the wall behind the cool tile counter.

Now they were both looking at it: The powerful young cock she was holding, beating it very hard against her moist pubic hair, searching for her lips, was giving her devastating waves of pleasure every time she found them with it.

Djambo joined his hands behind his back as to show respect to his stepmother, and let her guide their first encounter fully. He too was feeling the streaks and the intensity at each and every impact inside her welcoming lips. But the best hadn't begun yet. Francoise wanted the tip of him to swirl around her clit until she would be completely ready. Djambo's heart was beating violently when he saw the pink thumb of flesh emerge aggressively. He had never seen one before. Francoise looked deep into his eyes and kissed him again to reassure him.

Now he realized she had a little penis too. It was not comparable to his, but it seemed to show the same eagerness, the same insatiable untamed curiosity.

Francoise's heart was beating just as fast as his. She opened her mouth and was breathing through it, straight into Djambo's chest. Now both tips, hers and his, were conjugating their passion by brushing each other under her firm hand. She could see his cream already oozing under his savage impatience. She allowed Djambo's head to explore further in the sweetness of her wider lips.

She felt him, wide, powerful, profound, dedicated, obedient, and hungry. She welcomed his first thrust, and seemed surprised at how deep he penetrated her. Djambo saw himself disappear into Francoise and his instinct took over. He mimicked the young women of his village, rotating their hips, and he began pushing forward and pulling back, with rhythm, like a dance.

Francoise was sweating and screaming.

" Oh Djambo! My little Djambo! My darling, you've grown so strong!"

" I love you Mom." He said, and he meant it.

" Please not yet. Please not yet. Please continue."

Djambo could feel the world, the stars, the cosmos, scintillating inside his entire being, but he abided by Francoise's request. She always gave the orders at the house, and he followed them. She had the power.

" Let me move son, stay where you are."

She turned around on the ceramic counter.

Now Djambo had a full view of her imposing behind, with the abundant black jungle growing outwards, already seeking his menacing somber circumference.

He beat on it again, from behind this time. Violently, his cock was slapping her humidity, bringing out wetter squeaks and screams from Francoise.

" Take me now. Don't wait any more. Take me, son." Francoise asked, holding on to the rusted plumbing tube running along the wall.

He penetrated his stepmother with vigor, and particularly savored the contrast of his fully stretched skin coming out in unison with her pink lips every time. It was equally gratifying for Francoise. She could no longer see his face. She impaled herself on him violently, and immediately ejaculated. She had never screamed this much in her life. She was hanging to the steel tube, vibrating, matching the clinging metallic sounds with the relentless cadence, yet imposing her will on her young buck all the while.

Their secret would last his entire senior year in every room of the villa. Now she was saying good-bye to him again as he disappeared in the winter night of Chatou.

Alexandra made dinner reservations for 8 pm. She picked exquisite French cuisine while cruising the Seine River. It was a three-hour cruise. The evening started and finished at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. Boarding took place on the opposite bank of the river. She was dressed sumptuously as always. She had spent the previous two hours getting herself ready in her bedroom at the Majestic.

Djambo came back from Chatou. He changed, and they both jumped in a taxi. Night had fallen, and their sudden proximity in the back of the taxi lifted their spirits.

" I rented the whole boat for us" she said.

" You did? That's fantastic."

" Amazing cruise, you'll see, and the food is fabulous."

They were greeted on the cobblestone path along the river; she looked magnificent in her high heels. The French garcon at the foot of the yacht was quite young and reverend. The small ship was a recent ultra-modern sixty-two footer. It was equipped as a restaurant and featured three levels; One for the kitchen and the offices, the staff, the second level was a glass enclosed restaurant with a seating capacity of fifty, and the upper deck was open air, with only a couple of tables on a teak floor.

Alexandra requested two heavy torches to be installed next to them. They would have dinner outside and yet stay warm. The view was much better than through the restaurant glass below. It felt as if they could touch the Eiffel Tower from their table.

It was gigantic, illuminated, and right at their fingertips. The table was set in the center of the deck and the French garcon immediately handed them two glasses of Dom Perignon, helping them with their coats.

" Wow. I didn't know about this." Djambo said, marveled at the setting.

" I knew you didn't, which is why I did it." Alexandra smiled.

She knew quite a bit about his private life, and his trips to France with Felicia. She knew he was mostly familiar with the South, the Cote d'Azur, Marseille, but not so much with Paris. She, on the other hand, as a Francophile, had experienced it her whole life.

The garcon returned with the wine list, and placed it on the white tablecloth corner. Over the lit candles, she looked extraordinarily seductive.

" You did wonderful" she started, " I think we're going to get it."

" I hope we do." Djambo said. " Twenty million dollars, nothing to spit at..."

" I know we will. We've been working hard at it."

" Especially you, Alex. It's your baby, I'm just here along for the ride."

" Oh don't say that, Djambo. Your input is huge, you're the numbers guy."

" Well, enough about numbers. Cheers!" he said, and hit her glass with his.

" I think we scored, young man..." Alexandra continued. " I'm so proud of you."

" Proud of what?"

" Your journey. Everything. Driving that cab at night, putting yourself through school..."

" Let's not forget immigration...what a nightmare that was."

" I know. It seems it's been so long now, and you've come a long way, building it up"

" Doesn't feel that way to me." Djambo said.

" Why not? You've got hundred million under management."

" More like eighty now, and going down fast."

" Don't be so pessimistic. You know, I've always believed in you. I always knew you'd hit it big."

" How do you know?"

" Tennis. I'll always remember how you played, so aggressively."

" I was young."

" You're still young."

" And so are you, Alex. Fifty is nothing nowadays, it's the new thirty five, and you look awesome; a good ten years younger."

The garcon brought the Foie Gras and truffles appetizer. The yacht began moving east towards the Ile Saint Louis. Its projectors fully illuminated the banks, and the marvelous architecture of the facades behind it. It felt as if the spectacle had been designed exclusively for them. It made Alexandra shiver.

She looked at Djambo's face, across from her, glowing behind the candles. His worries were gently dissipating in the blue Parisian night.

" Feels we're so far away from everything, everyone, doesn't it?" she said, looking at the river.

" Oh yes." Djambo said. He was looking at her too, right into her gorgeous grey eyes. They were glowing in the orange light. He loved her confidence, her professionalism, but there was a woman in her he had not discovered yet.

Now, on the Paris boat, cruising along the river, and all their concerns behind them, he was simply looking at her, sipping champagne, and soaking the emotion of the moment.

The garcon appeared with the plat de resistance, a perfectly cooked almond trout for her, and a tournedos au poivre for him, accompanied by two wines: a Saint Emilion, and a terrific Sancerre.

The heat from the torches besides them was very potent, and Alexandra unbuttoned the top of her silk blouse, letting her cleavage reverberate under the candle glow.

When they began eating, she removed her left foot from her classic high heel Bally, and with it, searched for Djambo's impeccable shoes under the table. Djambo accepted her exploration at the bottom of his trousers, and continued to enjoy the tournedos and the wine at the same time. The Saint Emilion was to die for, and Alexandra savored her Sancerre equally.

She was a sophisticated woman. There was something maternal about her that intrigued him however. Her immaculate hands, soft, caressed the top of his. Under the table, she held his right ankle strongly between her two feet, moved up his muscular calf, and invited his foot between her thighs. He began exploring her with his toe, and quickly found the limit between the nylons and her warm upper thigh.

He noticed the absence of panties, and was now brushing up and down Alexandra's wetness, incognito, under the white tablecloth. Her eyes had closed, and she dug her fingernails deep into the top of his hand. The garcon had given them ample time together, never intruding.

Alexandra guessed correctly that, unable to watch the action under the table, the young Frenchman would focus on her face. He chose that moment to re-appear from the stairway with the dessert menu.

" Choux a la crème, chocolate mousse, crème brulee, patisserie, Madame?"

" Crème brulee, please."

" And Monsieur?"

" Patisserie assortment."

" Tres bien. Parfait. Je vous amene cela tout de suite."

" Merci." Alexandra said. She spoke perfect French, like Djambo, without a hint of an accent.

He had never seen her nude throughout all these years. In Kalamazoo, during the college tennis tournament, he noticed her sweat in a pink skirt, wonderfully tan and shapely. That was the extent of it. She must have been in her late thirties at the time. Years later, at the summer company party she held every year at her Saugatuck beach house, he saw her in a bathing suit.

She was heavier than Felicia, and he was moved by the visual appeal of her mature shape. Her blonde pubic hair emerged from both sides of her bikini triangle. Her scent was enticing; it complemented the generous appeal of her formidable bosom. Nevertheless, at work, back in Chicago, she always dressed conservatively.

Now they were eating dessert, and he was still moving up and down her wet opening with his probing toe. Alexandra was enjoying it greatly and wanted more.

She moved forward as close as she could to the table's edge, eager to capture it inside of her, but she couldn't. Her only consolation was to feel the very tip of it, brushing, and frustrating her clitoris further.

Unable to control herself any more, she stood up. She had subconsciously timed the garcon's comings and goings, and realized that they had ten minutes once he set the espresso cups on the table. She invited Djambo to the back of the deck.

Walking away from the torches, she enveloped herself in the warmth of her long black cashmere coat. The back of the deck was hidden from the spiral stairway, and in their newly found privacy, she took Djambo's hand to admire the Rive Gauche architecture, majestically passing under the bright projectors.

From the riverbank, they were invisible; the lights were so bright that the contrast plunged the deck in absolute darkness. Her black overcoat and his dark suit made them invisible.

She firmly grabbed the white railing, lifted the cashmere above her hips, and revealed her thighs topped by the round abundance of her fleshy buttocks.

Djambo was astonished by the width of her hips; they contrasted enticingly with the black cashmere ball of fur right above them. Alexandra's arched back revealed her blond intimacy, and her clitoris was already erect. She wanted more, and began brushing it on him, painting a bright wetness along all of his length.

The boat was turning around in the middle of the river, and the garcon noticed their absence. He stood there, espresso cups and sugar in hand, and ready to serve. He watched them, unable to distinguish Alexandra's intimate details, but he relished in the up and down movement of her hair, just getting a glimpse of her generous thighs from the table.

Djambo wanted more as well. He was dangerously erect, but his dark suit pants elongated his manhood sideways, up to his right hip. It prevented it from deploying the long and powerful arc that usually ran up to his belly button.

Alexandra's moans even though loud, were lost in the city hum of the night. Her eyes dazzled at the shimmering and dark water below. She noticed the lit windows here and there along the banks, and finally, the sparkling tip of the Eiffel Tower afar, incandescent, stubborn, and eager to penetrate her also.

She saw the young French garcon standing still by their candlelit table, through the separation of the forward deck. His white-gloved hand grabbed his own cock and he began showing his eagerness for her. She had never been wanted, much less penetrated simultaneously by two men.

She imagined the garcon, stiff but docile, gently making his way up her fragile anus, and dilating it softly with the butter left on the table. She reserved her mature and abundant blonde fur for Djambo's ambitions. She ejaculated violently over his magnificent suit, watched the garcon for a second, and let her cashmere coat fall back down to her ankles.

Djambo's self-restraint surprised and frustrated her at the same time. She unzipped him, and felt no need to kneel down, as his cock suddenly free stood up on its own like a French gendarme saluting the national flag.

She turned around again, as they were approaching the Bercy Bridge, looking for her young boss to invade her fully under the reverberating light of the projectors, but he didn't.

" What's wrong honey? " she asked, fully open and welcoming once again.

" I can't Alex. You know I can't. I'm married."

The French garcon had disappeared. He was out of sight, and nowhere to be found until the end of the cruise.

VII

CHINESE NEW YEAR

" If ignorant both of your enemy and yourself,

You are certain to be in peril."

~ Sun Tzu

he middle-aged man knocked on the loft's thick steal door late on Saturday morning. Four thousand dollar entrances with triple locks barricaded every spacious and funky nouveau riche residence in the West Loop from nearby Humboldt Park lurkers and thieves.

On the surface, the Chinese, the Vietnamese, the Puerto Ricans, the Mexicans, the Italians, the Greeks, the Ethiopians and the Congolese all mixed in the fabulous Thai clay pot of the city's diversity. But at night, everyone went home. Interracial couples were rare, more rare than in California. Chicago flaunted its mosaic of cultures but its ethnic groups cohabitated at best.

Polish cleaning crews always came in twos or threes: An old Polish woman, and her younger counterpart, hungry for the money, would show up at the loft every two weeks. The man was Polish too, but probably going back three generations.

His job was to deliver City of Chicago legal notices to wealthy or not so wealthy residents of the West Ward: Eviction notices, mortgages, and summons. He was an administrative tow trucker of some sort.

" Thank you," said Felicia.

He caught a glimpse of her stunning figure, but nothing more. The notice was brutal: The Diallos had thirty days to depart their loft. She couldn't believe it.

Djambo, her moneyman, managed the bills for ten years, and nothing like this ever happened. Not even remotely. The notice was brief, and sharp as the blade of the executioner, merciless. It sliced through millions of Americans in the previous seven years. From 2008 to 2015, hundreds of thousands of middle class families were displaced, uprooted, and betrayed by the system.

There were exceptions; some fought it. But overall it was a national tragedy. It wasn't just the paper losses when the market lost 50% of its value in six months. It was also the cruelty of the rebound; those not strong enough financially were simply left out to the streets. They became homeless, jobless, and slept under bridges. They froze at night under the city's overpasses.

On the surface, Wacker Drive was spectacular. Its tall skyscrapers and glass windows seemed to reach for the heavens. Once automobiles plunged under the belly of the great American city, their occupants saw the foundations of the Sears Tower crumble like the last days of a catalog.

Who would have thought the company would go bankrupt, disappear forever, and lose its name, its grandeur?

The tower's roots were rotted like rats sharing the meals of the homeless. African cab drivers from Nigeria, Ethiopia, the Congo, roamed around the Loop like Djambo in his early days.

Occasionally, they argued with long bearded men who wore little white hats and unrolled green mats from their trunks to pray in the twilight.

Now, this was happening to her, Felicia Diallo. Her man was gone, and, in the silence of their oversized loft, the countdown had begun. Djambo wasn't there to tell her everything would be all right. She was on her own, and had thirty days to vacate.

Djambo and Alexandra were having tea near Place de la Madeleine.

" How can you turn it down?" Alexandra asked.

She was visibly upset by his decision.

" It doesn't look good."

" What do you mean it doesn't look good?"

" We don't know who the intermediary is, and he is asking us to front twenty million dollars in a Monte Carlo bank account; think about it."

" Oh, I have, darling, long and hard: Twenty million bucks at risk for three weeks."

" Looks too good to be true. Do you know this guy?"

" Of course I know him. He's a Qatari, he lives in London; he's all good."

" Then there's the ethics of it all."

" What ethics?"

" Financing a foreign power Ministry of Defense with U.S. money. I can't do that. I'm a U.S. citizen."

"But you know the purpose: Defend Qatar against cyber-terrorists, with the blessing of France, a U.S. ally."

" How do you know for sure that's what they'll use the software for?"

" There is no way the Israeli owner would allow it if he had a sliver of doubt."

" I don't want to finance them. They have enough money. They can front the commission for their man."

" What about DCM?"

" What about it? We'll manage, Alex. You know that."

" I'm fifty years old, Djambo. I've given ten years of my life to your firm, and I have nothing to show for. This was going to be it, you understand?"

" I do understand. But that is not a reason to break the law."

" Break the law?"

" Break the law. Forget it. I'm not doing it."

" Very well. Then consider this as my notice: I will no longer be part of DCM as of March 31st, 2016."

" Alex..."

" I'm taking the 10 am flight to Chicago on Star Airlines, tomorrow morning. Now, please, I need to be alone Djambo."

" Alex..."

" Please Djambo: I need some time for myself."

Gretchen's room at the clinic was impeccable: Clean, well lit, sterile, it was the perfect pre-chamber of death. Half public, half private, the American health system, along with good-hearted Anglo-Saxon culture had been preserved from the atomic bomb of socialism. It was not good being sick in France, Spain, Italy, Greece, or Portugal. Government workers did not care about the lives of patients, much less about human dignity. Scandinavia and Germany were different; they took matters seriously.

In America, doctors, nurses, surgeons, and physician's assistants were for the most part, kind, compassionate, giving, and sensitive. This was unfortunately not the case in the French socialized health care system. The global cancer was growing and it was beginning to reach America also.

Gretchen Katz had been fighting hers for two years. Wolfgang stood by her all along. At first they were shocked. The doctor identified a small tumor, the size of a pea, in her left breast. At fifty-eight, she had been a stunning Scandinavian woman, blonde, shapely, mature, incredibly sexy. Like Felicia, she had no tan marks. She loved the sun.

From Capri in her early days with Wolfgang, to her native Norway, she always sunbathed nude.

Despite the cancer's rapid progression, she was in good spirits. Now the end was near. Bald, completely shaved, she had become a ghost of her former self. She lay under the green hospital sheets, surrounded by electronic monitoring screens.

The hallway smelled like death at night. She could no longer endure the medication, the nausea, and the unbearable fatigue that came with it. The tumor was enormous and radiation was becoming ineffective in eliminating its malicious progress.

The pain was tearing her insides, acutely, in every single square inch of her body. In each muscle, bone, fiber, blood vessel, nerve, she was feeling it. Only her mind was at peace, with the memory of her life.

She remembered her childhood, and her teen-age escapades in Italy. She hitchhiked the magnificent roads of Tuscany, making her way all the way down south. It was there she met Wolfgang in the summer of 1974. Stunned by her Nordic beauty, he invited her to slow dance in an Italian discotheque to a languorous slow song.

" How are we doing on the money?" She asked Wolfgang in the pale room.

" Don't worry about the money. How are you feeling?"

" Tired. Extremely tired. I don't think I'm going to make it."

" You will make it."

" To the other side, yes, I will make it there, soon..."

" How can you say that?"

" Because it is the truth, Wolfgang. Do you love me?"

" I do. And Felicia does too."

" Then you will be fine, the two of you."

" You will be fine, also." Wolfgang said.

" I will be dead."

" And afterwards?"

" Afterwards, nothing: A big nothing. It's amazing how fast life goes..."

Gretchen was an atheist, and her position on those things never changed in the forty years she was married to Wolfgang.

" Would you consider converting?" he asked.

" For you?"

" No, for you."

" Then, no. It's useless. For me at least; I don't believe in it."

" How can you not?"

" Because I have no fear. I feel good now. Relieved almost, you know. I have loved you, I do love you, and I love Felicia. We've had a good life. I have no regrets. Not a single one."

Wolfgang looked at her. She was stoic, magnificent, strong, and with him until the end. He never cheated on her, and she knew it. There had never been, in forty years, a sliver of doubt, or a shadow of suspicion between them.

Their marriage was untainted. If it were not for her resolute non-belief in God, they would have been a Catholic couple. But he respected her wish, throughout the years, and the decades. They met in the hedonistic 1970s. She wore her hair long and straight back then, and dressed like a hippie.

She had a heart of Gold, became a good wife, and a great mother. She always maintained the belief that anyone can be a great human being. In her view, anybody could be pure, untainted, faithful, without ever having to go through the rituals of religion.

Felicia was on time for her car maintenance appointment. She pulled the 740i into the covered bay at BMW. An army of blue shirt minions hustled from 6 am to 9 pm, every day. Even in the February blizzard the dealership served all of the Chicago bourgeoisie and its wannabes. Snobbish women waited for their X4, young guns for their 3 series, and established older men, for the more prestigious 7 series.

The young Mexican immigrant entered her name in his computer terminal and looked down her blouse as she waited on the biscuit color driver seat. It smelled like leather. Djambo always made sure to polish the interior. The car smelled like him. The Fragonard cologne, his office keys, and a long cashmere overcoat he left on the backseat pulled her back to him, like a powerful magnet.

" It's going to be three hours and twenty five hundred dollars," the young Mexican buck said.

" Twenty five hundred dollars?"

" Yes, mam."

It was that, or a seedy Russian garage in the South Loop for seven hundred bucks. The dealership owner lived in Cicero with the mafia, the cops, and the corrupt politicians. European restaurants functioned the same way. They called themselves Italian or French, but the cooks were illegal immigrants from Mexico. They crossed the border in tunnels, overheated minivans, but none had gone through Djambo's Kafkaesque journey with the Immigration and Naturalization Service.

Felicia had been in the waiting room for two hours when the owner in person walked out to greet her. Chicago Italians were very wealthy, but cheap as dirt. They were capable of wrapping a telephone cord and strangle anyone in a West Chicago motel, drove old 1970s clunkers, corrupted politicians, and went to church on Sundays.

" Mrs. Katz, we have a problem," he said.

" What is it? My credit card?"

" No, it's much worse than that: BMW Finance has indicated to us that your lease hasn't been paid in six months, we must repossess the vehicle," he said.

" It has to be an error."

" It's no error Mam. We've checked everything. We can give you a courtesy ride home if you'd like."

" No. That's ok. I'll be fine." Felicia said.

" Sorry Mam." the owner said.

Outside, the blizzard was blowing full force on Clark Street. One couldn't see a hundred feet ahead, but she was determined to walk anyway. Thousands on Lake Shore Drive made the same choice that afternoon. The blizzard came down brutally and buried hundreds of cars in the bitter cold northbound lanes of LSD. Commuters were immobilized and froze in the surrealistic décor. There were no buses, and no taxis.

It took Felicia over an hour to walk home. Her boots were wet, and her toes froze in the crushed snow.

Djambo called at 7 pm. It was 2 am in Paris.

" Baby, you'll never happen what happened," she said.

" Tell me."

" I was served our 30-day eviction notice this morning, and the car was repossessed at the dealership."

" You're kidding." Djambo said.

" Hello no. I wish. What the fuck is going on?"

" Oh baby, shit," he said.

" That's not good enough. You're leaving me here, holding the bag..."

" I'm not leaving you holding the bag."

" You are. For Christ sake, Djambo, why didn't you tell me?"

" I was going to tell you."

" My ass. You were hoping it would all pan out, weren't you?"

" Baby..."

" Fifteen years together, and you can't tell me what's going on?"

" You're right. I should have."

" Why didn't you?"

" I was too proud."

" Proud of what?"

" Proud of us."

" What the fuck does pride have to do with anything?"

" Money."

" Honey, you know love and trust have nothing to do with it."

Djambo became quiet. His entire world was crumbling. They lived a dream first, then an illusion, and the nightmare was starting.

" Now what?" Felicia asked.

" Now I have to stay in Paris and figure it out."

" Figure what out?"
" The deal."

" I know babe. I know that. What about me?"

" Move to Lake Geneva for some time, until I come back and fix it all for us."

" Fix it? How can you fix trust? I bet you fucked that bitch real good in Paris."

" Alex?"

" Who else?"

" Absolutely not. It was all business."

" All business? You sure baby?"

" I'm telling you."

" You know, I'm beginning to wonder about us," she said.

" About what?"

" Us."

" What do you mean? I'm busting my balls out here."

" I don't doubt that. And that's probably why we haven't been able to have a child."

" Oh Felicia, don't bring that one up now, at least not right now..."

" Fuck, Djambo. Fuck."

" I'm coming home soon, baby. Give me a couple of weeks and I'm going to make it all good."

" I don't know baby. I don't know about us anymore."

Djambo was walking barefoot, on the thick carpeting of the master suite at the Majestic Hotel. It was the dead of night in Paris. The imposing façade of the Opera Garnier, fully lit, with its stone angels and columns, was staring at him. Felicia was silent.

She was still there, on the phone, breathing. It seemed, at that instant, their fabulous twenty-year romance came to a halt, between two worlds, in the great divide between Europe and America.

Djambo felt the beating of her heart, wounded, broken, in doubt, shattered in a thousand pieces. Felicia, not by choice, but by the reality of the pending eviction, was now in personal survival mode. He knew it too. Their bank account had turned negative. Often, wives emptied it completely before the ship sunk. Sometimes, it was the husbands who did it first.

" I'm going to wire you money first thing in the morning, baby."

" What the fuck do you think? You think I'm calling about that, like a cheap whore?"

Felicia was enraged. She felt trapped, lonely, and desperate in the big loft. The blizzard was not arranging things. It gave the gigantic windows, an icy, foggy, haunting coat of despair. She hung up the phone.

Sally Jones spent her day in northwest Indiana. The private women's clinic called her for a complicated delivery. The baby was diagnosed with Down Syndrome in the late stages of the mother's pregnancy. The woman had been in labor for several hours. She was pushing, moaning, clenching to her husband's hand, sweating, dilating, and crying.

She used all of her might to expel the conical head down her uterus; it was quite a journey.

Sally Jones specialized in neo-natal intensive care. She saved hundreds of lives at the delicate moment of birth. She was an every day American hero. She excelled at resuscitation procedures, laryngoscopy, intubation, tracheal suctioning. Now was activating herself, mixing the drugs carefully, giving orders to the nurses, comforting the mother, and attempting to keep the baby alive.

The heart rate slowed dangerously, and Sally began chest compressions. The room turned hectic, fighting for life, with the baby grasping for air, in unison with it. She intubated the newborn, and cleared out its airways. The little heart began beating again, propelling a new American life in the vast darkness of the Indiana prairie that night.

Exhausted, Sally paused for a minute to catch her breath. The procedure, at the end of a two-week marathon of academic lectures, emergencies, and a string of sleepless nights, had taken its toll. She feared her judgment was becoming impaired, her reactivity lagging, and she feared the consequences of sub-optimal decisions in the delivery room.

At two in the morning, she calculated it would take her forty-five minutes to make it back to the city via the Skyway. Still in pale green scrubs, she jumped in her Porsche, and zoomed into the night. The 911 answered the call handsomely. She was driving a Le Mans race in nighttime. Her headlights illuminated the curves and the straightaways magically.

The tires gripped the pavement. Sally accelerated, impatient to get home in Wicker Park.

Out of nowhere, a firework of red, white, and blue blinding lights exploded in her rearview mirror. She immediately slowed down, and pulled over to the curb. Her heart rate jumped. She could feel it bumping violently towards the leather wrapped steering wheel inside the tiny cockpit. She grabbed her cell phone. It shined in the palm of her hand.

" Drop it! Put your hands in the air!" the Indiana State Trooper yelled.

All Sally Jones could see was the muzzle of the Glock pointed at her face under the squad car lights. With his left hand, the officer pulled the door of the 911, her arm, and dragged her out of the Porsche, violently, on the pavement.

" Shit!" Sally screamed. " What the fuck?"

" Stay on the ground! Don't move!" said the officer as he quickly handcuffed her.

She kicked and screamed.

" DON'T FUCKING MOVE! "

He finally stood her up.

" OPEN UP!"

" WHAT?"

" OPEN UP YOUR LEGS SO I CAN MAKE SURE YOU DON'T HAVE ANY WEAPONS ON YOU! "

She felt his insistence between her upper thighs through the thin layer of the green scrub. The officer searched the car, verified her identity, and led her to the back of his squad car.

" Where are you going this fast? It took me a while to catch up with you."

" Home."

" Where's home?"

" Chicago."

" Figures," the trooper said. He caught her less than a mile south of the Illinois border, just north of Gary, in the middle of the night.

" I clocked you at a hundred. You're spending the night in the county jail."

Gary, Indiana is one of the most violent cities in America. The Gary ghetto mimics that of Detroit's on a smaller scale: Urban decay, war zone, snipers, shooting, drugs, sex, prostitution, killing, police brutality, and abject poverty. Sally Jones knew it all too well; she grew up in Detroit in the 1970s. She saw her father being dragged on the ground by the police, well after the 1968 riots.

It was there, rampant, violent, yet unspoken for. She carefully avoided it all through medical school. That was the first advice her old man gave her: Leave Detroit. Go somewhere else. Study hard. Become someone. Now it was all coming back: Face in the gravel, under the gun, hands tied.

At the Sheriff's office, the jail was full of northern Indiana prostitutes rounded up throughout the night. There were also drug dealers, with stacks of hundred dollar bills in their pockets and casino chips from the seedy hotels just a few miles up.

Indian industrialists had recently purchased the steel plant up the road. It had been abandoned mid-century. Prosperity left the area along with its magnificent mansions all along the shore. Now, with foreign capital and the price of commodities rising, the mill began employing workers from the area again.

Day and night, the plant was pouring millions of green, contaminated waste in Lake Michigan. It was gushing out of the sours, the pipes, the steel tubes. The monstrous white tanks were filled with refined petroleum. There was even an active nuclear power plant close by.

Now, in the county jail, a rapper with dreadlocks asked Sally:

" What are you here for?"

" Speeding." Sara Jones answered politely.

Everybody laughed. She was hungry. She hadn't slept or eaten in twenty-four hours. Her Porsche was impounded for the night, and her cell phone confiscated.

" Sally Jones? " the giant in uniform asked, looking at his clipboard.

" That would be me."

" Who told you to stand up?" the giant said. The room became quiet.

" You called my name."

" Follow me."

The administrative area was lit with sterile incandescent bulbs. The officer pushed her against a white wall to photograph her and execute a full body search before booking her.

" What are you doing?" Sally screamed as he was groping her inner thigh.

She moved her right leg in, stuck it to the other so that he couldn't do it.

" Help! " the giant screamed.

Three officers jolted out of their seats, and ran towards the white wall. Each grabbed a limb; right arm, left arm, right leg, while the giant was holding on to Sally.

Evidence would never have surfaced if it weren't for the tiny Chinese security camera lodged in the upper left corner of Sally's narrow cell. They stripped her green scrub away. She was kicking, crying, screaming. Once she was completely naked, in full view, they left the cell. She grabbed both pants and hospital top, pulled them gently towards her, curled up, and began sobbing quietly in the corner near the door.

She stayed there, for long minutes, until the cold invaded the cell. It was the cold of death, the cold of shame, the cold of silence, injustice and suffering. She was allowed a collect call, and thought about Felicia.

In her tears, she remembered her father, and how he held strong when the same happened to him. Then, she looked up, and noticed the camera, way up in the ceiling corner, like the eye of God.

Felicia began boxing up the loft: piles and piles of taped boxes, African statues of their ethnic décor, pieces from India, dishes, and photographs of her and Djambo all disappeared in the cartons. She waited until the last days of February as to prolong her life in the place that had been so good to them. Moving was difficult, especially alone, while her husband was away on business. Sally Jones was kind enough to offer her a room to stay for as long as she would need it.

Djambo seemed oblivious to her ordeal and it infuriated her. He had his hands full in Paris, but he could have called and inquired about her wellbeing.

Felicia saw so many of her thirty-something girlfriends getting married, popping of couple of babies, and getting completely disenchanted with their husbands by the age of thirty-five.

Many stayed in their marriage until " the kids were grown". The women would re-surface on the single scene after a vicious divorce. It seemed to be the classic path of many.

Felicia didn't want any part of the "Men come and go, the children stay" myth. She didn't have any children; her husband was her family.

Yet, the pressure and the loneliness of the past few weeks were becoming unbearable. Sex on New Years Eve was memorable. She remembered how, after the shower, she led Djambo to the bedroom. He took her from behind, powerfully, holding both her wrists behind her back with his right hand, and covering her mouth with the other. They fucked for long minutes, right in front of the window, blinds lifted, both staring at the man across the alley.

Now the voyeur was there again: He still looked dark, Middle-Eastern, Hispanic, Mexican maybe. She couldn't make any more of him. He had waited all evening for her to undress.

Through the splendid magnification of his binoculars, he could almost count the bumps on her nipples. The full view of Felicia's golden pussy was temporarily blocked by the height of the bedroom wall.

Until now Djambo had always been there, powerful and protective. Now she was alone, and she felt the voyeur wanted more. She freed both her breasts and started licking them with affection.

She was exactly in the same position as when Djambo was behind her on New Years Eve, except that the neighbor had binoculars this time.

Her living room was still lit, with boxes dispersed everywhere. She slipped on her transparent FM shoes, walked up to the black metal window ledge, and turned around. Her buttocks suddenly filled the voyeur's view.

His eyes were riveted to the sweet fold of her lips. She removed the Tahiti pearls and they parted freely.

Nipples urgently erect, Felicia was staring at the disaster in her living room. She was eager for Djambo, yet she knew the stranger was watching her from behind. The more she pulled on her two supremely tender nipples, the more they sweetly hurt, until she felt a river of cum surging inside of her.

The voyeur's entire lower abdomen was also on fire. He was holding his cock with one hand and the binoculars with the other; he had to have her.

Suddenly, the picture went black as Felicia moved, and all he could see for a second was the black leather Corbusier chair. He scanned her bedroom, and caught up with her, still naked, as if she were asking him to wait. She seemed to search inside a box. He realized she had binoculars also, and his heart jolted: He did not want to be seen. The only thing he could think about, was to lower his own blinds down to his chest, and hide his face.

Felicia came back to the Corbusier chair triumphant: Djambo's hunting binoculars in one hand, and an enormous rubber toy in the other. She was sliding the tip of it on her pussy hair, all the up way to her navel, and back down. Comfortable, in the back of the armchair, she offered the stranger her face, her breasts, her thighs, and her open pussy.

She realized he had lowered his blinds and she focused on the brutal and masculine movement of his thick pylon of flesh aiming straight at her from across the street. Now furiously bouncing the huge dildo on her fragile lips, she was linking her own internal electricity to the unknown cock, violent, hungry, and about to explode.

She plunged it in full, all ten inches, and as thick as a beer can. Felicia wasn't holding back her moans; she never did, with or without Djambo.

The neighbor was a tentative, coward, and rather shy voyeur. Now he was moving his hips back and forth towards her without fear, and much to her delight. There was absolutely no sound but the beating of her heart, dildo in one hand, and binoculars in the other.

She felt in synch with him, it seemed he grew bigger, more intrusive, during each of her profound intrusions with the toy. He could see it too, and his heart was beating just as fast, until he saw the torrent of Felicia's ejaculation.

She covered the living room window with her foam like a windshield at a car wash. Suddenly ashamed, She turned off all the lights in the living room, the bedroom, and hid herself under the bed covers. She felt as if the massive shade of the devil had cast a bad spell on her. She didn't dare looking across the street any longer. She felt ashamed, sad, and lonely. She missed Djambo terribly, and didn't fall asleep until two in the morning.

The phone rang early the next morning:

" Felicia, it's me, Sally."

" How are you doing? "

" You don't want to know sweetie. Please come and get me."

" Where are you?"

" In jail, in Indiana,"

" Fuck. Tell me where it is."

On the drive home, in the Porsche, Sally Jones began sobbing again.

" Oh baby, hang tight. We'll be home soon."

" Please don't speed Felicia. I don't want to go back there."

It was the heart of winter. The temperature had fallen to thirty below. A white, desolate blanket completely covered the Indiana cornfields. The lake was frozen and it had disappeared into the eerie landscape.

The pale, depressing skyline of Chicago finally appeared, bonding both women in their respective plights. Felicia had brought a blanket and Sally was wrapped inside of it.

Her eyes emerged from the top. She was silent. Felicia took her left hand, kissed it, and then fumbled with the electronics of the dashboard heater.

The following day was even colder. Alexandra Parker, who usually walked from her lakefront condominium to the city, took a taxi. At 191 N. LaSalle she rushed out on the sidewalk and into City Hall. The interior of the building had not been updated since 1932. Inside the concave Art Deco lobby, thousands of steps resonated as if it were the entrance to purgatory. Built in 1937, it was the epicenter of power in Illinois. There were some attempts to embellish it, notably the " green roof " in 2001. The soul of Al Capone nevertheless, impregnated its hallways with a much stronger hold.

It was a myth, spread by Republicans, that Chicago politicians were corrupt. That was completely untrue. Chicago mayors, Illinois governors, and aldermen never went to prison. They were never convicted, never stole, never lied, and never cheated. They were the most honorable and ethical public servants in America.

Alexandra Parker knew it. Several times a year, since she worked at DCM, she made the trip down LaSalle to meet the Mayor or one of his trusted aids. She was always welcomed with open arms, and a firm embrace. The briefcase handed to her usually contained one million dollars and she would immediately deposit it at the bank across the street. She was an honest custodian of the Mayor's private pension fund.

He had been quite helpful in return over the years. His connections to both the private and public sector in Chicago and Washington, DC prevented many audits by the SEC, or at least forewarned Alexandra of their imminence. The man also introduced her to several CEOs and high net worth families who invested in DCM.

" Alexandra! What a pleasure to see you! "

" Always." she replied.

" Have a seat."

She laid her thick cashmere overcoat across the chair next to her and crossed her legs. She was wearing black nylons and a black suit. In the summer, she sometimes wore no panties when she visited the Mayor's office. It seemed to expedite his payments. But this was the coldest day of the year, and she looked like she was going to a funeral.

" You look concerned, dear. What's the matter?"

" DCM is in trouble,"

" Really?"

" Really."

" You know it's a hedge fund. There are no guarantees, I've told you that since the beginning."

" Right..."

" But I'm stopping by to tell you we are in trouble."

" Can I do anything?"

" Unfortunately, no. It's out of your control. I meant, " our control."

" It didn't go through, in Paris?"

" I'd like to thank you for the intro, but it didn't. Our CEO declined. He didn't fall for it."

" Mr. Diallo..."

" Precisely."

" Now what? We can keep you afloat if you'd like..."

" It's not going to be possible. Too much money."

" How much?"

" Too much. You don't want to know."

" What do you suggest, Alexandra?"

" Tell everyone you know, discreetly, to begin pulling out."

" Pulling out?"

" You still have time. But you have to hurry."

" Understood." said the Mayor.

VIII

EASTER

" And Jesus entered the temple

And cast out all those selling and buying in the temple,

And overturned the tables of the money changers,

And the seats of those who were selling doves."

~ Matthew 21:12

Sally Jones lived in a hip neighborhood northwest of downtown. New comers, yuppies, moved in at the turn of the century and progressively rehabbed the old two story brick buildings that gave the area its charm. Gentrification brought safety with it, but the ward hadn't attained yet the prestige of the near north.

Coffee chops and ethnic restaurants sprung up after the nineties. When Starbucks opened its doors in the neighborhood, real estate prices exploded in the great bull market of the early 2000s.

Sally Jones saw the transformation, but she wasn't certain she would live in Wicker Park indefinitely. She was debating between Lincoln Park, the West Loop, and Lake Shore Drive. She was renting a very nice three bedroom on the top floor of an old yellow three-flat, and absolutely loved it. It was quaint, and cozy: her little oasis in the city. She even had the privilege of a heated garage for her Porsche.

Her flat was very sunny year round. She decorated it with fresh flowers, candles, and colorful curtains. A warm glow from the top of the oak trees enveloped her entire living room even in winter. After a long night at the hospital, she loved to collapse in the gentle comfort of her angle sofa. She was very gracious with Felicia during her move. Both women began enjoying each other's quiet and respectful company.

It took Felicia less than a week to settle in. She immersed herself back into work almost immediately. She cold called her LinkedIn contacts, and set up her new sales appointments directly from Sally's plush living room. She missed Djambo terribly, and was trying to make sense of his prolonged absence.

He asked her to trust him, but the sudden emptiness of the loft, the haunting reality of the piled up boxes and the moving truck were too much to handle alone. She felt she was leaving a good life behind her. She was still married to Djambo, but loneliness and doubt increasingly crept up in her soul.

Easter at Saint Patrick's church came as a personal crucifixion. The usual attendance showed up dressed in bright and colorful elegance. They had seen the news on CNN. They knew Djambo was in trouble. Their kindness towards her was condescending.

One afternoon, she wanted to pray inside of it but she found the doors closed. God always seemed to be present when everything went well, and she was a good Christian. She prayed in good times and bad. In adversity, illness, loss of her home, she needed the superior force of God. She wanted to ask for courage and strength. But the church's doors were closed on that day.

At night, in the bedroom of Sally's apartment, Felicia kneeled to the side of her bed. She clinched her fingers and her hands together, and implored God to stop the hurt.

She received no answer, but the silence of night. Her tears surfaced, and she quietly sobbed in the dark for a good hour before falling asleep. Everything had come naturally in the first forty years of her life. Now, the impossibility to communicate with her husband was asking her to take a leap of faith.

Wolfgang came to visit her in late March. He left Gretchen alone at home for a day. At the coffee shop on Milwaukee Avenue, they talked it over. Seeing Felicia for the first time since Christmas was comforting to him. He enjoyed the new warmth and the early melt of the snow. The first sun of the year appeared during his drive from Wisconsin, and now he was sitting across his beloved daughter.

" Your mother only has a few days left to live, darling. And she knows it."

Felicia's eyes betrayed her sadness.

" Dad. Let me drive up this week."

" I'll let you know. Any news of Djambo?"

" None. He's fighting his own battles. I don't know how long I can hang in without him. I need him to come home."

" He might never come home darling. Did you ever think about that?"

" Dad, don't say that."

" Darling, I wouldn't be saying it if I didn't think it were a possibility. Your mother is dying. He left you holding the bag about the loft. Now he is considered a fugitive by the authorities. What else do you want me to tell you? These are the facts, and they are stubborn."

" Dad..."

" I've offered you the lake house to regroup, but you've turned it down..."

" I'd rather stay in the city for the time being,"

" I know you do. Just give it some thought."

" What about you Dad?"

" Given the circumstances, I am holding up, that's about it. How about yourself?"

" I'm lonely Dad, and I think about you and Mom all the time."

" She knows, darling, she knows. She's worried about Djambo too. I can't figure it out."

" What can't you figure out?"

" Her concern, at this stage"

" I think she's worried about me."

" You know; I never approved of your marriage."

" It's because he is black."

" It's not because he is black."

" What is it then?"

" Something about him. I was never able to put my finger on it. I always knew he was no good for you."

" No good for me? What are you talking about?"

" I'm talking about your life, Felicia; Your heart, your dreams, your future. That's what I'm talking about."

" I know, Dad..."

" Did you think about a divorce?"

" I have." Felicia admitted.

" And?"

" I don't know yet. It's too early."

Gretchen passed away the following week. Her funeral was an intimate, dignified, and classy affair. A number of her close relatives, uncles and aunts of Felicia's made the trip from Norway. Several members of Wolfgang's family came from Bavaria. Gretchen accepted her husband's insistence to be buried according to Catholic tradition. She wanted to rest close to their summer home. Her most magnificent memories stayed with her until her very last days.

The family agreed on a bucolic and quiet little cemetery in the heart of Apple County. Wolfgang and his European nephews carried the coffin from the black limousine to the small stone. It read: Gretchen Katz 1955 – 2015. Felicia was sobbing.

She had attended funerals before, but they were always those of friends. The shock of seeing her mother's first and last name engraved, threw her into a profound sorrow.

She realized the fragility of life for the first time. Gretchen was in her. She could still hear her mother laugh, and see her smile.

Strangely, life seemed to carry on outside of the cemetery as if the funeral was meaningless. Southbound traffic towards Illinois continued, unperturbed. Her I-phone 6 rang while she was somewhere in southern Wisconsin. It was Djambo.

It was Easter in Paris. At Notre Dame, thousands had gathered from all over Europe. After mass, he climbed the four hundred steps to the top of one of the towers. He sought to approach God, and call his wife. He was alone, and from there, he enjoyed an unobstructed view of Paris in the late evening.

" Baby, it's me," he said.

"Long time, no talk," Felicia said.

" Baby, I'm sorry, you have no idea what I've been going through here..."

"Mom has passed. I'm coming back from the funeral,"

" Felicia..."

" Felicia what? You couldn't even come, what the fuck?"

" No I couldn't. I was expelled from hotel today. My credit card was denied."

" You're shitting me. Where are you going to go?"

" I have no idea."

" Where are you now?"

" At the top of Notre Dame."

" Liar."

" I kid you not. I went to mass this afternoon and just climbed up."

" Shit."

" How did it go?"

" Great. It was an awesome funeral. Terrific. I had a great time."

" Felicia, don't get that way."

" Don't get that way? I can't stand it anymore. You understand? You've been gone for three months. Then Mom dies. I really don't know what to think anymore."

" Baby, calm down."

" Calm down? That's easy to say. Now what?"

" You could fly here..."

" You know, it may be news to you, but I have the same problem: I'm running low on cash here. And I don't know how long Sally is going to put me up."

" Well, you always have Wisco."

" Wisco? I'm not going back there. Even temporarily."

" Are we together? "

" I don't know baby. I really don't know. I'm not sure what to think anymore. With all the news coming out about you; I have tell you the truth; I just don't know anymore."

" What does it mean?"

" It means you've been gone too long. You haven't called. I don't know what to think. You could be fucking Alex for all I know."

" Alex is back in Chicago."

" And?"

" And she screwed me over. She called all of our clients and told them to pull out."

" Fuck."

" What about us?"

" Baby, I told you I don't know."

" What don't you know?"

" Where I am anymore with us."

" Is it the money?"

" What money? We don't have any left. It's you being gone Djambo. Do you understand?"

" I do darling. You know I can't come home now. I have to figure it out."

" Figure what out?"

" How to save the firm,"

" How about saving our marriage?"

" It goes hand in hand doesn't it?"

" You don't get it, do you? It has nothing to do with money. It has to do with love."

" Twenty years..." he said, looking at the rooftops below him.

" You've always told me it's not the length that counts, but what we make of it,"

" True."

" Some couples stay married thirty years, then everything goes to pieces,"

" That's also true,"

" I'm almost forty years old, Djambo. And we haven't even started a family."

" I'm asking you to wait."

" You've been asking that for twenty years."

The black limo crossed the Illinois border; it was still light outside. Mauve puffy streaks were dissipating westward in the April sky. The conversation ended. Felicia rolled down the back window. She took a breath of the cool evening air. The driver was already slowing down for the toll stop ahead of them.

The financial attack on DCM came stealth from Alexandra. Djambo was the last to expect it. Her betrayal, upon her return from Paris, came in the gift of bad press to the small circle of DCM's investors. She contacted them secretly through the entire month of March. She was furious at Djambo for not accepting the deal with the French government. The profits would have put DCM back to par, and she would have collected her $ 500,000 bonus.

Djambo felt it was ethically wrong to finance the national defense of a foreign power. He was a U.S. citizen.

He was also very uncomfortable lending to an invisible man. Last, the practice was illegal in the United States. Hedge funds invest client monies in tradable vehicles. Djambo refused to front commissions to a shady arms salesman.

But Alexandra Parker did not view it that way. To her, Djambo had passed upon a formidable investment opportunity. DCM's performance in the U.S. was again negative in the first quarter of 2016. The results were now public.

But disclosure of the Paris operation, and the omission to state that Djambo declined it for ethical reasons was fraudulent. She recommended they pull out their assets and invest elsewhere before it sank.

It was a case of insider trading. Furthermore, Alexandra told the investors she was considering opening her own " special opportunity fund", offshore, with projected returns far superior to those of DCM's. By April 2nd, DCM's bleeding had begun.

Redemptions requests came in everyday. Within two weeks, fifty million dollars, or half of DCM's assets, were redeemed by its clients. Djambo attempted to reach Alexandra on many occasions, but she never returned his calls. By April 15th, he heard of her betrayal through the grapevine of the global financial community. Competitors were already licking their chops. Investor's confidence was very fleeting, and strictly performance based.

Djambo's entire destiny was in DCM. It was his pride, his baby, and the work of a lifetime. He had the savage hunger of the African immigrant. He was resolute in his desire to make it big with DCM. He remembered juggling adroitly between school, and driving the cab at night to make a living. He scrupulously followed his immigration file all the while, and feared deportation upon the completion of the graduate program. And Felicia complemented his strength along the way. He was a rock of ambition, a man of the world, a renaissance man, educated, kind, compassionate, and above all, he loved her.

Alexandra's betrayal shocked him. He called Sully Villanueva in Miami. She was a very good friend of his, and represented a number of large investors from Venezuela.

" They are all frightened by the news," she said.

It was as simple as that: return on investment. DCM no longer produced positive returns. He would have to resolve it on his own.

In the latter weeks of April, Felicia enrolled in a yoga class. The studio was located on Lincoln Avenue, and she decided to attend twice a week. She caught the attention of a young fellow who was also new in the class. Many city men enroll in yoga classes as voyeurs, especially in the Midwest.

Women were covered from head to toe most of the year, and yoga was a notorious outlet for voyeurs. Unlike South Florida where sex oozed publicly year round, Chicago offered slim pickings from October until May to those looking for skin. One option was the bar scene, and for a few short weeks in the summer, the beach. Felicia loved the sun but she avoided Lake Michigan like the plague for that very reason.

She was a rarity in the Wicker Park yoga studio. She was new, and by far the best-looking woman. Great looking men were equally rare in the neighborhood. The handsome fellow who approached her after class was a foreigner. They had just finished, and were now on the cool sidewalk in front of the door.

" I work downtown, but I come up here for yoga. It's the best teacher." He said.

" I know! And I love the music too. This Indian music is so soothing,"

" You like Indian music?"

" Absolutely. And God knows, I need it right now."

" That's fantastic! Maybe we should grab a drink after class sometime."

" I would love that! "

" Let's exchange numbers, shall we?"

His smile was extraordinary and he looked intelligent, even mysterious. Felicia suspected he was a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer, or possibly a city financier. He had that professional look about him. She wanted to find out more. Now she was curious. The sudden interaction warmed her heart for the first time in a long time. She suddenly felt light, happy, desired, and couldn't quite explain it. It was the first time in months she felt absolutely free.

The preceding weeks had been horrendous. After finding the doors closed at St Patrick's church she turned to Buddhism, Eastern philosophy, and yoga. Those were the new solutions in her life, her contemporary salvation, and they seemed to work.

She was back at the apartment in no time and indulged in the sensuality of a well-deserved hot shower. Sally arrived shortly afterwards.

" The attorney called." She said.

" He did?"

" He suggested you press charges."

" Press charges, are you crazy?"

" Nope."

" Felicia, where am I going to find the money and the time to press charges?"

" It's not about that, Sally."

" It's about what?"

" Standing up."

" I am standing up. I've recovered; I'm fine."

" Standing up against the fucking system!" Felicia said.

" Girl, you gotta cool down..."

" I am cool..."

" Then why are you making decisions for me?"

" I'm not, Sally. I'm not. I just want justice."

" There is no such thing." Sally said.

" This is different. Adults manage that police department."

" You think?"

" I know so. And so do you. We have to bring them to justice."

" You kill me sister,"

" Have a glass of wine it will make you feel better."

" Any news of Djambo?"

" He called..."

" And?"

" And, nothing. I can't figure him out anymore,"

" You have to trust him. You should always stand by your man."

" I have my doubts, you know..."

" I do. But you also don't know what you have, that love. I envy you."

" You can find love too, Sally. I know you can; you're bright, educated, good looking..."

" Then why are men afraid of me?"

" Many are afraid of success, sometimes their own success, so when they meet a woman like you, they don't know how to act."

" I think those things are meant to be."

" Things just don't happen magically. You're a woman of science for Christ sake."

" I also believe in God,"

" I know you do,"

" I just know one day you will find him too,"

" You think? Guess what; I was just at St Patrick's church the other day, the doors were locked."

" And what does that mean?"

" It means I'm not wanted. There is no divine intervention."

Sally took another sip of Pinot Grigio, and looked at the early spring light filling the hardwood floor. She had dated before, in med school, and before that. But now, it seemed her success pinned her into a corner. Black men were either in prison or married. Doctors were old, too old for her, and the men outside of work were afraid to approach her.

" So tell me how it works, Felicia."

" You have to be pro-active: Websites, dating groups, events. You've got to get out there and socialize, Sally."

" Socialize?"

" Yes, socialize."

" I have. It's such a disappointment. We live in this world of high tech; Twitter, Facebook, and what they call social media, but we fail to communicate. They are media, but they're not social."

" How do you mean?"

" Did you ever see these women's photographs on Facebook? It's a tacky self-promotion forum at best."

" What else is there?"

" God."

" Please. God isn't going to get you laid."

" At church he will."

They both laughed. Felicia sat on the beige sofa. She glanced at Sally's hard cover fiction collection and her medical library.

" Seriously now, you're forty years old. You can't be alone forever."

" I know Felicia, I know..."

" You're missing out."

" Men don't have our problem."

" You want to know why? They go after what they seek."

" It sucks being single."

" I have news for you; Marriage isn't any easier. Look at me. I'm a destitute. My husband is half way around the world. I don't have a child; I don't have a home. I have nothing. I have you, that's all."

" Djambo will come back."

" When?"

" You have to give him time. He's figuring it out."

" I don't know Sally. I feel suspended. Suspended between two worlds right now."

Alexandra Parker woke up and instinctively walked the plush carpeting leading to her kitchen. She carefully shook the bottle of milk, filled up a third of a mug, and inserted it below the steamer of her espresso maker. Soon the buzz of hot vapor turned the milk into delightful foam.

She pushed the double dose button. Once it reached the top, she poured it into the mug, all the way to the brim, and walked naked to her living room window.

She had a three hundred and sixty degree view from her top floor penthouse. She could see both the city's skyline at night and the sunrise over the lake in the morning. It was a different spectacle every day. She rarely missed it. She stood barefoot in the deep rug up to her ankles, arched her back, and took her first sip of cappuccino.

The skyscrapers were still plunged in the dark behind her. East, a shivering orange glow began piercing the horizontal clouds above the water. The view was magnificent. In April, the city was still cold, even icy at times. Yet, snow had melted, and already, the trees of Millennium Park below her were burgeoning with early spring leaves.

The glow grew lighter, turning the sky vermillion. The red disk was now above the water and it seemed to push fire slowly up to her window. She saw her own figure, glowing in the glass for an instant, and began caressing her abundant blond fur. She hadn't trimmed it since Paris. She noticed a piece of light hair emerging from her left areola, pulled it out, and took another sip of the cappuccino.

Extremely loud banging came from the front door. It resonated urgently. She ran to her bedroom to slip into a thick white robe and opened the door. There must have been six fully armed FBI agents on the other side of it.

" Ms. Parker?"

" Yes."

" You are under arrest for securities fraud, wire fraud, embezzlement, and theft. We have a search warrant for your property. Here it is."

It came from the Circuit Court of the Twelfth Judicial District. Djambo didn't wait long, and she realized it immediately. He gathered sufficient evidence in three weeks and forwarded it to the SEC and the FBI. The new, whistleblower laws implemented after the Enron scandal of the early 2000s protected his anonymity. But she knew it was him. Besides her, he was the only officer at DCM who had full access to the firm's client list and contact information.

IX

RAMA NAVAMI

" The senses are higher than the body,

The mind higher than the senses;

Above the mind is the intellect,

And above the intellect is the Atman.

Thus, knowing that which is supreme,

Let the Atman rule the ego.

Use your mighty arms to slay

The fierce enemy that is selfish desire."

~ Bhagavad Gita

Gita Patel was an extraordinary young Indian woman. At twenty-four, she already had lived multiple lives. That is precisely why Djambo hired her the year before. Born in Bangalore in an extremely poor family, she survived multiple rape attempts by the age of sixteen. Gorgeous, she was the envy of all of the boys in her neighborhood, at her school, and in her hometown of twenty five million souls.

She could have easily become a Bollywood star. But she shunned publicity and despised the limelight. Her religious values kept her in the path of righteousness, dignity, and in the deep complexity of Hindu spirituality. In short ten years, she successfully moved away from her teenage rapists. She rose above racism in London, and made her way through the of the U.S. immigration pipeline.

At Northwestern University she excelled in the IT Master's program. Through it all, she kept the light of hope illuminated inside of her. Her humility, and peaceful demeanor outlasted the horrific adversity she encountered early in life.

Djambo loved her philosophy and attitude. He lived through all of it. He remembered the INS officers – immigrants themselves– but whom, through the magic of paperwork, were often more zealous in the witch-hunt than U.S. born citizens in the same positions. He endured it. They did everything they could to prevent him from reaching his dream. He went through the dark, bureaucratic tunnel, like millions before him, and millions after. Only Felicia, through her unconditional love, had been the saving grace of his tumultuous ascension.

Gita's purity touched him deeply. She was hungry like him, and her heart was a gem. He paid for her immigration attorney, and sponsored her H1-B application so that she could join DCM without the humiliation he faced early in his American journey.

Chief Technology Officer of a one hundred million dollar hedge fund at the age of twenty-four is quite a feat for a woman born in the slums of Bangalore. Her success aroused much envy from many of her male counterparts in the industry, but she learned to live with it. It came with the territory.

She could have become a brilliant neurosurgeon, but it is IT that tickled her fancy. Like Djambo, she wanted to understand the West, and the world. Finance, she thought, was the best way to go about it.

She wanted to work at the heart of the world's economy. She was eager to learn the stakes, and how billions of dollars changed hands in microseconds every day.

That morning, her email account was locked out of the company's network. It had never happened before. A brilliant IT architect, she had the entire company's network mapped out in her mind: The internal communications network, the gateways to the customers, the back-office organization, DCM's direct lines to multiple market places around the world, connectivity to the investors, the trading engine, interfaces, and at the very heart of it all: the firm's proprietary trading algorithm.

It was Djambo's baby. He developed it at the University of Chicago finance laboratory. It took him two years. He researched it, patented it, and commercialized it to worldwide investors.

It didn't seem to be an intrusion of malware. All inbound emails were filtered. It was early enough that none of the employees had opened theirs yet. A quick scan confirmed it. By the opening bell however, the entire trading software of DCM went haywire, and it seemed impossible to shut it down. Panicked, the Head Trader irrupted in her small office:

" Gita! What the fuck is going on? We've got trades popping up left and right, thousands of them!"

" Peter: I don't know. All I know is that we had email issues early on this morning."

" Fuck email. Either you look into this right now, or we got to shut it all down."

" We can't shut it down," Gita said; "I've already tried. The computers are trading on their own, and we are losing millions. Did you call Djambo?"

" He knows we're swamped, and asked me to run it by you."

" Let's put out a notice."

" Done already. The opposite parties are never going to let us out of those trades. Shut it down!"

" I can't shut it down, Peter! You know that! The gateways are fully automated. We can only stop trading after the close."

" Bullshit! Fucking computers!"

She was frantically typing on her keyboard, facing her six gigantic screens of code. She was unable to see the Head Trader's face. He was livid. Peter was in his late forties, smoked three packs of Camels a day, and ate steak three nights a week. He was, short, bald, overweight, and extremely stressed with trading and his ongoing divorce.

His suburban wife in Naperville knew he had a few hundred thousand dollars hidden away. She tried to take him to the cleaners for two years. He fought it all along. She had their entire home emptied by movers while he was away at work one morning. But he diligently returned, took the 6 pm direct to Naperville, drove home in the snow, and slept on the living room empty floor ever since.

He wanted to make sure to not be accused of abandoning his household. The morning's cyber-attack was pushing him over the edge.

It was monumental. Stealth, massive, vicious, it struck the nerve center of Diallo Capital Management within seconds of the opening. In real time, it felt like the Apocalypse.

Gita stayed glued to her screen, typing away, hundreds, thousands of lines of code, looking for the intruder, but unable to find him. The effect was devastating. All traders were feeling it. They were in the cockpit of a spiraling jet, descending from its cruising altitude, at rapid speed, and reaching terminal velocity.

Their quote screens turned into a sea of red. Phones were ringing furiously. The stock exchanges, the SEC, their trading partners, and the entire marketplace were calling at the same time.

By 10 a.m., half an hour after the opening, the news of the attack had already made its way to the major networks, Bloomberg, CNBC, CNN, Reuters, and all outlets around the world. Gita was still fighting it. She gave up on identifying the attacker; it was pointless. She was trying to write a patch of code on the spot to halt the hemorrhage.

It seemed the proprietary algorithm itself had been penetrated, and managed to completely defied logic. The odds of finding access to it, and altering it, were one in billions.

Only Djambo knew about it, not even the U.S. Patent Office had the specifics. She called him.

" Djambo, it's me," she said.

" Gita, I know what you're going through. I've been in contact with Peter. What's the update?

" I don't know," she admitted. " I can't figure it out. It's invisible. No trace."

" Shit." said Djambo. " Who the fuck could it be?"

" It has to be something big." Gita said. " I've never seen anything like it."

" Whoever it is, I don't care who the fuck it is, I will hunt him down for the rest of my life." He said.

" There has to be a way," Gita said.

" A way to what?"

" A way to find out who did this. Bring them to justice. Get your money back."

" Get our money back? Gita, what planet do you live on? The money is gone. We'll never reverse those trades, the money is gone forever."

" I'm trying to lock up the automation, but I can't do it without you." Gita said.

" Let it go." Djambo said, " Let it go. Even with a virtual private network, it would take me three to four hours to remove it from here. The damage is already done. We got fucked, Gita"

" What can I do?" Gita asked.

" There's only one way," Djambo said, " Either you trust me, or you don't."

" I do trust you Djambo."

" Get your ass to O'Hare by 3 pm. Pretend you're going to lunch, lock up your office door, and go. I'll pick you up in Paris in the morning. We have to do it together. That's the only way. I'll manage with Peter in the meantime."

" Gita?"

" I'm here, Djambo"

" Well?"

" You got it. You've got me. You're right. That's the only way. I'll be there in the morning."

At the Charles de Gaulle airport the next morning, Djambo was waiting for her behind the glass window of the arrivals hall. The building was a massive, early 1970s circular concrete structure full of dark corridors where women had been occasionally raped in the past. Gita barely recognized him. He was wearing a black hoodie underneath a leatherjacket, along with white jogging pants and gym shoes. He had disguised himself into an anonymous Paris suburbanite.

He had also traded his posh hotel bedroom near the Opera for a bare basement hideout in the public housing projects that sprawled north of the city. His old buddy Ahmed had answered the call. Ahmed was a good man. They roomed together for a year before Djambo left for America.

Twenty years later, Djambo knocked on his door, and Ahmed recognized him immediately.

He was a true Muslim. He behaved like the Bedouins of Saudi Arabia who opened their tent to the nomadic stranger.

He offered him food, coffee, and water. In the lonely immensity of Paris, he came through for Djambo. He was a man of peace, a man of wisdom, and he was not even forty.

There were plenty of young disillusioned young fellows like him in France. They came from immigrant families, and refused a life of crime. They were ambitious, law abiding, and cared about women and the elderly. They were respectful, street smart, genuine, open hearted, and compassionate. Millions like Ahmed survived daily in the drab Paris public housing projects.

Before leaving for America, Djambo lived with him for a year while waiting for his student visa application to be approved by the U.S. authorities. He witnessed first hand the violence of the gangs, AK 47 in hand, who terrorized the projects. Guns had to be completely eliminated or made available to all. Ahmed did something about it. He imported pistols and small arms from Eastern Europe, and sold them in the black market to his neighbors. Fifteen years into it, he had become one of the largest suppliers in the projects.

" How are you holding up?" Gita asked once in the non-descript Renault.

" I'm hanging in there." Djambo said. He was sipping on a small paper cup of coffee.

The drive from the airport was short. They quickly left the highway, and Djambo drove through the narrow streets of Saint Denis, Sarcelles, and Villiers le Bel. He knew his way around the most dangerous corners of Paris.

He lived in them when he first arrived from Africa. Robert and Francoise trusted him. At nineteen he wanted to prove to them that he could survive on his own in Europe.

He was familiar with the smell of trash, feces, and the haunting decay. His neighbors murdered goats in their bathtub to celebrate the end of Ramadan. His block smelled like a mix of ammunition powder, and burnt rubber from the tires of stolen cars.

Well over a million units were dispersed that way around the City of Lights. Hatred for the authorities was such that the police had vanished. It no longer ventured in the area.

Humanity endured its daily faith trapped in thousands of concrete bars. Djambo's instinct was to leave at all cost. The process would take as long as it would, but he was determined. The rest of his life depended on it.

" Here we are." He said.

The grey building was as anonymous as any other. Untraceable. Ahmed made sure Djambo would be safe there: The French authorities, collaborating with the FBI and the SEC would never find him. Dressed like a tall rapper from the suburbs, he melted into the general ethnicity of the population like a stealth cheetah in the terrain of Tanzania.

Gita would wear a veil, and work in the basement with him. Electricity worked on and off, but they had an Internet connection. The block of concrete was surrounded by two dozens other blocks. Grey satellite dishes grew on each window like mushrooms. Everybody watched soccer matches. Most women in the neighborhood converted to Islam. They feared being gang raped by the riff raff that roamed around the seedy hallways.

The same experiment had been undertaken in America as early as the 1940's, and the results were identical. The original residents left in droves in the 1970's and 1980s, leaving the poor to fend for themselves against crime.

" Got internet here? " Gita asked. She seemed unaffected by the decrepit basement studio.

" Yep." Ahmed said.

" What's the password? "

" Allah2016 "

" Excellent. Let's get to it." she said, and pulled out her laptop.

" Get some sleep, Gita." Djambo said.

" Sleep? I don't know what that is,"

" You will now. You deserve it. You've flown all night. You're dead tired."

" All right,"

"Day time is for rest."

" I'll be on the lookout. We'll take turns," Ahmed said.

It was cold in the concrete basement and they used old blankets at night. During the day, Ahmed shopped for groceries and water.

He found an extra mattress on the parking lot, and gave it to Gita. Djambo and her would work at night after Ahmed went to sleep.

Since Alexandra's arrest, Djambo managed DCM remotely through VPN. He corresponded with investors and the authorities, and mainly the Securities and Exchange Commission. It was planning an inspection visit to DCM's headquarters, but had not scheduled a firm date yet.

The cyber attack changed everything: It dilapidated fifty million dollars of investor's equity. DCM's investor's funds virtually vanished overnight. Djambo was facing bankruptcy.

The only way to recover was to track down the culprit. It was a gigantic task, and he knew he was crazy to undertake it. Only Gita would be able to help him with backward induction. He believed in her. She had the intelligence and education to solve the puzzle. Technology and speed of transactions were such that the stolen money could be anywhere in the world by now, yet they both had hope.

Official investigation, due process, evidence, trial, and investor's lawsuits, would take a year at the very least. It sealed the certain evaporation of the remaining twenty million still under management at DCM. Djambo wanted to find the culprit fast, recoup the funds, return them, and restore his honor. He was equally determined to save his marriage.

DCM's clients tolerated the occasional negative performance of the fund. They could live with it. But the attack had tainted DCM with allegations of commingling, and fraud. Over the past twenty-four hours, the media began to compare him with Bernard Maddoff. The thought of it sliced through his the very core of him. Gita sensed it and she did not hesitate to meet him in Paris.

Cyber-crime was the central issue of their time. Except for Felicia, nothing was more precious to him than the firm he had created. Now Gita was typing again, in a drab bunker of the desolate Paris suburbs, cold, hungry, and ferociously determined to identify the perpetrators. Djambo was furious at the injustice of the act and its consequences:

" Furious..." Gita said.

" More than furious. Borderline murder instinct." he said.

He was watching her: Passwords, VPN, files, data, servers, gateways, connectivity, tunnels, and black holes of codes. She was entering the modern day heart of darkness.

" We have to proceed by elimination," Gita said; " Customers, personnel, business partners, vendors, advertising, unsolicited emails, trading records, what else?"

" The algorithm itself?"

" If you want. If you think it has been contaminated. I don't think so, but we can always check. You wrote it, it's protected, and no one has access to it. There is no way they would access it, and able to use it. Even if they did, they would need the capital to trade, raise the funds, talk to the investors, that's virtually impossible."

" Russians?"

"I wouldn't look that way."

" Iranians? North Korea? China?"

" They'd never invest the time and effort to attack a firm this small. It has to be hackers: A small crew. I don't see a signature that would indicate otherwise."

" What do you see?"

" Nothing. I've traced it to the trading system, combed all the previous day's data, and it looks like a proprietary trading error. Our systems went haywire on their own; the perfect disguise."

That Friday night, Felicia prepared for her first outing since Djambo's departure. It was late April in Chicago, and winter was lingering. Every year, Djambo promised her that he would make it big. They would move away from the cold forever. She loved the idea. She was ready for it. She had never been to Africa. But with her man, she would go anywhere; New Zealand, Australia, Bora Bora, Africa, the South of France, anywhere warm, and anywhere with him. At thirty-eight, she had enough of blizzards, traffic, snow, and six months of slush every year. She felt like a prisoner in an ivory tower.

She thought about her parent's middle-aged friends who lived in five star condominiums in Florida: The women wanted to poison or kill their husbands every day. They were prisoners of their own lives, and she wanted no part of it. The more money they had, the more trapped they felt. Those who didn't have it were too busy looking for it. Djambo gave her ten wonderful years of love. But now he had been gone for four months.

They lost their home, their car, their trust in each other, and she felt lonely for the first time in her life. Sally Jones provided her with comforting support. She was fighting her own loneliness, but was doing very well for herself financially. She had perfect credit, lived in a great flat, had a meaningful job at the hospital, and drove a new Porsche.

But she didn't have a man in her life. She complained to Felicia about the lack of successful single black men in Chicago society. They were a rarity, especially in the private sector. Some surfed very well on the wave of city jobs: they pushed paper for a hundred fifty to two hundred thousand a year – but they were not her type.

In the private sector, available black men were few and far between. It was the plight of well to do African American women. Sally accepted it. She envied Felicia's marriage. She loved Felicia, and she loved Djambo. And they both loved her back.

Since Djambo's departure from Paris, she sheltered and fed Felicia with dignity, humility, and grace. They spoke about it, and she made Felicia very comfortable with the situation. It was to be temporary. Felicia preferred living in the heart of the city, rather than die of boredom in Lake Geneva.

She couldn't bear the thought of returning near Wolfgang. Her father said hurtful words when she began dating Djambo. It was better now; years had passed. But she feared the issues with DCM and her husband's prolonged absence would re-open the wound.

Felicia felt her husband was at war, and that in it, he had forgotten their love. Communication was no longer possible via phone or email. The financial media described him as a fugitive and the silence was confusing.

The young man from yoga texted her, and it struck a chord in her heart. She accepted his suggested outing on Friday night. Sally was working late and she would have the evening to herself.

The World Seasons was a posh, five star hotel, on Delaware Street. Chicago's top luxury hotels were sprinkled in a five-block radius around North Michigan Avenue. Snow had completely melted, and early spring was granting the avenue its regained splendor.

Nights were warmer, and the well to do of the world were strolling it again, mixing elegant American allure with the chic of wealthy tourists. Her date was waiting for her in the lobby. His legs were crossed with refinement.

He was wearing a navy blue suit, which elegantly matched the beige cushions of the armchairs. He looked like a Silicon Valley venture capitalist: Hair well cut, perfectly shaved, no tie, and just a classic blue shirt underneath his jacket. Felicia had selected a cream colored dress, with white nylons, and high heels.

" How have you been?"

" Wonderful! " he said. " So nice seeing you, darling. Nice change from Yoga, isn't it?"

" Oh yeah! Feels great to get away!"

" You got it."

" So how long have you been practicing yoga?"

" All my life. It's a way of life in Central Asia."

He said "Central Asia", not India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Afghanistan.

It was like Russians saying "European", or the Iranians saying "Persian". It was an immigrant's way of concealing one's origin.

Now, at the posh World Seasons in Chicago, they were far from Pakistan. The waitress arrived with a tray of olives and peanuts.

" Can I offer you both something to drink tonight? "

" I'll have a Malibu with orange juice." Felicia said

" Scotch on the rocks." he continued.

His finance professor at the London School of Economics screamed at him once: " I'M A MUSLIM!!!" when he caught him drinking.

" Tell me more about yoga...and Indian spirituality..." Felicia said.

" Well, it's been around for thousands of years. I wouldn't know where to begin: You have the ancient texts; that's the theory. Then you have every day practice. Yoga is one of those practices."

" I see..." Felicia said. " Multiple Gods and Goddesses in India..."

" Oh yes. There is a God or a Goddess for everything, food, the elements, water, family, love, war, and even animals. As a matter of fact, India is celebrating Rama Navami this week."

" How do you reconcile it with Christianity?"

"We don't. Buddhism, and even Hinduism accept multiple possibilities. Even the existence of Christ and Mahomet."

" Mahomet was a prophet."

" Correct. Muslims only know one God, and do not accept the trinity of Christianity. To us, that's impossible; there can only be one God."

" That makes sense." Felicia said.

" What about you?" he asked.

" I'm on the fence." she replied.

" The fence. Yeah!" And she laughed.

" What does that mean?"

" It means sometimes I believe and sometimes I don't, even though I was raised Catholic."

" Well, Muslims recognize Jesus. To us, he is a prophet."

" What's your favorite part?"

" Which favorite part?"

" About religion?"

" Yeah. The Muslim religion."

" The call to prayer. Unequivocally. Five times a day, a billion followers pray to Allah, it's a wonderful prayer."

As he recited it, Felicia imagined the vast expanse of the Arabian sands in his eyes. He spoke about the nascent moon, the silence, suddenly broken by the call of the Muezzin, from Morocco to Saudi Arabia to Pakistan, five times a day.

The recitation called for billions of soul to follow the word of God, to be good, avoid evil, respect the laws, and assist fellow humans in times of hardship. His eyes, illuminated by the soft lighting of the deep hotel lounge, made him look like a prophet himself.

Felicia loved his voice. He had passion, conviction, and drive. She also liked the way he dressed. She looked at his hands, clasped in front of him, calmly, above the mahogany coffee table.

The waitress was coming back with the drinks, and they paused.

Recent regulations prevented smoking in all public and almost all private businesses, including hotels in Chicago. It was for the better. Chicagoans loved their cigars, and Felicia suddenly craved one. She was fascinated by his deep voice.

She looked into his wide brown eyes, marveled at his stature, and was aroused by his knowledge of world spirituality. She had read the classics and studied them, but never really discussed their content with a practitioner.

" Is yoga compatible with the Muslim faith?" she pressed.

" That is an interesting question: I personally see no contradiction between my Muslim faith and the practice of yoga. Some do. There have even been religions decrees against it in the Muslim world. Yoga can be perceived as a practice of Hindu religion. So it does create so dilemmas. Personally, I don't see any; I'm a modern man."

" An enlightened man. A renaissance man." Felicia said.

" Exactly. Pakistanis, Indians, Chinese, come to America to succeed. We enroll in graduate programs in medicine, mathematics, finance, and work hard to accomplish something in this country. Most of us adapt, and easily blend in American society."

" So what made you come up to me at yoga class? I was very flattered you did."

He smiled.

" I don't know: Your general demeanor. You looked focused, dedicated, eager to learn."

" I'm definitely eager to learn. For us, Western women, it's a mystery."

" What is? Yoga? Or the spirituality behind it?"

" Both. It's exciting stuff. I can't believe it's reaching the West this late in history,"

" You're reaching it late. It's been around for over a hundred years in the West."

" You're right! You're absolutely right! I've been blind to it."

" I think now, with the stress in society, it's making a big come back. It was big in the sixties, after the stern fifties – and now it's growing again. People seem to seek something else, beyond business and the general lack of spirituality these days."

" Especially in the city."

" Especially in the city, we're lucky."

Felicia's eyes were sparkling under the dark bar's spotlights. They seemed immense at that moment. Illuminated.

They were sitting at the very last table in the lounge, in the darkest corner, and could see the entire room from there, including the waitresses' fluid movements.

Their two armchairs were close, and they faced each other. He was proper, respectful, and smelled good. His Rolex was a bit ostentatious, but she forgave him for it, she could live with it. She took a look at his shoes; they were magnificently polished, impeccable.

Not wearing a tie made him less stuffy than the other men in the room. He was tall, taller it seemed now, than she remembered from yoga. He was looking at her too. She didn't seem to wear a bra, despite her imposing bust.

Her chest bounced freely when she sat down, and again, every time she moved. He wanted to see it.

" Hold that thought." She said with a smile. " I'm going to the ladies room. I'll be right back."

The bathroom was deserted, luxurious, and wrapped with clean granite walls. There was not a speck of hair on the marble floors. When she came out of it, he was standing deep inside the lady's room corridor. There was not a soul in sight. He grabbed both her wrists with strength, and tried to kiss her.

Stunned, Felicia turned her head to the side, and started kicking her feet. They were no longer touching the marble floor. Her screams were muffled inside the wool of his jacket.

He avoided the long and empty granite counter, sublimely lit. He pulled her to the furthest stall, way in the back, where the baby-changing table is attached to the sidewall.

Felicia kept kicking but he pushed her backwards to the toilet seat. Her beige skirt slid all the way to her hips, and revealed both her superb white nylons and cotton panties. He swiftly pulled her blouse, and her bra bounced forward.

His eyes turned evil. He held both Felicia's wrists with one hand now, and was trying to unzip. She bit his hand, and kicked his groin with the sharp heel of her right shoe.

It managed to stay attached to her foot. She scraped his face with her long nails, and he immediately let go. She kicked again, sideways this time, as he fell on his knees, right in front of the toilet seat. He was trying to grab her legs inside the tiny stall. She used her nails to scratch his face again, and turned around. He protected himself with both his hands. She jumped over him, and ran for her life.

It must have been midnight when she finally reached Sally's apartment in Wicker Park. She lost her cell phone in the struggle. She had quickly grabbed her purse on her way out from the elegant bathroom while he was moaning in pain in the back stall. The pointy heel of her Bally shoe had saved her. She had been too ashamed to ask for help in the lobby, and raced out, quickly, to Delaware Street, without talking to anyone. A taxi right in front of the hotel took her home.

" What's going on sweetie? " Sally asked, when she irrupted in the apartment.

" Oh my God, you're bleeding! What happened?"

" I almost got raped at the World Seasons."

" Shit." said Sally as she reached out for her first aid kid. " Sit down, honey bun, let me take care of this for you. "

" Fuck." Felicia said, " That pig. Let me take a shower first."

In the silent living room, Sally turned the dimmer on low, and curled in the corner of her sofa. Ten years before, in 2005, during the Battle of Fallujah, she had lived through it all. It was a brutal urban battle, between guerilla snipers and the U.S. Army. She had volunteered for Iraq before the surge.

She wanted to give back to her country the opportunity it had given her and she saw war first hand. They set up a dispensary on the outskirts of Fallujah, and she tended to the very first wounded U.S female combatants. There were few, but they had participated fully. A twenty-year-old blonde from Florida had been separated from her unit while they were clearing houses.

She was kidnapped, and raped multiple times by the insurgents. Her uniform was completely stripped off. She had roamed around Fallujah, disoriented, at night, completely naked, before being picked up by a Marine patrol. Another soldier was cut in half by rocket-propelled grenade. Several were blinded, maimed by IED's, improvised explosive devices, the largest killer of the Iraq War.

There was blood everywhere under the tent, and no time to organize. Bodies kept coming. At night, the wounded moaned like babies. She treated dozens of bullet wounds. It was like working at Cook County Hospital, ferocious urban warfare.

The ravages of the explosions were even more dramatic than road accidents. She comforted everyone as best as she could, and injected morphine almost simultaneously to entire platoons at times. Some men were already dead upon arrival.

The helicopters and armored trucks dropped the fragmented remains at the entrance of the medical perimeter every hour. One hundred died, and six hundred were wounded in the battle; she remembered it all.

Now Felicia was walking out of the shower, and she sat next to her, wrapped in a thick bathrobe. She was still drying her hair.

" That fucker..." said Felicia.

" What can I do to make it better?" Sally asked.

" I don't know...I feel so...violated."

" I don't know that there is a way. I mean, feeling that weight "

" The answers are within, Sally. Not with some outside, magical power."

" Within?"

" Yes, within. Our strength comes from within. Believe me, I've prayed. I've cried, I've kneeled down to the side of my bed, at night, in that loft. Our bed. I've begged God to bring Djambo home safe and sound."

" That's a good thing," Sally said.

" It hasn't brought him home! That's what you don't get! Shit! "

" You know..." Sally continued: " After Fallujah, we flew in helicopters to a small Christian village, fifty miles or so, north of it. I remember, right in the center of town; they had decapitated a dozen men, young, and old. I remember seeing their heads, lined up carefully on the ground. It was almost clinical, just like in medical school. I started vomiting. Unlike a car accident trauma in Detroit, it was deliberate. Free will.

But even that, didn't shake my faith. I realized...it was just me vomiting, my organic being, not my spirit. You know what's strange? The flight back to the base lasted for over an hour, but to me it felt like five minutes. We were flying low over the sand dunes and the endless desert. I couldn't hear anything or feel anything. I felt so light, sweetie, so light. It felt like the sky was sucking me in, embracing me. I'm not diminishing what happened to you tonight. I just wish...I wish you could feel that guiding light in you."

" I do have a guiding light in me; it's Djambo." said Felicia.

" Then wait for him." Sally said.

" What about you?"

" What about me?"

" You don't have a man, you don't have sex. You think God can bring that to you, magically?"

" I do have a man..."

" You do?"

" Jean-Paul. Djambo's Swiss friend from Christmas."

" Really?"

" We've been talking, on Skype, at night."

" That's awesome sweetie. I'm so happy for you."

Early daylight penetrated Djambo and Gita's hideout. There was no one outside. Drug dealers protected by vigilante snipers conducted business on the rooftops, overlooking their turf. They killed instantly if a visitor's tattoo or a baseball cap was worn on the wrong side. Djambo crawled out, his face protected by his hoodie. He hid behind a garbage can, away from the line of fire that picked off strangers and the police alike. Ahmed had provided him with a cell phone and the number could not be traced.

The French DGSE secretly collected cell phone data from one company, but not all providers operating in the country. There would be no texts, no names. His would look like just another phone call to Sally Jones.

" Sweetie, it's me..."

Felicia recognized her man's voice.

" Oh baby..."

" Are you ok?" Djambo asked.

" Yeah, I'm ok,"

" You have no reason to believe me. But I'm telling you the truth. Gita, my Head of IT is here in Paris to help me figure it out. I want find the fucker and bring him to justice."

" I believe you, baby. I do believe you."

" I know I've been gone a while. But it's been one thing after another."

" I know, baby. I know..."

" You ok? "

" I'm ok. Hurry home..."

" You get some sleep now, baby. I know it's late. Get some sleep. I'll be home soon."

The next morning, the news broke out on Bloomberg, then CNBC, and CNN:

" A cyber-attack defrauded more than fifty million dollars of DCM's investor's funds last week. Mr. Diallo was last seen in Paris with Head Counsel Alexandra Parker in February. Ms. Parker, was found guilty of wire fraud, commingling, insider trading, and theft, and arrested last month in Chicago. She is currently serving a three-year prison term in a minimum security prison in Michigan."

Wolfgang Katz saw the news. His son in law was now more than a fugitive. Overnight, Djambo became the most wanted man in the financial world. He was the new Bernard Maddoff. Djambo hadn't heard it yet. When he returned inside the basement, Gita was already working. She was coding, decoding, and checking domains, client's accounts, and lines to brokers. She read the SEC's initial filing and its internal investigation. The key was to find the origin of the cyber-attack; station zero. It was neither a virus, nor a denial of service attack. Someone had penetrated DCM's architecture, accessed the accounts, and transferred the assets overseas.

X

PENTECOST

" Satan has overcome them,

And made them forget the remembrance of Allah.

Those are the party of Satan.

Unquestionably, the party of Satan –

They will be the losers."

~ Quran 58.19

" Contact every bank DCM has done business with in the past twelve month," Gita said.

" You got it."

" If any of them received funds from us in the past 48 hours, I want to know about it."

Cyber-attack attribution was the spearhead of cyber-war. Attribution was the key to understanding the puzzle.

" I don't think it is state sponsored. And I don't think it's out of the U.S. either."

" How do you know?"

" It doesn't carry the usual signature, the technique, the footprints, the Trojan horse, or the exploits."

" Where else then?"

" Doesn't look Russian, Chinese, or Korean. I was able to trace station zero all the way to a cyber café in London. But London is a big place." Gita said.

"If you ever find out who these fuckers are, I'll owe you big, for the rest of my life."

" It's not about that, Djambo, it's about finding out. We need to find out."

" I know...I'm just saying."

" You're a good man. You have to clear your name. That's what this is about. Forget about recovery, the money could be anywhere now."

Djambo called his world: all of DCM's correspondent banks. Most of them were in Western Europe, some in Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, and Qatar. Nothing surfaced. There were incoming funds, but no trace of any interaction with DCM in the past 48 hours. Most transfers had occurred before the turn of the year.

" I've got to get some fresh air." Djambo said.

" You do that." Gita replied, " I've got more to do."

They had transformed the basement into a war room; it was their nerve center. They assembled maps, photographs, all around Gita's desk. The client lists, bank statements, and even DCM's trading algorithm buried her in a mountain of paper.

They slept during the day, worked at night, and eluded surveillance. They did not make any calls, and their Internet connection was anonymous. Djambo discarded the last phone Ahmed provided to him to call Felicia, in a garbage can near the RER station.

Night was falling, and he waited until it was almost completely dark. He wanted to surprise Gita with authentic Indian food. It could only be found in Belleville, a short hop away with the subway.

Under his grey hoody, Djambo melted in the anonymous commuter crowd. It was an inverted flux between city workers returning home and the young eclectic fauna rushing into the Paris nightlife. With a hundred euros in his pocket, he walked into the dark metro corridor.

Belleville at twilight gave him shivers. For a moment he felt he was in Bombay, Beijing, or the Middle East. Predominantly Jewish and Arabic before the twenty-first century, Belleville remained intact until the 1960s. It was one of the most picturesque areas of Old Paris. Later on, international immigration turned the original neighborhood into a new urban ethnic mosaic.

Before moving to Chicago, Djambo lived there for a few months, and he had good memories of it. The restaurant was still standing, at the corner of the Boulevard de la Republique. He ordered two fish curries with jasmine rice and waited on the sidewalk to smell the fresh air. It was his first outing in four weeks.

Living in the HLM basement had become oppressive. He thought of Felicia. He was determined to save himself, DCM, his fortune, and their marriage. He could only reach her with letters now, and he had sent her a long one, the week before.

The scent of curry and spices emanated strongly to the sidewalk. For a moment, it carried him and Felicia to India, the Maldives Islands, Goa, Madras, or Calcutta. He felt, with Gita, a thousand Indian Goddesses were praying for them that night.

It was a beautiful May evening. Felicia was ambivalent, ambiguous, in their last conversation, and the sudden fear of losing her came to him as he left Belleville. But he let it go.

He reached the last RER station and it was deserted. Five young men appeared from behind the orange tile walls and quickly surrounded him. They carried baseball bats, knives, and police batons. One of them kicked the white plastic bag out of Djambo's hand, and the rice smashed on the floor of the station.

" You're going to die motherfucker," the youngster said.

Djambo turned sideways, pulled the stocky teen-ager towards him, and threw him to the ground. Two others lounged forward with long sharp knives. He grabbed the arm of the first one, twisted it, and a loud scream came from the young man.

It was like a bright white light of pain when Djambo felt the bat hitting the back of his head. If the attacker hadn't slightly missed, he would be dead. It brushed it, causing a small bruise. Once on he was the ground, the group stomped on him. The second attacker plunged both hands in his hoodie's pockets and extracted the coveted euros. The others kicked and kept yelling insults. Djambo coiled himself like a snake while the pain was going down his spine.

He gathered his remaining strength, stood up on his knees, and saw the knife coming again. He stopped it, twisted the wrist, and collapsed on the attacker, holding him in a headlock.

" Leave me alone!" Djambo yelled, " Otherwise he's dead."

The gang saw his ferocious eyes shining under the hoodie. It was pure adrenalin. His massive forearms were locked around the assailant's neck, and he increased the pressure until the gangster started gagging, eyes still open. He put all of his remaining strength into it.

The four young men dressed in Addidas warm-ups ran away towards the entrance of the tunnel. There were no witnesses. Djambo grabbed the man's cell phone and turned it on:

" Ahmed! It's D."

" Where are you?"

" RER. Come, quickly."

Ahmed irrupted into the dark corridor minutes later. Djambo was bleeding from the knife wound, and the gangster was inanimate.

" Can you walk?" Ahmed asked.

" I think I can."

" Hold on to me ok?"

Outside the station, the pale whiteness of the projects loomed in the early night, hundreds of yards away.

" Fuckers." Ahmed said. " What did they look like?"

" How the fuck would I know? Like you? That's what they looked like."

" We can't go to a hospital. Too dangerous."

Ahmed had plenty of experience treating the wounded in the ghetto. He had a lifetime of it. Djambo's pain was excruciating. He was hurting in the back of his head, and his abdomen. The knife had sliced deep across it.

The knife had sliced deep across it. His grey hoodie was full of blood, and Gita was cleaning his open wounds with alcohol. If there was an internal hemorrhage he could die any minute.

" This is silly." Gita said. " We have to have you checked."

" We can't take the risk." Ahmed said.

" We have to take the risk. He could die, then what?"

Djambo no longer knew where he was. He lost consciousness.

" Call the SAMU." Gita ordered Ahmed.

" I'm not calling the SAMU."

" Fuck you then. I'm calling them. Give me your phone."

" What the fuck are you thinking? You think you can come from America and give me fucking orders? He will live, I'm telling you."

Gita grabbed the phone from Ahmed, and called the paramedics.

In the ambulance, Djambo was drifting in and out of consciousness. The French first response team knew the neighborhood well, but had absolutely no idea of their identities.  
" I've got it figured out," she said.

" You do?"

" I swear. Hang in there. We'll see it through..."

" Tell me now..." Djambo asked.

" You are not well, you need to get treated."

When they returned to the basement, it was almost 11 pm.

" You need some rest." Gita told Djambo.

" I need to know..."

" Lie down, and I'll tell you..."

" Who is it? "

" It's an inside job. I was able to cross all of our internal protocol addresses, and track it down to station zero. It took me a while. It's a single individual, he used his laptop, and several servers as buffers..."

" And?"

" That's not the end of it"

" As far as I know they don't really divulge the names and addresses of millions of users to the general public..." Djambo said.

" They don't. But I was able to match the address against all connections that have accessed DCM in the past year. A long shot, but I tried it."

" Alexandra?"

" No. She would never do that"

" Who then?"

" The internet protocol address matches that of a London email you received last year. I looked it up in our hard drive. It's Zawar's resume and intro letter."

" Zawar..." Djambo said.

" That's not all: It looks like he was involved financing terrorist groups during his student years in London. His family is loaded, and apparently, nothing ever came out of the British investigation."

"Fucking Zawar."

" He knows everything: Our algorithm, how it trades, who our clients are, our correspondent banks."

" Where did he funnel the money?"

" That I don't know yet. I don't have access to his pc. Actually, I bet he did it from his phone."

" How would you know that? "

" Just a hunch. He's a tech guy."

"You're a genius"

" Well, we haven't proven anything yet. We just know. But we can't prove it."

Djambo suddenly fell asleep. Gita collapsed next to him on the dirty mattress. Ahmed had followed the entire conversation. He lit up a cigarette, and looked outside the basement's thin opening at ground level.

He could see the projects, the lone alley leading up to them, and beyond it, the bright lights of the ongoing soccer game at the Stade de France.

He remembered him and Djambo, still teen-agers, twenty years before. Djambo chose America. He told him he would do it the right way: Wait for his student visa, emigrate, and build a new life for himself. Djambo suggested to Ahmed to join him. But he refused. He was happy in Paris. The arms gig with Eastern Europe was going great, and he was making more money at nineteen than he could ever imagine.

Zawar jumped when he saw Felicia's number light up his phone. He had gone clandestine since the attempted rape at the World Seasons. He even thought about changing his number. A skillful first dater, he met her in a public place and made sure he did not disclose his personal address to her. No one knew where he lived. After Felicia's reaction in the hotel's bathroom, he disappeared in the brewing vastness of Chicago, and now she was calling him.

" Zawar?"

" This is he."

" It's Felicia. I'd like to apologize to you for what happened the other day; I'm sorry I freaked out."

" Oh no. That's ok. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking..."

" I'm really sorry." She continued. " I've been going through a lot lately."

" I understand." he said.

" I'd like to make it up to you so that we can put all of it behind us."

" Really??"

" Really." she confirmed.

" What would you like to do? "

" I'd like us to spend more time together, get to know each other better." she said.

" I would like that too. What do you have in mind?"

" I'm thinking about a week-end get away, just the two of us, so that we can talk."

Felicia was lonely in Djambo's absence. It had been five months. She was beginning to have doubts about her husband's character. He hadn't been convicted. But he was on the run: an international fugitive.

" I'm thinking about Clear Bay," she said.

" Clear Bay?"

" Yes. It's a couple of hours away from here, in the heart of Wisconsin. Have you ever heard of it?"

" Hum... no. I'm relatively new in town."

" I've rented a cottage there for the week-end, just to get away. Would you like to join me?"

" Sure thing. Why not?" Zawar replied.

" It's a beautiful place. It's on a lake. You're going to love it."

" I'm in," he said.

" Awesome!" she said. " Let's meet there late Friday night."

" I'm excited." Zawar said. He couldn't believe the change in her attitude. Women, he thought, were so unpredictable. Google calculated a three-hour drive. He would go the distance to spend the weekend with a woman like Felicia.

It was mid-June, and the days were getting sublimely long. The sun was still high, and beating on his black Audi A8. He exited the Chicago Loop at exactly 5:05 PM on Friday afternoon. He was excited to meet Felicia again. He botched their first date, and intended to behave this time. Men could be pigs, and were rarely given a second chance. But Felicia had come back strong, almost sexual.

Now he was surrounded by thousands of cars exiting the city on the northbound freeway. All of Chicago was attempting to escape the blazing office towers behind him. He thought of her lovely face, pure, untainted, and innocent. Felicia did not have a wrinkle. Their conversation at the World Seasons had been fascinating. It could have gone well into the night.

She was ahead of him. She left at noon, and was past the mid-point, racing through the forests of northern Wisconsin in Sally's Porsche.

Her girlfriend was going to lay low, walk around Wicker Park, and enjoy her golden week-end: Friday, Saturday, Sunday, without setting foot in a hospital. It was perfect for Sally. She would have the apartment to herself.

Felicia was driving fast, music blasting, and she indulged in a cool Budweiser. She absorbed the immense and refreshing forests unrolling before her. She was eager to reach the lake, the beach, the sand, and the modern log house. Her heart was beating again. She felt alive, for the first time since her mother's passing. She felt free, shameless, and hungry to relive her youth. Her only calls now, would be for Zawar.

He entered the coordinates of the cottage. He was going to make it up to Felicia, and not act as a bad boy. He would take it slow. He would be romantic, gentle, kind. Traffic had eased up a bit, and with no police in sight, he accelerated, and soon crossed the Wisconsin border.

Night fell, and he stopped to refuel. He was barely halfway. He had never driven this much for a second date. But he felt the prize was well worth the hundreds of miles.

Felicia arrived at the log cabin at around 7 pm. She walked through the small space, absorbed the evening sky landing on the water below, right behind the private crescent of sand. The cabin was fully stocked by the owners: Beer, candy, and plenty of food for three days and three nights.

She took a long shower, and inhaled the citrus foam glistening around her curves, her pussy, her breasts, and her hips. She was already hot. Her clitoris was pointing forward. She had never been ashamed of it. Djambo's enormous endowment always made her feel safe.

She loved the ambitious peak of her clit and the unusual length of her nipples. She found all of her intimate extensions quite feminine. The ding of her cell phone interrupted her self-exploration and she rushed for a thick white robe, it was Zawar:

" Hi Felicia. I'm almost there..."

" How is your drive?"

" Terrific."

" How long?"

" I don't know. A couple of hours?"

" I'll be here, baby."

" Okay!"

She had called him baby. The drive was longer than expected. Five hours now, and night had completely fallen. The trees turned dark, tragic, until it became pitch black.

Zawar was a good Muslim. He carefully observed Ramadan: No food and no sex from dawn until dusk. He had self-discipline, and respect for the prophet. He would leave their interaction open, and not force things. Felicia was a grand prize, every immigrant's dream: An amazing blond, gorgeous, sensitive, well raised, intelligent, witty, funny, good hearted, educated, and incredibly sexual. What else would a man want?

He had driven the distance before, especially when he first arrived in America. But this was a record. In the folly of youth, he drove as far as he physically could.

On the Internet single scene, older men generally suggested coffee next door and wouldn't drive 25 miles to meet a woman for a first date. Zawar had just passed the 300-mile mark.

The Audi's interior was beginning to smell like him. He couldn't shake it off. It was unfortunately natural with him. He often had to rush home right after work to shower. There was nothing he could do about it. Deodorant was always insufficient, no matter how much of it he used.

Felicia lit up the barbecue grill on the patio overlooking the pond. She began cooking Shish kebobs. She knew Zawar liked them. He was from the Middle East. They had plenty of food and drinks for the next three nights. She brought Vodka, Scotch, Champagne, and Martini. They would need it, even though she had committed to take it slow.

She disrobed, played with herself a little, and fell asleep immediately. Zawar's eyes were closing intermittently. He turned up the music inside the Audi. It was loud like a Moroccan party. The last hundred miles were the hardest.

When he made it to Clear Bay, he exited his car, triumphant. But his body odor had grown pungent. Felicia was exquisitely nude, under the plush white cotton of her Turkish bathrobe.

" Hi! " She seemed elated to see him. " Give me a hug!!"

" Long drive!" Zawar said. " I have to take a shower real quick."

" Make yourself at home; I have dinner ready."

" Wow." He said, marveling at the place. The modern cabin was clean, immaculate, and oozed with eroticism. Felicia completed the picture perfectly. She was eager for him; he could tell from looking into her eyes.

In the shower, Zawar suddenly grew hungry, and he was elated to see the grill throwing thousands of sparks into the night. The shish-k-bobs were roasting. It carried him back home. The smell of jasmine rice was enticing.

Felicia brought two long candles, and she set up the table above the lake. Now she could finally see his handsome, tired face, right across from hers. He hadn't shaved all day, and omitted to do it in the shower. He looked rugged, like a handsome young roadster.

" Wow. I'm so glad we're doing this." Felicia said.

" Me too."

" You know, as I said the phone, I feel very sorry about what happened at the hotel, I don't know what went through me, I just freaked out." She said.

" No need to apologize." Zawar said: " It was my fault, I don't know why I did that."

" Well, let's put it behind us." And she lifted her champagne glass.

The moon appeared, full, heavy with the erotic hours to come. When Felicia walked down the teak steps from the wooden cabin, the front of her robe opened slightly. But it was too dark. It is only when she sat into the candlelight, across from him that he noticed her superb cleavage.

It was the first time since the hotel incident. She caught his stare, and closed the upper fold of her robe with a devilish smile.

" Oh no! We're not going there again..." she said.

He smiled too, and looked into her magnificent green eyes. They were like two gorgeous emerald pearls fully centered on her pretty face, outlining it.

" No worries..." he confirmed. " It's getting late, let's get some sleep, where should I stay?"

" The sofa unfolds." She said. " Let's sleep that way tonight. I'll take the upstairs room. I can trust you, can't I?"

" Yes, you can." Zawar said.

She locked herself up into her bedroom, but Zawar was already sound asleep, exhausted from the drive.

He woke up, dazzled by gentle scent of bacon and eggs, omelet, croissants, fruit, yogurt, and good coffee. Felicia had been up for quite a while and prepared a beautiful breakfast on the teak deck. Birds were singing in the woods, celebrating the first days of summer.

" Did you sleep well?" she asked. She was wearing nothing but a white transparent blouse running down to the top of her firm thighs. He could see everything underneath.

" Wonderful." Zawar said." Glad to finally be here."

" That's awesome. Have some food darling, sit down..."

" What's up for the day?"

" Anything you want! " she said, enthused. " Absolutely anything."

" Let's talk...and get to know each other."

" I'd love that. Let's take a ride in the canoe..."

He finished breakfast, showered, and headed down the wooden steps surrounded by the green Wisconsin forest. Felicia changed into a white bikini. It enhanced her figure and her shapely tan. Her face was showing a grin again, as if she were up to no good.

They were rowing slowly, cutting the water towards the middle of the lake.

" You look so handsome!" said Felicia.

" And you're stunning!" he replied.

" Let me take a picture of you."

Zawar pulled out his cell phone and handed it to Felicia. She framed him for posterity. Stunning, muscular, it looked as if both biceps bulging over the wooden handle were growing close to her.

" Let me snap one of you!" he said.

She pulled down both triangles of her bikini, and her massive breasts and areolas jumped out at once. Zawar's heart skipped a beat. His right fingers were shaking. He zoomed in with the I-phone to get a close up, and snapped the shot, satisfied.

" You like?" Felicia asked.

" Very much."

" Isn't sex reserved for married couples?" she asked.

" In Islam?"

" In every religion."

" Technically, yes."

" Want a beer?"

She threw the Budweiser across.

" How about alcohol?

" That too." Zawar said.

She tucked her breasts back inside her tiny bikini.

" You know, I wondered, after we met in yoga class."

" What?"

" What it would be like to be married to you."

" Aren't you married already?"

" My husband's been gone for a while."

" But you're not divorced."

" I'm considering it."

" I've never been married."

" I think it's the most beautiful thing in the world. The most precious also."

" God is the most beautiful thing." Zawar said.

" Children." Felicia replied.

" Are you on the pill?"

" Nope." she said.

" Why did you invite me here? I felt so bad after what happened at the hotel."

" I figured...everyone deserves a second chance. We all fuck up at one time or another."

" Are you Catholic?"

" I'm agnostic."

" What's that?"

" It's different from being an atheist. I'm simply not sure about the existence of God. I don't deny it. It's like everything else in life: My mother was a nudist, and I'm kind of an exhibitionist. There's a difference, I think.

I inherited it from her, in a kinky way."

They reached the middle of the lake. There was not a soul around. The early summer sun was burning the top of the burgeoning trees. It outlined the top of the bungalow behind the wooden pier. This time, Felicia untied her bikini bottom, and rolled it down to her ankles. She abandoned it in a small ball at her feet, turned around, and dived into the blue lake. Zawar followed her blonde hair, swimming away, for a moment, and then laid back in the sun, suddenly sleepy.

It was June 21st 2016 when he woke up. The wild roar of the Harley Davidson had shaken him. He immediately realized he was completely naked, handcuffed to the tall backseat of a Harley. He felt its ever-growing vibrations entering his anus. There was nothing he could do. He was tied, wrists and ankles, to the superb metallic bike. It was painted with sublime feminine figures. The men quickly elevated him and the bike on top of a chariot improvised with a tow-truck. Now he was towering over a clamoring crowd of gay men at the very north end of Halsted Street.

The Gay Pride Parade in Chicago is a magnificent rite of summer. Millions of men, gay, straight, and dykes were roaring in full leather gear on their Harleys all around him. Zawar was completely surrounded by stiff cocks. They pointed at his muscular body.

It was the first time a Pakistani man had been selected as the mascot for the gay parade, but it was well worth it, and quite a sight. Felicia had pulled off quite a trick. She wanted him to enjoy the whole cultural experience of Chicago in the summer.

Millions of gay men wanted to fuck Zawar. It was a glorious morning for him. He had never seen anything like it: Trumpets, car horns, flutes, balloons, drums, and the loud disco songs of the Village People. He saw thousands of colorful flags floating around his platform. There was a cheerful roar when he first appeared in the buff on Halsted.

It was only the beginning. He would gloriously descend the whole long street tied to the top of the tow truck. The street stretched like a penis vein, crawling all the way downtown for the grand finale.

What a sight. Zawar was a first row spectator. He dominated the crowd from his majestic position. The Democratic Mayor had allowed full frontal nudity for the first time. He was the glorious effigy of it. His cock came close to fucking Felicia, but there had been no cigar. Now the tables were turned.

The crowd gave him a warm welcome. He could see everyone: Even those fully erect jacking off behind the old windows of the three story Victorian flats. The tricolor flag proudly escorted him to the heart of the city. His penis shrunk with fear. The men loved his magnificent thighs and buttocks. They dreamt of taking him down from that motorcycle and fully penetrate him.

Zawar was mortified by the sound of the crowd; he would have crawled, vanished, disappeared, if it were not for the Chicago Police Department handcuffs tying him up solid to the Harley. He had been a discreet and vicious serpent, venomous, all of his life, and now he was at the very center of the action, desired like no one else in the world by thousands of men in heat.

It hadn't been too difficult for Felicia to drag him to the 911, and strap him to the passenger seat after he drank the Valium Budweiser. He slept for twelve hours straight.

She called a good gay friend of hers and told her she wanted to play a good trick on Zawar. Most importantly, she kept his phone, and made a dash for the DHL office on Clark.

It worked like a charm. By Sunday morning, Gita would receive Zawar's phone in Paris, and her forensic work could begin.

Location services turned off for good, Djambo and Gita were about to prove that Zawar was the mastermind of the cyber-attack on DCM.

XI

RAMADAN

" Indeed, those who committed crimes

Used to laugh at those who believed."

~ Quran 83.29

Djambo's text came in the middle of the night from an unknown international number. It was 3 am in Chicago and the ding pulled Felicia out of her deep sleep.

" Baby it's me."

" Where are you?"

" About to board."

" Where to?"

" Ivory Coast"

" Why baby?"

" Can't be in Paris anymore."

" You ok?"

" I'm ok. Meet me in Abidjan: Eden Hotel. Hurry."

" When?"

" ASAP baby. Leave Sally's ASAP ok?"

" K. Tomorrow"

Felicia packed quickly, in the middle of the night, and was at O'Hare for the first morning flight to New York. Now she was cruising over the Atlantic, and fell asleep until the jet began its descent over Africa.

It was morning again, and all over the continent, the gazelles, the giraffes, the elephants and the lions were awakening, eager to live a new day. A pink mist was unfolding under the belly of the jet. Almost touching the water at first, the 767's immense wings reached the edge of the city.

It was the last regular international flight into Abidjan. The regular army was closing the airport and surrounding it with barbwire. The remaining expats escaping from the civil war lined up anxiously in the torrid departure hall. They would board Felicia's plane and take off for France that same afternoon.

Abidjan is a giant African metropolis; millions of souls in shanti towns, under steel roofs, cardboard huts, along with goats, bicycles on busted roads, all cohabit in the stifling heat. Under the burnt out streetlights, hundreds of thousands of motorcycles cruised along the antiquated taxis. The civil war brought anarchy, sex, and murder. Children soldiers smoked marijuana on every street corner. They had started a revolution, and were closing in on the presidential palace. They hung on impatiently to the cheap wood of their prized AKs, ready to take over the city. The morning heat was rising between the cargo containers at the harbor, last stronghold of the presidential guard.

In the over-crowded airport, Felicia was the only fair skin woman, and she was unaccompanied. The soldier stamped her passport, taking her for a sexual tourist, and didn't ask a single question.

A tall skinny man was holding a sign above the waiting crowd.

It read " Felicia Katz."

" Felicia?"

" Yes."

" Mr. Djambo is waiting for you. Come with me."

Outside the airport, hundreds of colorful taxis were parked in the chaos. Felicia stood out like a creature from another planet. Men and women alike stared at her curves, her blonde hair, and her generous and shapely bosom. They were not shy about it. Jumping into the cab was a relief.

They rode through the war torn city, making their way to the hotel. Two dusty Toyota four wheelers corned Felicia's taxi. Four men, in full Boko Haram gear, surrounded the Peugeot, opened the door, and pulled her out violently.

They were armed with AK 47s. They seemed to have come out of nowhere in the quiet neighborhood. They cornered the Peugeot in the palm fringed residential sanctuary of expatriates. Felicia's heart started pounding.

They made the driver kneel down in front of the cab, and it looked, for a moment, like they were going to execute him on the spot. But they did nothing.

They argued back and forth in Pidgin English, occasionally scrutinizing the four empty arteries reaching the taxi and their pick up trucks.

Quickly, she was in the back of an old Toyota, blindfolded, hand tied behind her back. She was terrorized. She remembered the stories Djambo had told her. She realized it was useless to scream. The tinted windows were raised up, and the sounds of the streets had disappeared. She smelled the scent of the four men sitting around her. They talked very little.

She could feel the bumps and the potholes. The FJ cruiser was racing much faster than the cab. She guessed they were exiting the city. She thought of Djambo, and how impatient she had been to see him. This couldn't have been his plan. Something else was happening.

Gita handed her cell phone to Djambo.

" Boss, it's me, Zawar. I have your wife."

Djambo knew immediately, at the tone of his voice, that the man wasn't kidding.

" Where is she?" Djambo asked.

" She should be somewhere in Northern Nigeria by now."

" What do you want?"

" What do you mean? Everything bro, just like you, I want everything."

" Well, you can't have everything, son." Djambo said.

" Son? I'm not your son."

" Talk to me..."

" Twenty million, or whatever is left in your firm, I want it all."

" Let me know where you want it."

" You'll get the instructions, no worries."

" Then what?"

" Then you'll see your bitch."

" Where, when, and how?"

" Boss, you're asking too many questions right now."

" You don't think twenty million is enough?"

" I didn't say that boss. I said you're asking too many questions."

" Let me ask you again: where and when do I see Felicia?"

" As soon as you deposit the money."

" You want to spend the rest of your life in a federal prison?"

" Prison? What you talking about boss? I'm a free man, just like you."

" You're a hunted man, just like me."

" You better pay, or you're girl's going to feel it."

" You'll get the money."

" I've told those boys in Northern Nigeria, not to touch her, not a hair. I want her to be a virgin, for myself, should things not pan out."

" They'll pan out."

" How do you know boss, you've got the SEC after you, they could freeze your assets."

" It's my problem: Financial ruin, your hit job with Alex, and now this."

" I really don't have a choice. Greater powers are at play, greater than me."

" When it's all said and done, you and I will have a word."

" Just feel lucky if you ever see your wife alive, boss"

" Oh I'm not worried. Whatever happens to her, happens to you next"

" Really?"

" I'll hunt you down for the rest of my life, and you'll die slowly, you mark my word."

" Try me." Zawar said, and he hung up.

Lagos is the largest metropolitan area in Africa, and also the most dangerous. Twenty five million people live in it. Two hundred million people, seventy percent of the country's population is under the age of thirty. It is one of the world's most famous centers of fraud, and cyber-crime. Looking for his wife there would be hopeless.

Gita lowered her head. Ahmed understood the conversation.

" Let's go up to the roof." Djambo said.

It was late June and a number of residents had left the housing project. They sat in the shade near the stairwell, and looked at the spotless sky. They were in the middle of Ramadan. The building was quiet in observance of it. It was a time of peace and introspection in the Muslim world. But Zawar had obviously other plans.

" I have to go to Africa." Djambo said.

" Nigeria?" Ahmed asked.

" No direct flights. There's a civil war going on there now. Half of the country is under Boko Haram's control, and the South is fighting."

" Where then?" Gita asked.

" Abidjan. Ivory Coast. I have to go there first and figure it out. I don't know anyone in Nigeria."

" He got you good, didn't he?" Ahmed said.

" He wants a ransom. And I'm worried about Felicia."

" How did he pull it off?" Gita asked.

" It doesn't matter. He's got her now."

" We're going to have to leave this place. We're no longer safe here." Ahmed said.

"Gita, you have to fly back to Chicago and manage DCM." Djambo said.

" Manage DCM?"

" You are perfectly capable of it."

Ahmed looked at Gita. For the first time in life, a woman truly mattered. Gita knew it. She also knew that her destiny was in America.

" I will find you there. Give me some time. I don't have a passport yet. But I will find you there." Ahmed promised.

Gita was quiet. She looked at the motionless construction cranes in the distance, and then they walked down the dark stairs. They abandoned the basement studio that afternoon. Ahmed had been on point. The next morning, at dawn, the French GIGN elite forces raided their hideout. By then, Djambo had already crossed the straights of Gibraltar and was on his way to Abidjan.

Alexandra Parker's conviction came quickly. The SEC prosecution wanted to make an example of her: Three years in a minimum security prison, with no possibility of parole. The sentence was stiff. But Zawar managed to visit her incognito. The minute he joined DCM, there was an electric attraction between them. He was young, handsome, and extremely smart. They kept it quiet. No one at the firm knew about their affair, not even Djambo.

Alexandra was fascinated by his Pakistani background, his vast knowledge of the Middle East, religion, and his ambitious character. He was impressed by her position at the firm, her maturity, and her statuesque presence.

At the company summer party, in her Michigan cottage, he caught her fully nude, while she changed in her bedroom. She noticed him also, staring at her full, blond pubic hair and stunning areolas.

Later, he visited her Lake Shore Drive condo, which overlooked the traffic lights early in the evening. He had licked her wide-open pussy on the bathroom sink. He had tasted her before, on many occasions, but she never let him fully in, causing even greater frustration.

She wasn't going to give it up until the fraud at DCM would be fully completed. They would pluck the firm together; him on the IT side, her on the legal side, and share the proceeds. No one could know about it. Those were her conditions. She gave Zawar a little taste of her, without going all the way. Now he was visiting her in prison.

" You're going to be ok, Alex." he said.

" Three years. That's a long time."

" I'll be here for you. Let me resolve it, finish him off, and I'll come back to you."

" That's crazy." Alexandra said. " Do you realize the risk you're taking by coming here?"

" I'm invisible." Zawar said.

" What's the plan?" she asked.

" Well, he accepted to pay the ransom."

" And?"

" And as soon as it's done, I'm putting the money away. I'll visit you for the next thirty six months, and we'll manage."

She liked his resolve. The June heat in her little cabana was oppressive. The air-conditioning unit was broken, and she slept windows open, naked at night. She only brought one briefcase with her. Everything else, including her passport, had been taken away from her. But Alexandra didn't care.

Here, in the Michigan minimum-security facility, in the early summer, she was reunited with her young buck. She missed him during her judicial ordeal. She had been disbarred and would never be able to practice law again. Her home had been repossessed to compensate some of the victims of the scam.

She was not the only inmate. The prison was co-ed. Forty-six others were parked there, in the little cabins scattered around the enclosed park. Zawar's determination to go all the way with their plan intrigued her.

His mere appearance changed her routine. He was the devil personified. It made her think for a minute about the female sexual tourists her age, who prowl the world for young skin. Once in prison, she pierced her hungry and lovely nipples with two thin silver rings, which dangled proudly in her mirror every morning.

Zawar was looking at them now, through the transparency of her top. She uncrossed her legs, sweating already in the early summer humidity. Their long metaphysical talk came to a halt, and there was nothing more to discuss. Her hair was straight, blonde, and cut shorter now.

She wore a very long chain of golden coins the size of dimes and nickels. It was descending along her cleavage, and looked like it extended down even further. She nonchalantly rested her right thigh on the flower fabric of the armchair, eager to watch him.

He began a gentle yet menacing brush of his young erect penis, in the shade of the cabin. It erupted, muscular, sculpted by an oversized green vein parting in multiple directions all around it. It was thick, darker than the rest of his skin, and stood on its own, powerful, hungry, and already pointing in her direction.

Alexandra sank deeper in her armchair, gently lifted the sarong up to her navel, and also rolled it down from her sumptuous chest. It turned into a narrow belt around her waist. The golden coins were now able to freely cascade down to her pussy.

Zawar moved forward, stunned by the extraordinary softness of her thighs. One raised, one down, smooth, they were open, and inviting.

She was twice his age, and her skin was supremely soft. Her sudden offering of herself accentuated the tempo, and a violent flow of blood raced to his turgescent head.

Cream appeared on her jewel, and she began brushing her right thumb right above it.

It accentuated her desire to be fully penetrated. Her eyes open, resolute, met his. She was his prize: The fair skinned American blonde, exquisitely soft, with her lips already gorged with desire, and eager to be taken fully. He wanted to make her wait, and proceeded to brush up and down against her.

She was breathing hard. She welcomed each new brush like a delicious provocation for more. He kept at it for long minutes, uninterrupted, up and down along her puffy golden fur until her lips fully dilated.

He slid his large hands under her wide butt, and stood up at once. He lifted the woman who could be his mother, and impaled her on him fully. Alexandra hung her hands around his shoulders. She was moving up and down, descending on his enormous and erect flesh. It slapped the very center of her, every time, ferociously.

She became a lioness howling with pleasure. She began kissing Zawar furiously, and came multiple times while holding on to the young man. She bit his shoulder deeply and it drew blood.

He came too, and his warm syrup filled her mature womb, making it sweetly burn. She had found her match. She wanted him to come back, despite the age difference. She wanted to take over the world, and live the rest of her life with him.

Near the Audi, shining under the sun, Alexandra nudged up to Zawar one last time.

" You'll see me again," he said.

" You take good care of yourself out there. I'm not going anywhere," she said.

Wolfgang called Djambo from Wisconsin.

" What are they asking for, specifically?" he asked

" Twenty million dollars or whatever is left in my firm."

" Huh..." Wolfgang said.

" I know. I'm dealing with one man: Zawar, he's actually a former employee of mine."
" A former employee?"

" Yes, Wolfgang. He managed to infiltrate our IT systems."

" Djambo," he said; " I want you to know that with Gretchen's illness over the past four years, we have...I have nothing left. My entire pension, our savings, everything has gone into it."

" No insurance?"

" We did have insurance. Obama insurance."

" I'll pay the ransom." Djambo said.

" You sure?"

" We don't have a choice, and no time to act. I have to be ready the next time he calls. I'm extremely worried about Felicia."

" Where do you think they're holding her? "

" I have no idea," said Djambo, " Nigeria is a big place."

Africa has its own beliefs and its own mysteries. Felicia could be anywhere by now, but he knew his wife was alive.

" Keep me posted please." Wolfgang said.

" I am on your side. There is no need for you to travel here. Let me handle it."

Outside, on the veranda, Francoise Martin had prepared two cups of espresso and was staring at the ocean, below the villa. The waves almost reached the tall weeds at the very edges of the beach house. It was a magnificent sunset. The full red sphere was slowly sinking in the ocean.

She turned around, and looked at Djambo. He was incredulously looking at his cell phone as if Wolfgang were still inside of it. For the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do. Zawar had successfully destroyed his firm. But his wife's kidnapping was a mystery. His only remote explanation was the sexual frustration Zawar must have felt when tricked by Felicia.

" You love this woman, don't you?" Francoise asked.

" I do, Maman."

" Then there's nothing to worry about. You'll find her."

Djambo took a sip of espresso. It reminded him of the long hours she spent naked next to the swimming pool after Papa Martin would go for siesta. She knew how Djambo observed her back in those days.

" Did you take a look at what Papa Robert has left for you?"

" No. Not yet."

" Let me get it,"

She came back on the veranda with two leather rifle cases and a machete.

" That's really all he left, not much, but he told me you would appreciate it."

" I do." Djambo said. And he opened the darkest of both long cases.

Inside, on the red felt, the .460 Weatherby hadn't aged a day. What a gun. At three hundred yards, it could stop a two thousand pound charging Cape buffalo dead in its tracks. Djambo had seen it.

In the second rifle box, Robert had secured his .375 H&H. He always brought it along for gazelle and impala. Magnificent also, the rifle travelled hundreds of miles with them. Djambo had cleaned it over and over again, with love. It fired perfectly, without hesitation, every time the moment of death would surface.

If the prey did not have an equal chance to give death, and the fight as even as possibly could, Papa Martin would never take the shot. He always insisted that every approach bring them inside of fifty years of the beast, or he would give up chase. Djambo admired his father's ethics. When together, no one else but God could look down at them.

It had never been about pulling the trigger and killing. It was about the unique journey of the hunt. They spent days, nights, and interminable long walks in the magnificent panorama, scoping, missing, and tracking again. Djambo couldn't keep his eyes off of the .375; it saved his life once – and after that day, Robert Martin taught him how to shoot.

Djambo was twelve years old the first time he shot the Weatherby. The recoil, despite the two-inch rubber bump, knocked him off his feet. As he grew older, stronger, and became a man, he tried again, always with Robert. Either on safari, or Sundays at the beach, his stepfather brought both rifles along.

One day Djambo became fully proficient; he able to gently squeeze the trigger, cool like a Zen warrior. In his bubble, unaffected by the wind, the sun, or any fear, he had become a shooter.

The machete was sentimental. It was narrow, long, and very sharp. They used it to cut wood, clear bushes; set up camp, slice out the meat of the big bulls they had taken, and decapitate poisonous snakes. Sometimes, black mambas crept up the perimeter of their tents at night.

Djambo loved to stay up late, after coffee, and machete in hand, he guarded Papa Robert's tent against the insects, the mamba, and the scorpions. Exhausted, he would finally collapse into a worldly sleep.

Robert taught him to read maps, prepare for trips, find the right trails, and the ridges they would explore for days. Most of the old maps were drafted by early colonial explorers, and by the mid-1970s, satellite technology enabled more precise geography. But on the ground, reading every twist and turn of the terrain, far from everything, in unchartered territory, it was all Djambo.

" You're going to go, aren't you?" Francoise said.

" That is the only way, Maman."

" What about paying the ransom?"

" I don't think it will work, I know the man..."

" What about staying here, and gathering information?"

Francoise Martin was looking at her stepson. She loved him dearly. His sudden re-appearance as a grown man, a quarter of century after he left home, moved her profoundly.

" You are risking your life. There is a revolution going on out there, and this house is probably the safest place in Ivory Coast right now."

" I know, mother." Djambo said.

The day Felicia was kidnapped; rebels entered the capital city from the north. By the hundreds, children soldiers approached the presidential palace on Abidjan's lagoon. They pushed the last remaining loyalists on the streets surrounding it. The urban battle was raging night and day. Djambo and Francoise often heard the sound of machine guns from the villa.

" Where are you going, exactly?" Francoise asked.

" I have to go to Lagos. If anyone knows anything about a blonde American woman kidnapped by Boko Haram, it would be the Nigerian government. They have to know."

" Every time you went on safari with Robert, I worried about you." She said.

" I know you did."

" It was strange. Even though he was your father, I felt like you were the one protecting him."

" We looked out for each other. That's for sure."

" You remember the time you called about the buffalo charge?"

" Yes."

" Something in your voice; it sounded like Papa was dead."

" I was scared."

" You weren't scared, you were brave. You took the initiative. You called. You were older then. That's when I realized you had become a man."

" I didn't know it."

" Exactly. Men don't even know that about themselves. They just act."

"Act?"

" Yes, act without thinking. Without morality sometimes."

" I have morals, mom. You raised me that way."

" I know you do, you do have that compass, inside of you."

" That is a good thing."

" It can be a dangerous thing."

" How do you mean?"

" Look, son. We've raised you well. You went to America where you made someone out of yourself. We have been immensely proud of you. You did it on your own. You conducted yourself with honor, and morality. You've made the right choices."

" All thanks to you. You've equipped me properly."

" You've got a point. But this is the real world. This isn't America. People die."

" People die in America too, mother."

" Well then, let's just hope America prepared you for this."

War had come within a mile of Francoise Martin's residence. It was dusk when Djambo stumbled across a cadaver, lying on the asphalt at the entrance of the neighborhood. The young woman was a rebel who had joined the fight. Her Mickey Mouse tee shirt was soaked with blood, her machine gun had disappeared, and her eyes were still open; she caught a government sniper's bullet right through the forehead.

Along the road to the city, trucks were left burning, and the scent of death was lingering over motorcycles, dead bodies, mice, goats, and hyenas. The French bakery façade was riddled with 7.62 mm impacts, its windows were shattered, and it looked like the rebels had looted it.

Djambo continued on the sidewalk of the now deserted main artery. Bodies were randomly lying on the street as if they had melted all afternoon. He knew the rebels would be concentrated on the other side of the lagoon bridge, and getting ready for their final assault. He could see the black smoke of the palace billowing upwards in the evening sky. Tanks guarding the last blocks had been abandoned, and he knew better than venturing that way.

He rushed towards the beach, where the ocean meets the lagoon, knowing it would not be guarded. It was an old fisherman's market place where seafood was traded on a daily basis in times of peace. The pirogues carved out of wood were abandoned, and rocked against one another in the water, red with blood now, from the fighting on the bridge.

Djambo looked around, and decided to hide and make himself invisible under the shade of a hut. He was dressed all in black. He brought cash, water, food, the machete, a change of clothes, and extra shoes, enough to last him for three days.

Once night had completely fallen, he heard the AK 47 assaulting the palace again.

French helicopters were coming and going over the city, with the cover of darkness, to rescue one by one, stranded expat families who had been caught in the crossfire.

Some rebels had ventured into residential areas for food and taken some of the families' hostage. Others resisted, and some had been killed.

His black sport's bag snug between his ankles, he began rowing in the narrow pirogue, from the mouth of the river, and back towards town. It was the only way for him to reach the border with Ghana. The ocean was too rough, and the beach too dangerous at night.

He kept rowing, quietly, under the bridge at first, then along the river that drew an arc around the city, before disappearing between the colonial mansions perched above the banks. He reached the outskirts of town, and finally, the jungle. It was extremely humid, and mosquitos began their attack as soon as darkness fell.

His hands, arms, and forearms held up for several hours. There was no a single government soldier, rebel, or French army regular in sight. It was the dead of night. The moon appeared, grandiose and peaceful. Exhausted, he stopped rowing and fell asleep.

It was still night when he woke up, laying in the narrow pirogue. The temperature was a balmy 76 degrees, but he was covered with insects. Each bite was stinging, torturing his skin under his drenched black tee shirt.

He started rowing again, and by eight in the morning, he arrived near the border. Thousands of refugees had fled by foot, bicycle, car, taxi, mini-bus, and a giant camp had sprawled up in the middle of nowhere.

The refugees cut down the trees, and stormed the nearby village for food. The camp looked apocalyptic from the river three hundred yards away. Tears were rolling down his eyes. This was his country, his people, being slaughtered from all sides, and he thought for a moment, about Francoise's warning.

Every muscle in his body ached awfully, and he questioned himself. His hands and feet were swollen, and his back was covered with the bumps from the bites. He quietly pulled the pirogue under the green foliage surrounding the entrance to Ghana, opened his backpack, and rewarded himself with one of the ham sandwiches Francoise had prepared.

Roads, trains, and airports were inaccessible. In Paris, Zawar had probably been monitoring his whereabouts through his cell phone location services. The first thing Djambo did when landing in Abidjan, was to dispose of it in a garbage can.

The sandwich was exquisite; it was a mix of baguette and prosciutto ham with a thin layer of butter. It had held up pretty well overnight in its wrapping. The Evian water bottles were still cool. Francoise also gave him some medicine, a few preventive shots against malaria, snakebites, and polio.

At 50 pounds, the backpack was manageable. He was able to carry it. He only had a few miles to walk to the next town, find a taxi, and from there he would be on his way to Togo.

He reached the first town inside Ghana and landed inside a colorful minibus. They were a dozen passengers with him: Students, merchants, travelling women old and young, a couple of kids leaving their village in the country side for the big city, and some refugees from the Ivory Coast as well. The man next to him told him how he had not eaten in three days. He narrowly escaped from the rebels.

Djambo gave him two of his sandwiches. The man's wife had been raped in front of him and his children, and they were about to kill him when a firefight broke out in the street right in front of his house. He ran for his life, but was worried about his family.

" What about you? Do you have family?" the man asked.

" I do. I'm looking for my wife."

" Where?"

" Nigeria." Djambo replied.

The bush taxi was now bumping at seventy miles per hour on the undulating red clay road. The rain season had carved huge potholes in the trail, and navigating it was like driving through a minefield. Drivers are skilled in all of Africa, and theirs was up to the task. All windows were rolled down and the heat inside the bus was intolerable. Everyone knew the rule: No stopping until the driver decided so, no matter what.

On the top, everyone had packed their precious possessions: orange beat up Samsonite suitcases, goat, chicken, vegetable, bicycles, fish, and even a couple of dogs.

Djambo squeezed his backpack between his knees, in a space as tight as the economy seat of a modern airliner.

They passed a number of villages along the road, and the children waived at them, running around naked before disappearing into the afternoon heat and dust.

At dusk, they were less than a hundred miles away from the Togo border. The road met with the ocean at times, and Djambo pulled his face outside the window for a moment to absorb the freshness, the salty air, and the magnificent view. The turquoise water was whizzing by, behind the coconut trees.

They arrived at a narrow bridge to cross a small creek, and the driver stopped the minibus in front of the fragile wood planks. He had seen plenty of his colleagues' buses tipping over, and falling in the water. The passengers quickly ushered out, and Djambo was the last to exit. A couple of men immediately relieved themselves on the side of the road, and some of the women walked deeper in the foliage to hide.

Five teen-agers, not older than fifteen, emerged from the bushes, and pointed their machine guns at the small group. One of the kids jumped on board and quickly grabbed the ignition key. They were road cutters; bandits who roam around the immensity of the land, and attack taxis like in the Old West. They killed without mercy.

They were menacing everyone. Ruthlessly efficient and fast, they began stealing wallets, belts, rolled up banknotes and disrobing the terrorized women. Some of the older women scolded the youngsters as if they were their grandchildren. The kids quickly silenced them.

Djambo knew how dangerous they were: Some executed their victims on the spot. They behaved with no rhyme, reason, or morality. He witnessed their sudden appearance from the back of the minibus, and rushed into the tall bushes on the opposite side of the road.

Within seconds they would circle around the vehicle, inspect it, probably shoot its tires, and run back to where they came from.

Screams emerged from the forest. The bandits had captured one of the women urinating in the bushes, and were raping her while she was still standing up, legs apart. Djambo jolted into the tall grass and began running as fast as he could. Within half a minute, he was already three hundred yards away from the minibus. He kept running, golden bushes and tall weeds whizzing by him, with the sole of his feet bouncing fiercely on the red clay.

He avoided branches, foliage, roots, and kept running. He heard the loud echo of the AK 47s perhaps a minute into it. He was unsure if the kids were firing in his direction or executing the passengers.

He kept running for a good fifteen minutes before he stopped to catch his breath. Several cuts had drawn blood at his feet, ankles, forearms, but Francoise backpack held strong and tight. It was burning both his shoulders with its rugged straps. If the road cutters came from the other side, they sure would return there. He would be safe where he was, at least for the night.

Fear caught up with him at that moment. He started trembling, uncontrollably. He realized he could already be dead. He dropped the backpack, fell on his knees, crossed himself, and looked up to God.

The navy blue sky above him was rapidly turning black. He stayed like this, for a moment, thinking about Francoise's warning, and his own personal folly to search for Felicia alone.

He remembered how, in the jumbo jet flying over the Atlantic, the same fear had overwhelmed him as a young man. He was going to the New World, to the vast beauty of America, and his heart had beaten with the same fear. Felicia, wherever she was at that moment, would sure feel it in hers.

The next day he made his way to Accra and rented a motorcycle. He reached Togo late in mid-afternoon. Togo's coastline is only thirty-six miles long and it took him only two hours ride across it.

Now he had passed the border with Benin and sped the motorcycle through the coconut tree line, freely, towards the beach. He went full speed. At nightfall, he reached the first fishing village into Benin and left it in his rearview mirror.

He stopped the motorcycle to self-refuel at sunset. He noticed a white concrete shape emerging perhaps a foot above the ground. It was an old bunker; the kind built in 1914 when France and Germany still disputed their colonial borders shortly before the Great War. The last village was ten or fifteen miles behind him.

Two Rasta emerged from the bunker and were watching him emptying the red plastic container into the mouth of the motorcycle tank. They were beach bums, no more than twenty years old.

" Hey man! What are you doing?" one said.

" Just refueling. I have a long way to go yet."

" Where to?"

" Nigeria."

" Oh, you ain't going to make it there tonight, brother."

" I know that."

" Where are you going to sleep?"

" I don't know. I was thinking Puerto Nuevo."

" That's a hundred miles away."

" Why don't you stay with us for the night?" the other said.

Djambo smiled and pushed the motorcycle to the edge of the bunker. It was a beautiful twilight. The ocean was roaring less than a hundred yards away from them, and he was hungry. Downstairs in the bunker, the Rasta had decorated the center room in full Bob Marley fashion. It looked like Jamaica.

Two white women emerged entirely nude from the cement bedroom in the back.

" I'm Karin," The first one said with a smile.

" And Greta," said the other.

" Djambo."

They were attractive, fifty-something blonde creatures. It was late in the tourist season, but they had apparently extended their vacation.

" We love it here." Greta said.

" No one around." Karin continued.

The two Rasta offered Djambo a bowl of steamed rice and were grilling pork chops on the bunker's rooftop. He noticed the small library they had set up on the bunker's wall.

" Thoreau." he said.

" Indeed." Karin said. " I was a publisher back in Sweden. I'm retired now."

" So this is some kind of social experiment for you?"

" You could say that."

The women had decorated the surroundings of the bunker as if it were their own garden. They planted bougainvillea, hibiscus, and tropical flowers all around the entrance, and made the inside of it quite cozy. An immense mosquito net covered a king size mattress in the back, and it looked like all four slept in it. The kitchen was neatly organized with camping ware and a few utensils. Djambo was amazed.

" There is no judgment here, no societal judgment." Greta said.

" What do you mean?"

" You hear these things in the media; they call us names; sex tourists. They criticize how we travel down here to prostitute young men. It's not that simple. We don't give them any money. They live here on their own choosing."

" I'm sure they do." Djambo said.

" We have no intention of taking them back to Europe." Greta said.

" Our life is here now." Karin confirmed.

" I'm not here to judge." Djambo said. "I only appreciate your hospitality tonight."

After dinner, Lena turned on the CD player and began dancing to Reggae. Greta soon joined her behind the dinner table. Djambo and the two Rasta were sitting on the other side, enjoying the spectacle of their full nudity. In addition to the thin nipple rings, they also wore intimate jewelry. The metal followed the circular rotation of their hips occasionally shining under the dim bunker light.

The Rasta seemed to be no more than twenty years old. They appeared virgin, given the shy expression on their beautiful faces. Supremely endowed, they undressed, very eager for both women.

" Come on, dance with us." Greta said.

As she grew older, she became more impatient with her own desires, and no longer cared to wait for imaginary love stories. She learned to take the initiative when it came to younger men, and much to her delight, it had worked out great.

The Rasta were hesitant but had lost none of their respective erections. Quite to the contrary, they grew thicker, more aroused, fixating the overwhelming intimacies of the Swedish women, their generous buttocks, and how their were glistening under the lamp like oversized fruits.

Karin grabbed Greta's hand, and they both kneeled down side by side on the table. They offered the two bucks an up close view of their behinds. The young men were focused solely on the intriguing pink slivers that emerged magically from both tender buttocks.

Their heartbeat accelerated further. Despite their full erections, they seemed scared to approach any further. They were sculpted like two gorgeous ebony statues, carved in prime hardwood. Erect all the way to their belly buttons, they stood motionless, behind the women, as both females begun parting their fragile pink lips to reveal more of their hunger.

Greta understood the young men's hesitation. She turned around, and led them close to Karin. She quickly ran her tongue on each massive cock, and the recipients closed their eyes. They grasped the sensation as if they were moving towards something new, unknown, succulent, and slowly began letting go.

She brushed Karin's pussy up and down with each, taking turns. The men could feel the sweet lubrication emerging from her bush at the very tip of their enormities. Gently, Greta guided the first one further. Then, she expertly offered the second the same experience. Both bumsters wore golden medallions that began dangling silently.

The younger of the two seemed to have found a rhythm. He finally plunged into Karin. She closed her eyes, moaned, and started to bite the large metal cross that danced in front of her superb white breasts. The Rasta squeezed both sides of the small of her back, and began pumping her deeply without saying a word. She welcomed each deep penetration with a scream of pleasure.

Greta held the cock of the other boy, and led it up behind her as she kneeled next to Karin. He understood, and proceeded to fully possess her as well. Their arms fully extended on top of the table, both women were looking at Djambo.

Their breasts moved back and forth, and they breathed through their wide-open mouths. They were taking it slow, savoring the moment, with absolutely no intention of rushing it.

The bumsters were still learning. It was one of their first experiences. They obeyed Greta and followed her guidance silently. They realized that faster and deeper thrusts gave them more pleasure.

There were looking down, mesmerized by the arrogance of their respective thicknesses. They seemed to disappear inside both women effortlessly. The dark, guttural groans of the Swedish females encouraged them to be more inquisitive.

They felt the women rocking back and forth and becoming more rhythmic, more demanding, and finally abandoned themselves to the motion. Fear had left them. They were becoming men. Soon, the younger and more daring of the two began firmly spanking Greta's opulent buttocks, each time drawing a higher moan of delight from her. Amazed at her reaction, he began doing the same to Karin while his accomplice kept at his task silently.

Within minutes, both women, who could be their grandmothers, began howling in unison, surprising the boys further. They too began voicing their intense pleasure without holding back while Djambo eclipsed himself towards the back room. Later that night, it started again, but he heard nothing of it.

He left the bunker early in the morning while all four were still sleeping. Soon he was riding fast on the sand again, occasionally licking the white crest with the front wheel of the Yamaha XT 500. He reached Cotonou by noon, refueled, and quickly ate on the side of the road. By one pm, he was on the beach again, racing towards Lagos.

He was exhausted when he arrived in Nigeria's capital. It was dusk, and it looked like a million candles had been turned on at once. He found a cyber-café lit up with neon, parked the Yamaha, and paid for thirty minutes of access.

The place was full of young people. The owners had hung privacy curtains in front of each station, and now he was walking between them, noticing the bright glows in each booth.

Once he reached his, the owner parted the curtain and the young woman in it was fully naked. She was in a Skype conversation with an old man in Europe.

" Time is up" the owner said.

She turned around, pointing her perfect breasts at both Djambo and the owner, and silently covered herself.

" I won't be long." Djambo said. " I've paid for half an hour, but it won't take that long. You can wait if you want."

Djambo slid into the warm plastic chair and began typing away. He wanted to let Francoise and Wolfgang know he had made it to Lagos. He also wanted to have news from Gita. The booth was stifling.

There was no air-conditioned. As soon as the owner disappeared, the girl disrobed again, and stood quietly behind him. Her Skype conversation was unfinished and she was determined to hop back on.

Djambo slid into the warm plastic chair and began typing away. He wanted to let Francoise and Wolfgang know he had made it to Lagos. He also wanted to have news from Gita. The booth was stifling.

There was no air-conditioned. As soon as the owner disappeared, the girl disrobed again, and stood quietly behind him. Her Skype conversation was unfinished and she was determined to hop back on.

The next morning, he waited from 8 am until noon, to meet with Colonel Rollings. In the hallways leading up to his office, he heard the screams of the detainees being questioned. Rollings had no mercy. Information, he said, was the nerve of this war, much more so than money. His men pulled the nails of every insurgent they captured.

" Mr. Diallo," he said, " long way from America!"

" Long way indeed. Do you have any indication of the whereabouts of my wife? Felicia Katz is her name."

" Mr. Diallo, I don't know everything."

" I understand colonel, but you must have some idea, some information."

" These barbarians kidnap white people every week nowadays, every week. That is one of the ways they finance themselves, through ransom."

" I know colonel. Any clues?"

" Here!"

Colonel Rollings pulled out a report of fifty 8x10 pages, with black and white photos. " These are all the expats who have been kidnapped in Nigeria, but also in Cameroon and Benin, our next door neighbors, in the past month."

Djambo quickly ran through the sheets; mostly oil workers, tourists, some diplomats, a few religious figures, white pastors, and so forth, but no Felicia.

" Anything from the Ivory Coast?" he inquired.

" It's not our jurisdiction." The colonel replied.

" Colonel " Djambo insisted.

The colonel's eyes suddenly turned mean, and he exploded with anger:

" Who are you to come here and talk like a white man? What arrogance! You know there is a civil war going on in Nigeria right now, and you dare talking like this to me?"

" Colonel..."

" Your wife, brother Diallo, if she is in this country, she is certainly not in Lagos."

" How can you be so sure?"

" Believe me. We have infiltrated every single neighborhood in this town. There is no Boko Haram here; At least not yet. They are trying, but they have not succeeded under my watch. If I were running the show, there would be no Boko Haram at all in this country."

And as if to confirm it, a horrible scream echoed all the way down the corridor to the colonel's office.

" Sorry about that." he said, and slammed the door shut.

" If she is here, in Nigeria, she is most likely up north, with those bandits; either in the northwest, or in the northeast, with those gangsters. That's all I can tell you."

" Thank you colonel." Djambo said.

They shook hands across the immense ebony desk.

" Sorry I couldn't help more, brother Diallo." the colonel said.

In the corridor, more screams emerged from the stairwell leading to the basement of the concrete building. In the courtyard, regular army soldiers were unpacking dozens of boxes of ammunition crates. Several tanks were lined up along the tall grey walls.

The place also served as a central prison, and hundreds of women were lined up outside with food baskets, waiting to see their husbands. The government did not provide free meals to its detainees.

Djambo headed for the market place. He was hungry. Turbulent and bustling, the market spread over hundreds of acres, and everything could be found, bought, or exchanged freely under its colored canopies. He found a merchant making beignets, bought a bundle of them, and began eating them in the shade.

His bag firmly attached to his back, he made his way to the head of the taxi station. He negotiated the price of a one-way fare to Kano, hundreds of miles to the north.

" You know it's very dangerous now, in that part of the country," the driver said.

" I know." said Djambo.

" How do you know? Have you ever been there?"

" Yes."

" Nobody is going to drive you there, brother."

" You will."

The cab driver started laughing, in typical African fashion.

" I'll give you one hundred thousand Naira." Djambo said.

The driver's face turned serious. He thought for a moment about his own life, and his family. This was the salary of an entire year.

" Ok, brother." He said.

" No one else in the car." Djambo said.

" No one else?"

" No one."

The driver took him to the outskirts of a small village, along the Benin border, three hundred miles to the north. It had taken six hours.

" That's all I can do, bro. They kill people north of here."

Djambo handed him the five hundred U.S. dollars, grabbed his backpack, hugged the man, and walked away. The driver took a good look at him.

The town was a point of contention between the regular army, the police, the local militia, and Boko Haram fighters who frequently irrupted from the north. It was their southern most position. It was completely deserted, and smelled like death.

Djambo immediately stepped sideways, away from the main road, and cut into the bush running parallel with the village. The black flag with the white letters was floating, triumphant, above the metal roof of a local Christian school.

Before Djambo knew it, a colossus in full fighting gear emerged from the shade of a tree and pointed his gun at him.

" Where are you going?" the rebel asked.

" I am lost." Djambo said.

" Raise you arms for me." The rebel looked stoned. He was slurring his words.

Djambo quickly grabbed the short barrel of the AK 47, twisted it away, and hit the crazed terrorist in the groin. The man opened his mouth as if he were about to scream with pain, but the steel butt of the AK violently impacted his left temple, and he fell without a word. The street was still silent.

The school children were long gone, captured, killed, raped, or tortured. Four young men were lounging in the shade of its courtyard. They immediately raised their hands, powerless, and surprised at Djambo's sudden appearance. He was pointing the AK right at them, ready to fire, and they knew it. There was a huge, pale blue, rusted shipping container in the courtyard.

" Have you seen the white woman?" Djambo asked.

They all shook their heads.

" Ok, then. It looks like you are all sleeping in this big blue box tonight. And tomorrow,"

They knew exactly what he meant. At one hundred degrees Fahrenheit under the noon sun, the inside temperature of the metal container easily climbed to two hundred in the afternoon. Death by asphyxia was certain. They knew it because they regularly heard the screams of their Christian victims, begging for their lives from inside of it.

Half way to the container, one of the boys, apparently the youngest, broke down.

" I know where the white lady is, Mister."

" You're lying." Djambo said. " You going to die."

" I'm not lying, Mista." the kid said.

" Keep walking or I kill you all." Djambo continued.

" I'm not lying, Mista. I know where da white lady is."

" Open the fucking door." Djambo ordered.

When the kid did, they all vomited at the stench of it.

" Now you go in, or I kill you." Djambo continued. " Except for you."

The young man locked the container once his fellow fighters were in it. They were already screaming and kicking the metal walls. It was early evening, and the temperature had sufficiently dropped that they wouldn't die, not until the next day at least, either of thirst, or heat exhaustion. Djambo grabbed the kid by the ear, and led him back to the shaded area.

" Now you tell me where the white lady is or I cut your ear off." He said.

The next day, in Abuja, Djambo was again a regular civilian, dressed like everyone around him. At lunchtime, he walked into a shop to buy food and water. He had an argument about money with the owner.

" You a thief." the owner was screaming

That's all one needed to scream in West Africa: Thief.

Rapidly, a crowd of fifty, then a hundred, men and women surrounded Djambo believing he was one. They were screaming, hitting, and kicking him. He had attempted to prove his innocence, but it was already too late. He was already on the ground, in a fetal position, holding on to his backpack.

All that was left in it was a bit of money and Robert Martin's machete, sharply protruding from the black cloth. The handle was buried inside of it, and at one against one hundred, it would be pointless to even think about pulling it out.

The mob had already dumped huge used tires around him, piling them up vertically, and trapping him inside. It forced him to stand as they raised one on top of another. He knew what it meant. He had seen it as a child. Next came the distinct scent and feel of fresh gasoline being poured from the top.

It was good homemade Nigerian gasoline, pure octane, drenching him on the inside of the tire cylinder. He tried kicking, climbing, muscling his way to the top of it, bumping his shoulders against the thick black rubber, but it wouldn't budge. That was the purpose.

The tires were so heavy, gripping the ground, that the victim trapped inside could not possibly topple it. He thought of Felicia. That's all he could think about. His heart started racing violently.

Loud gunfire broke out as the match lit the gasoline, immediately peeling the outside rubber, and shooting flames right above his head. He also thought about 9/11, Francoise, Robert, and his entire life.

It was running through his mind like a super accelerated slide show.

He could not assess the images, comprehend, analyze, or even feel regret. He was a witness of his own life. He saw Felicia's closed eyes when she made love, but the extreme heat cut that picture suddenly. He could no longer see, and was holding his breath. He looked up towards the smoked up sky, and only heard the raging firefight.

Before he realized it, he was rolling on the ground among the burning tires, as the regular army soldiers were kicking them away. They were parting the angry crowd. One of them threw himself on Djambo to extinguish the flames catching on to his black tee shirt.

He was dazed. When he looked up, he saw the young Nigerian soldier who grabbed him and stood him up. Two others were on each side, poking at the crowd with the bayonets attached at the tip of their AKs.

They must have walked twenty or thirty yards, to the commanding jeep, on the other side of the avenue.

" Djambo Diallo! " screamed the commanding officer; it was Rollings.

" By God..." Djambo whispered, catching his breath.

" Mista Diallo! I knew it was you! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! "

Rollings laughed, comfortably installed in the back of his jeep.

" Colonel Rollings,"

" Come with me! " he said, as he moved to the side of the backbench.

He seemed very enthusiastic as the jeep rolled down the avenue, followed by the truck of camouflaged soldier.

" The police, my brother; the local police. I have great news for you!"

They arrived at the local station, a small concrete structure, guarded by a large group of blue uniformed fully armed men.

" Let me introduce you to my brother Taylor!"

The massive figure stood up, his eyes looked like a lizard's.

" Mister Diallo; Nice to meet you. We have excellent news for you. Follow me."

They walked down the obscure stairway leading to the basement. Rollings was laughing hard. Tears of joy were rolling down his scared cheeks.

" We conducted a two prong operation this morning, on the main roads leading north from here: One to the northwest, and one to the northeast. We caught these eight men."

In the dark cell, full of blood, the men were on their knees, attached to a short wooden pole, four feet tall, ankles, and wrists solidly tied behind their backs with barbwire.

Their necks were stuck to the poles with duct tape that also covered their mouths. The room smelled like feces, and a young police officer was guarding it stoically.

" Four on the left, four on the right. You see? Northwest, northeast, HAHAHA!" Rollings said.

" But no one has spoken about the white woman yet." said Taylor.

Djambo stood in between them, near the frame of the door's entrance, looking at the eight prisoners.

" Those men are killers." said Rollings.

Taylor was more subdued, more northern, and methodical in his ways of extracting information.

" So who has seen the white woman?" he asked.

" Brother, these maggots can't talk." Rollings said, and he unwrapped the duct tape from each mouth. Now they all could hear the common breathing.

" Da white woman." Rollings said.

Boko Haram were tough cookies, warriors, as long as they held the guns. Now it was a different story. Rollings solidly re-taped the mouth of the first man on the left, who immediately began shaking with all his might. The colonel firmly held the man's shaved head, and with his paratrooper's dagger, quickly extracted the man's left eye from its socket, and threw it on the dirty floor.

He randomly picked another mouth, and unwrapped the duct tape, ready to do it again.

" Kebbi." said the man.

" Good" Rollings said. "Now we getting closa to da white woman."

He turned around, and invited Djambo to walk back up the stairwell.

" After you! And thank you Mista Taylor for your help today. We will remember that."

"Mista Diallo" he said; " When you go back to America, I want you to visit Mister Obama for me. Can you do that? I want him to know that we can help with the fight. You have a friend in Nigeria, Mr. Diallo."

In the courtyard, Rollings pointed at a white Range Rover, covered with red mud.

" You see this car, Mr. Diallo? We seized it from the rebels. They stole it from white people, down in Lagos. That's why I'm here: To find the culprits. I will lend it to you to continue your journey."

" Thank you, colonel."

The first gas station was right outside the town. Beyond it was a wide no-man's land. Djambo asked for the road to Kebbi. The attendant pointed north. With the white Range Rover and a full tank, he first drove through the gorgeous mountains of central Nigeria, lush, green, and misty. It was a curvy road, snaking through the extraordinary panorama. The asphalt was impeccable; there was not a single pothole. It had been resurfaced the year before. The project was abandoned when Boko Haram progressed from Northeast to Northwest Nigeria and the kidnappings began.

Downhill, it became a red clay trail, narrow, and deserted. Djambo slowed down, carefully guiding the Range Rover through the rocks. Nature was reclaiming its rights.

After fifteen minutes, the path had narrowed so much that it only left space for a motorcycle. Djambo stopped. The sun was setting behind the majestic mountain behind him.

His back to the huge spare wheel in the Range Rover, he admired the ultimate parting of the clouds over the ash midst of the mountaintop. He had been this far north before, further even, but never in Nigeria.

They had driven almost to the border of Niger and Burkina Faso, where the Sahara desert creeps south every year towards black Africa.

Him and Papa Robert were tracking zebra. They had walked for miles. The morning hunt had prolonged, and suddenly he saw water dancing in the distance.

" Look Papa: Water. There is water in front of us," he had said.

" It isn't water, son. It's a mirage." Papa Robert replied.

When he turned around from the back of the Range Rover, wondering whether to forge ahead or turn around and back towards the mountain, a young woman had appeared silently. She was standing next to the driver's door. She was wearing a brown tee shirt that read " BIG DADDY " in large white letters. She held a gun on both her shoulders: A very long automatic assault rifle with a tripod. Her left hand held the very end of the barrel, and her right finger rested on the trigger. She was stoic, silent, staring him down. Her trousers were brown also, camouflaged, yet shiny, and almost fashionable.

" Follow me," she said.

" I must bring my bag." Djambo said.

" Hurry up."

She swiftly cut right into the green vegetation, perpendicular to the Range Rover. She was a woman warrior from Kebbi. Djambo had heard about them. They were orphan girls who escaped Boko Haram.

They found refuge in the forest, armed themselves, and had begun to resist. Like the women fighters of Liberia, they were fearless. They wore dark tee shirts, and were very fashion conscious. It was the first thing they looked at when Djambo arrived at their camp: his outfit.

They had taken over the place the morning before. They approached the forest clearing in the dark, silently, like cats, in a semi-circle, and waited for daybreak. As soon as it was clear enough for them to see, they had fired at will. They knew from using the AK's before that one had to hold them down because the recoil tends to raise the muzzle when fired on auto mode. That's all they knew.

Four men had survived, and they tied them down in a hut, without food, without water, unsure as to what to do with them. The young woman, she must not have been older than twenty-three, led Djambo straight to Keisha, the leader of the clan.

" Who are you?" she asked.

" I'm Djambo."

" What do you do here?"

" I'm looking for my wife."

" Is she here? You can look," the girl said.

" She's not here."

" How do you know?"

" She's a white lady."

" We don't have a white lady here. They hold the white people, not us."

She pointed at the four prisoners. They had removed the men's scarves, their sunglasses, their clothes, and stripped them down naked. They were lined up along the back wall of the hut, with two young girls guarding them.

" We asked them questions, but they don't talk." the girl said.

" Tomorrow they will talk." Djambo said.

" You want to eat?"

" No, I'm not hungry."

" You want to drink?"

Djambo pulled out a small bottle of mineral water out of his backpack, extended it to the young woman who shook her head.

Night had fallen over the camp, and the women did not turn on a single lamp, candle, or flashlight. They whispered to each other, and moved around like ants. Some ate, other rested or made small talk quietly. The white Range Rover coming down from the mountain had alerted them. But they knew Djambo was not a foe. He had no weapon and he came from the mountain.

" I want one of your girls to go hunting with me tomorrow." he asked Keisha.

" Hunting?"

" Yes. Hunting for food."

" We need food."

" We will have food." Djambo said. " But first, I have to sleep."

" You sleep here, on the floor."

Before his adoption the village boys always marveled at his speed. He would sometimes come back, before dark, with five or six agouti rats he held in both hands. The agoutis were considered a delicacy in West Africa. They were little furry rats that roamed around the village's edge. Like quail, they fed themselves from corn, and he captured many.

He would track them down, carefully inspecting the ground, on the edges of the fields. He would spot one, and chase it down fast. The rat would quickly whizz into the corn, and Djambo was able to match it step for step, bounce for bounce, cutting through the green leaves.

Then, when the agouti would finally stop for a second to catch its breath, he would dive on it, and grab it with both hands. He would tie its long tail to the narrow trunk of a tree, and go seek another one, until he had five or six, squealing around, unable to escape.

No one else could do that in the village. They used sticks, stones, spears, and bows to kill the agouti first. His pride was to capture them alive. Robert Martin had heard of it, and even gone with him when they hunted quail. Djambo would disappear, inside the tall corn, and reappear magically a minute later. And he never came back empty handed.

Now the four Boko Haram intelligence officers were looking at him and the girl. He had captured the agouti, and given six to the girls to cook. He kept four for himself, alive. He asked the girls for four ceramic bowls and duct tape.

Curious as to the kind of magical ceremony he was about to undertake, several girls gathered near the opening of the hut. Each rat had its bowl, and each bowl was taped tight to a Boko Haram stomach, already tickling it, hungry.

" If you tell me the truth, I will feed them. These puppies are hungry, and they have nowhere to go," Djambo said.

Keisha, the leader of the group squatted next to him, eager to find out the effectiveness of his trick.

XII

INDEPENDENCE DAY

" Even though I walk

Through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil

For you are with me."

~ The Torah

The Boko Haram camp in northwestern Nigeria was located at the confluence of Benin to the West, Niger to the North, and Nigeria to the East. It was a remote sanctuary, nestled in the tall grass, burnt out sub-Saharan savanna. It was hidden five hundred miles north of the major African cities that lined up along the coast, and bustling Lagos.

The ride there had been chaotic. They stopped several times throughout the night. All seven Westerns captives including Felicia were blindfolded. They knew they had been abducted, but not much else. The mix of Pidgin English, conversations in Yoruba, and occasional invectives of the captors were mystifying. The two beaten up Toyota pick up trucks smelled like death and a strong body odor. As they hummed along the trails, dust swirled back through the vinyl cover and covered the captives with the thin red laterite dust typical of West Africa.

There were hundreds, thousands of miles running through the grandiose landscape of Cameroon, Nigeria, Benin, Togo, Ghana, and the Ivory Coast. The vast territory was a challenge to monitor. It was impossible to track down the terrorists. They communicated by word of mouth, without electronics.

Even from a drone's probing and telescopic eye, the Toyota trucks looked like civilian vehicles. They carried Africans like the many brush taxis that circulated between hundreds of villages. Boko Haram killers and kidnappers were not amateurs.

They smartly dispersed over the wide Northern Nigeria geography. It was extremely difficult, if at all possible to locate their sanctuaries. Their well-camouflaged cells varied in structure, location, size, and purpose. Some of the terrorists were as young as twelve years old.

Doped up by their masters they roamed around the countryside and assassinated fathers, mothers, and babies alike. Only young men were left, led by older leaders. Twenty-five years old " Leaders" earned their badge of honor attacking villages, small towns, burning schools, dynamiting churches, raping women, hatching off limbs, torturing, emasculating, burning, crucifying, and occasionally eating their victims.

Boko Haram killed fifteen thousand Africans between 2009 and 2015. Fear displaced over one and a half million civilians.

Its financing was complex: Bank robberies, kidnappings for ransom, as well as foreign donors. It had a fluid network of cells; some were as small as a dozen terrorists.

Of the two hundred and seventy six schoolgirls snatched in 2014, the majority had been forced to marry the terrorists. When it came to Westerners, the overall ransom bounty grew to seventeen million dollars in a matter of five years.

The vast majority of women captured by Boko Haram were either sold into slavery or became the wives of its young fighters. Western hostages were carefully guarded, and released for five hundred thousand to one million dollars a head. Most were men, living and working in remote parts of the country. They were teachers, expats, or Christian preachers. In southern Nigeria, they were oil executives or rig workers.

Felicia was kidnapped as her taxi neared the Eden Hotel in Abidjan. It was the farthest action yet attempted by Boko Haram. The hotel was a five star institution overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. White expatriates were its most frequent guests.

The violence and speed was such that her mind did not process her abduction immediately. Djambo's text and the three masked men throwing her into a Toyota clashed constantly in her mind.

During the twelve-hour ride on the chaotic trail, she kept thinking of it. She had been the victim of a text scam by someone who intimately knew about her and Djambo. She was determined to keep track of time.

If her kidnapping occurred on the night she had landed, June 27th, they were now in the early morning hours of June 28th, a Sunday.

The four Western hostages taken with her in Abidjan that night included three men and a woman. The men were in one Toyota, and the other woman was with her.

They exchanged quiet mumbles during the pit stops. The other woman was American also. She taught Sunday school in the countryside as a pastor. The drive had lasted over a day when they stopped. They were covered with dust.

A man ordered them to jump out of the Toyota.

" Women follow me. The men will go this way."

On the dry coolness of what felt like a cement slab, similar to that of her loft in Chicago, someone removed her blindfold. She looked at her travel companion. The lady was in her sixties, well preserved, and slightly taller and heavier than her.

Front and center, sitting on the bare floor, legs crossed, in full camouflage attire, brass ribbons of ammunition cascading on both his sides along with two AKs, was Commander Moktar. His small cell was made of two-dozen young and faithful fighters.

The camp was organized like a safari outpost. It stood on a small rocky mound that overlooked the Niger River, natural border between Benin and Nigeria. The river fed a lush strip of green vegetation on both its sides.

The camp's periphery muted from deep green to mild yellow as it grew in elevation. The compound had been built around a rock formation. Rocks were a frequently used camouflage cover.

The goal was to neutralize aerial reconnaissance during the day. Captors and captives alike moved about the camp under a strict protocol dictated by Moktar. Daytime was saved for meditation, prayer, conversion of the prisoners to the Muslim faith, and rest. Work was conducted early in the morning and late in the afternoon.

" Good morning ladies, and sorry about your troubles" Moktar said.

" Good morning." Felicia and the older lady replied.

" Felicia."

" Patricia."

" Welcome to Kebbi."

It must have been the name of the region, or the nearest village, or perhaps a northern state that only Patricia would know. She had lived in the country for the past thirty years.

" In case you haven't guessed it" Moktar said, "you are now the property of Boko Haram. You are our temporary property of course. We are detaining Patricia for a five hundred thousand dollar ransom from the U.S. government. Negotiations started while you were in route."

The lady began crying.

" No need to cry, Pastor. We do not kill Western hostages here. You will not be harmed, or even held in a cell. You are free to walk around. Let me show you your quarters. We separate men from women, for obvious reasons."

Their sleeping shelter was a small cavity inside a large round rock. There was just enough space to house two cots and a lamp, nothing more.

" You will rest here at night." Moktar said.

The remainder of the camp was dispersed on the size of a football field. The terrain was uneven, hilly. It was part of the tall and lush forest feeding on the river, three hundred yards below.

From the sky, they were invisible, except from the vultures permanently circling above.

Food was dispersed in rice bags, along with water rations. There were gallons of water, and plastic jerry cans. Gasoline was stocked in small transparent fuel reservoirs, next to ammunition. There were dozens of 7.62 mm wooden crates, AK-47s, rocket propelled grenades, and a few larger .50 caliber iron black machine guns rested quietly on tripods.

The arsenal was impressive. It served the group's purpose, and was carefully rationed and managed under Moktar's orders. He was older than his men, probably by a decade, and taller as well.

He was a dominating bearded figure, a colossus. His face was gentle, very refined, like that of a feline. He must have been thirty-eight, about Felicia's age, but it was hard to guess.

The oldest man of the gang was at the most ten years younger than him. The youngest was probably eighteen or nineteen years old, not more. They obeyed him like a God. Moktar was the feared, fatherly leader of the group, and its military and ideological leader also. Curiously, he spoke with a very refined British accent.

During their week at the camp, the women rarely saw the other prisoners held at the Kebbi camp. During the first few days, they spoke very little, and exchanged of their respective biographies.

They were fed with rice, sometimes beans, milo flour, goat meat, and milk on certain days. Nights were cool, and both women were given blankets.

Days were hot and dry, and the prisoners mostly moved from cave to cave, under the camouflage nets, to muscle a minimum of exercise. There were no handcuffs, concrete cells, or barricades. There were completely free to move about the camp.

There were no toilets either. Felicia and Patricia were handed a roll of hygienic paper on the day of their arrival, and shared it. They occasionally headed together to the edges of the green cover, where the tall yellow grass met the camp. It was the designated area for relief.

They were never accompanied, watched, or guarded. Only the path down to the river required escorting. Uphill, there was nowhere to flee, but the endless savanna beyond the parked pick-up trucks near the entrance.

Their captors in sable khaki came and went in apparent synchronicity with the nightly arrivals and departures of the Toyotas. Life seemed organized, orderly, safe, unthreatening, yet it felt surrealistic. It seemed to follow a foreign logic.

Moktar would always stop at their cave late in the evening. He would wish them good night, and recede in the darkness with his electric torch. He was mysterious, and seemed extremely busy during the day.

By midweek, the following Wednesday, he had conversed separately with Patricia at first, about religion, and then her experience in Africa, as well as her intentions after her liberation. He called Felicia.

" Good morning!" he said.

His commanding post was also his bedroom. His black ranger shoes slept at the feet of his cot. Above it, hung a photograph of Abdulaye Bubakar, the Nigerian leader of Boko Haram. The menacing black flag with the white Arabic lettering was stretched along the wall. Moktar collected books. Below his desk and the ammo crates, a Persian rug was curiously tying it all up in the semi-obscurity.

" Good morning Commander."

" You are probably wondering about your fate. I thought I would calm your fears and worries," he said.

" You haven't mentioned a ransom," Felicia said.

She stood barefoot, wrapped in a typical Western African sarong. She had finally abandoned her worn out jeans and tee-shirt outfit from the week before, and was completely nude under it. Moktar knew it.

" You are correct. You are absolutely correct. There is no ransom amount for you. Not that I know about. The orders, in your case, came from above; I did not initiate them. I am strictly the messenger."

" I understand" Felicia said.

" Strictly the messenger." Moktar repeated. " The order is to treat you well, and make sure you are ok."

" Who gave the order?" Felicia asked.

" Well, I can't really tell you that. You will find out in due time."

" Very well...." She didn't dare ask about the duration of her stay.

" Are you religious?" Moktar asked.

" Well, quite frankly not very. Although, as of late, given my plight, I've become...more of a believer, one could say."

" You know," Moktar continued, " I really don't expect you to convert. You are an American civilian, a non-religious entity, and probably vaguely Christian.

I'm not going to pester you with this. You are who you are. You can believe what you believe. Very soon you will be out of here, far away, and my responsibility as your guardian will no longer be."

" Your mission..." Felicia inquired.

" Yes. My mission to deliver you to the higher ups. The higher powers."

" The higher powers?"

" Yes. The higher ups, above my rank, in the organization. I created this small cell to disrupt Northwest Nigeria and contribute to the cause. But I'm no ideologue; I have principles, morals. I was educated in England."

"I noticed the accent."

" I was educated at Oxford," he said.

" I see..."

" The men you see running around under their chadors and camouflage were not. They're imbeciles. They need to be directed, disciplined, directed, and led. It's about south versus north. About the haves and the have-nots, religion is just a pretext. A pretext for envy, desire, lust, jealousy of America and the rich man, nothing else."

" I would agree fully with that." Felicia said. " I'm not much of an ideologue myself."

" Good. I've tried to be fully transparent with you so that you can tell about it when you return to the real world."

" Tell what?"

" What you saw, what you witnessed here, how we treat you. "

" We have not been mistreated. We've been respected. Our intimacy has been respected, our dignity as well."

" Glad to hear it. We have rules here and should anything happen to you..." He mimicked slicing his own throat.

" I have no choice." he concluded, " but to respect orders, and have my men respect them as well."

Felicia suddenly wanted to know more about him, and what led him to the cause, but she hesitated. On one hand he was a monster, on the other, an amazingly powerful leader who was feared and respected by his clan.

" Come with me." he said. " Patricia, you can stay here."

Patricia had seen it before, but not Felicia. They walked all the way to the edge of the camp, and distanced themselves from the shaded huts and camouflaged shelters. They reached the cover of the thick tree line overlooking the river. A young crew was guarding two middle-aged expats who were sitting on the grey dirt, their hands tied behind their backs.

" They are traitors." Moktar said, pointing at them, " They tried to escape last night, but my men caught up with them. The jungle is a small place."

The two men were shaking, staring at the young warriors and the brass cartridges shining around their necks.

" They are worth money," Moktar said.

Felicia approached the group, staying close to him.

" What are you going to do?" she asked, and looked up at him.

" What would you do if you were in my place? We have rules, and they broke them. I could get killed for letting them escape, you understand that?"

" I do." said Felicia.

He walked very close to them. He looked immense, magnanimous.

" These people come to our country, make a lot of money, despise our people. We capture them, we tell them not to wander around after dark, and they don't listen. They're like children. Defiant. They don't want to learn. It's dangerous out to be out there in the bush after dark."

Both men began urinating, overwhelmed with fear. Felicia noticed the somber spots on the fronts of their khaki shorts. The guards had removed their shirts, revealing their pink bellies. They had let them roast under the sun all morning tied up to a tree, and finally brought them back in the shade.

It was almost noon. One of the men started begging Moktar for his life.

" Please, don't kill us now."

Moktar burst out laughing:

" Later? You want to die later? How about tonight?"

The man began vomiting. His companion began to pray:

Our Father, who is in heaven

Holy is your name

Your kingdom comes

Your will be done,

On earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

And forgive us our sins,

As we forgive those who sin against us;

And lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil.

Moktar pulled his Springfield Armory .45 ACP from his belt. It was the stainless steel version of it, shiny like the chrome of a brand new Cadillac.

The thing about Anglophone Africa, Sierra Leone, Liberia, or Nigeria, it loved everything American: The cars, the music, the guns, the women, the movies, and even the cartoon characters.

Felicia was silent, still standing next to Moktar. She looked at the two prisoners on the ground. The young guards wore the traditional Sahara cloth wrapped around their faces. Moktar stood tall in his black rangers and full camouflage outfit. He was facing his own dilemma. Her heart was beating extremely fast.

She had never been in that situation, nowhere near it. She heard gunshots throughout the week, day and night, and she now realized their meaning. Moktar looked at her, his men, and finally the prisoners trembling.

" Tonight." he said to Felicia. " I want you to come to the party tonight. My men liberated another village yesterday, and we are celebrating tonight."

" I'm intrigued..." Felicia said as they walked back towards the camp.

" Intrigued about what?"

" Your management style."

" There is no management. It's only life or death up here, " he replied.

That night, the fighters were celebrating their victory. The entire camp gathered around a bonfire. Moktar allowed the exception to the no light rule in order to appease tensions. He knew the regular army was hundreds of miles away, confined to the south. His troops had been rapidly advancing and already gobbled up the northern half of the country. Wherever it surfaced, Boko Haram was feared.

The bonfire was high, crackling with wood collected from the forest nearby. It projected a triumphant glow on the men's faces. For the circumstance, they had removed their face covers and Felicia could now see each one of them.

They had rounded up drums stolen in the villages during their raids, and were beating on them.

The beat was fast, syncopated, and solicited the vocal participation of the entire group.

Antelope filet was roasting on improvised sticks above a giant wood grill, enough to feed the whole camp. Dancing began, mystical and enticing, to the sound of the drums. They had untied the hands of the expats who also sat there, watching the spectacle, chewing on the meat and drinking soda. They seemed hypnotized by the scene, not knowing what to think.

Christians had been decapitated, slaughtered. Expat hostages were fueling their captor's coffers with ransom monies. Higher powers, with deep overseas pockets were financing the flow and logistics of their growing arsenal.

" One day we're going to take over the world." Moktar said.

He was comfortably lying on a foam mattress, facing the fire, and watching his men celebrate. Felicia was sitting sideways next to him, and watching the show as well.

" The U.S. embassy in Lagos folded today." he said.

" Folded?" she asked

" They packed up and went home. They didn't even put up a fight."

" Wow." she said.

Boko Haram's success was touted as far as Oregon. Intellectuals, journalists, college professors celebrated the burning of the American flag.

They felt progress had finally arrived in Africa. Soon, they hoped, it would reach the American West. Whoever burned the American flag could do no wrong.

It must have been therefore progressive to cut the clits of young black women with razor blades. Everything made sense.

What was bad for America had to be good for humanity.

The following morning, it was time for Felicia's daily bath with Patricia in the river, three hundred yards below the camp. For that trip, they were escorted daily, along the narrow red path that ran like a serpent between the rock formations and lush green bushes.

" Let me go with you and Patricia this morning." Moktar said, " get her ready."

Felicia went to the round rock to call Patricia while Moktar gathered three other men for the walk. He didn't fear his prisoners escaping into Benin across the river.

He was more concerned about an animal attack, or the sudden need to disperse should a clash occur. Those were the camp regulations, but nothing ever happened at Kebbi.

Moktar's hideout was a veritable sanctuary, well selected, well disguised, and strategically placed at the triangular border of Benin, Niger, and Nigeria, way up river, with plenty of indicators along the way to warn them.

He also was fond of the emerald pool of water, between the rocks, at the end of the trail, and the granite formation forty yards away.

From there, he and his soldiers could rest, joke, play cards, and even listen to music during their prisoners daily ritual ablutions.

The cleansing before the call to prayer at noon was mandatory. Bathing took place at around 11 am or so, for half an hour, before returning to camp. They followed both females down the red path. Moktar closed the walk, and the man in front of him carried a 1980s style boom box with a CD reader on top of it.

Once they reached the granite mound, Patricia and Felicia undressed and headed straight for the water. It was a joyous morning, and after their long conversations with Moktar, they felt more at ease.

He was the boss, the man in charge; Oxford educated, he cultivated his own values. He occasionally tolerated un-Muslim practices at the margins of the camp, but he seemed to be a righteous leader, just, and fair. He was a God fearing disciplined warrior.

Muscular and hardened by battle, he felt he was protecting the ravishing nude Felicia on behalf the enigmatic higher power in the organization. When the young soldier set up the CD player on top of the rocks and turned on the rap song, Moktar didn't say a word to reprimand him. Instead, he kneeled on the north side of the rock, in its shade, invisible from the three other men and lowered his pants. He could see Felicia, but she could not see him yet.

Still, she felt the tension of his presence. The three other men knew better. One was lying on top of the formation, and turned up the volume on CD player. It began resonating loudly in the little oasis. The second man was facing the water directly, his AK resting against the rock.

The third guard headed to the bushes for relief, some thirty, forty yards up and along the bank. The rap sound erupted, loud, deafening like a Miami nightclub at three in the morning.

Yo, look at that crowd

Checking out a thong cheat on your brother and steal him his honey

Try and twist my arm keep looking for the money

Here to kill

Here to kill last night

That's when the guard who was peeing was decapitated, he didn't see the blade of the machete whizzing, it was too fast, blood gushed from his now empty flat neck, and urine was still oozing from his penis. He fell in the bush without a sound. The rest of his body was still convulsing. His head was nowhere to be found.

And you thought there would be no fight

You check' em at the camp and you play it like a champ

And you can't hear me but I'm close right now

You watching all the bees as they pose by now

Through the music, the man on top of the rocks lit up a joint. His mind did not completely register the lightening fast shadow that was zooming towards him, machete in hand. Forty yards is a short dash for a sprinter at full speed. Instinctively, he slid down the rock, and reached for his AK, but the machete brutally cut off his left arm.

A vertical spurt of his blood arched in the blue sky. The pain of the hemorrhage had not reached his brain yet, and his right arm lifted the weapon while his eyes opened wide in horror. He hurled out a scream.

The third guard facing the river heard it, and turned away from the two nude ladies dancing in the water below him.

Pick up trucks dark but the moon lit it

As if sistas all want to to give it

But your soldiers missed me in it

They ain't wailing for taxi drivers

Blow Joes, I've seen em by the river

But I know you, you could be my brother

I seen you in London one place or another

Shoot! Smoking cigars with the British butler

Chicago steaks sliced for this hustler

Moktar was masturbating, and watching Felicia. His dilated pupils were fully focused on her fully tanned buttocks and her pussy. She looked at him when she lifted her green sarong.

He noticed her raise her head in the sparkling water. Felicia saw the third man rolling around the rock. The joint smoker disappeared from the top of the pyramid. She couldn't see what went on behind it, but she heard the scream through the music, and Moktar did as well.

I'm only a cheetah and roll with the sweetie

Your whole crew feeling cold and sweaty

She won't go commando bro you believe me

Your aficionado made it look like he pee

You need new style and a coach

And I will crucify you like a cockroach

The third guard rolled all around the rock. Three quarters into the turn, AK in hand, he was shocked by the sudden proximity of the intruder. The man was a tonic villager, crazed, muscular, completely covered with palm oil, and gushes of blood were running down his skin.

He raised his AK ready to fire but the attacker grabbed the barrel with one hand. It was pushed it aside while the machete entered his stomach. Stunned by the pain, his throat opened, and he too let agonizing scream. He dropped the AK immediately.

His was cut at the waist, the thighs, and the elbows. Each time a new oozing of blood covered the black velvet of his skin. He was still standing and screaming while the intruder finally perforated his heart.

Yo, look at that crowd

You should have a gun and kill your cabby right now

Laughing at the bang he just missed me that night

South side jacker thought he'd stole from a nigga

Moktar's brain was still torn between Felicia's fantastic nudity, which, for an instant, looked so reachable - and the two successive agonizing screams of his subordinates - Instinctively, he climbed on top of the rocks, and held the attacker in a headlock with the metal barrel of his empty AK. That's all he could do.

He attempted to suffocate the killer that way. The bald colossus below him matched his weight and bent forward. He pushed against the rock with his feet, and made Moktar roll over the glistening muscles of his back and fall flat, disoriented.

Moktar grabbed the machete off the sand and pointed it upwards. His pants were still down, but he was no longer erect. The attacker took the AK, and pulled the trigger. It clicked empty. He slammed the orange butt right on the machete.

Moktar who was still on the ground blocked it. The colossus kept slamming the butt, missed, and began crushing his arms with violent blows. Moktar sliced his opponent leg with the machete, but the motion left his bearded black face wide open. He rolled to his side, and pushed himself up. His enormous penis was still hanging outside the camouflage pants.

Now he had a firm handle on the wooden handle of the machete, and was cutting through the air, all around the killer.

Like two gladiators above the rock, they kept trading blows. The AK's bayonet holding firm, crossed the metal of the machete in loud dings that echoed in the forest over the music.

Still nude, the two women below were standing side by side. They were mesmerized at the speed of the attack, and noticed the dead men around the rock.

Moktar's massive muscles were coming back to life. His mind was clicking in warrior mode once again. The intruder sliced low with the bayonet, cutting through his camouflage vest. Furious, he counter-attacked, eager to decapitate the crazed man. He lounged forward slicing through the air again, and missed the shaved head by an inch.

In prior machete fights in the jungle, he had decapitated children, cut ears, maimed men and women without hesitation. He had learned on the terrain, without any schooling. Djambo, on the other hand, had many hours of French fencing practice in High School. Moktar felt Felicia was watching him.

He briefly looked towards her, protectively, as if his own demise would surely condemn her. At that split second, the sharp blade of the AK's bayonet entered his abdomen, perforated the skin, found his guts, and came back out with of them. He was still alive. But Djambo was pressing back in now, all the way, bringing Moktar to his knees, and finally flat on the ground.

Djambo kept pushing, as hard as he could through the heart, until he felt the hard ground finally resisting the tip of the bayonet on the other side.

Moktar's eyes were still open, huge, like those of a Cape buffalo. But there was no life left in him. Djambo dropped the AK, grabbed the machete, and ran towards his wife.

It was July 4th. Independence Day. And the rap song hadn't stopped. Louder than ever, in the forest, it kept blasting from the boom box. Felicia recognized her husband at last.

But the cheetah bit his arm and kept driving with it

Rolled it and screeched it while I rhyme a new hit

Steer it with a finger pull his jacket with the other

Thirty-mile an hour wind twisted like you sister

No time for em Nikes rolling in the snow

Cheetah in the know now and he won't let you go

Djambo led them to the shaded opposite bank where they quickly dressed. Still barefoot, they started running again. They were on the Benin side of the river now. The Range Rover was waiting five hundred yards away.

The women warriors of Kebbi had put their trust in him. With the agouti rats, Djambo showed them how to extract information from their prisoners. One of the intelligence officers gave up the exact position of the camp. They kept him tied in the dark hut with the three others, and left, with the agouti rats trapped under the bowls solidly taped to their stomachs.

It was still night when they left the camp. They formed a long single file, silent, in the pre-dawn wetness soaking the tall weeds. All of the girls volunteered for the attack and were determined to help Djambo free the mystical white lady. They approached the camp silently before daybreak.

Djambo told the young woman to wait for half an hour. They had no radio, no telephone, and no walkie-talkie. But she trusted his instinct and his determination. He whispered to her ear once they were three hundred yards away from the Boko Haram compound. He told her to instruct her girls to shoot the men with the guns first.

Now they were crawling low on the cracked ash colored dirt. Like the serpent, the crocodile, the cheetah, the lion, and man himself; it was time.

He would leave Keisha there, leading the attack, and attempt to outflank any danger. She would do the same thing on the other side of the camp. Her girls would take it down the middle. Djambo could very well die, and the girl knew it too.

" Thirty minutes." he said.

" If I don't come back in thirty minutes, you go forward."

The girl nodded. She understood. It wasn't her first. The first time had been frightening. But now, she had grown used to the killing. She patiently waited, looking at the camp through Djambo's binoculars. She could see the fighters waking up and walking around.

She saw the two white men, hands tied, on the right side. In the middle there were tall, round rocks, and under the trees, further to the left, she saw the food supply shack.

She kept crawling. The other girls followed her. They were invisible, low to the ground. Their black, brown, and grey tee shirts perfectly matched the landscape. At a hundred yards from the ammunition depot, she heard the rap song coming up from the river.

The camp's men moved like big game. Slowly. Like a pride of lions roaming around they seemed to go from the depot to the Toyotas, loading ammunition.

Keisha looked at her watch again. Her hand went back to the pistol grip of her AK and began shaking. The other women, her sisters in arms, kept watching her. She slowly raised her left arm, and pointed into the general direction of the attack.

She wanted to neutralize the depot first, but waited to see first if more men were coming out of it.

They seemed to have filled up the back of the trucks with supplies. They looked ready. Three drivers, three Toyotas, side by side, were parked towards the trail leading out of the camp.

The rap song stopped and Djambo had not returned. Keisha waited until she had a grouping of three men in her sights. She aimed, and fired a short burst.

The men, hit by the 7.62 bullets at fifty yards fell instantly. Her companions on both wings stood up and began firing at the Toyotas. The hoods and windows immediately splattered with blood. They kept firing. The sound of their twenty-eight AKs suddenly exploded in the forest. Several men found refuge behind the big rock that served as a sleeping cave to Felicia and Patricia. Others disappeared swiftly inside the concrete depot.

Keisha turned her empty clip upside down and engaged a fresh one. She stood up and ran towards the pick up trucks. One of the rebels emerged from the back, fired at her, missed, and she shot from the hip while running towards him. He died instantly and rolled along the side of the truck.

The other young women, a dozen on each side were running towards the camp and shooting. Three men guarding the two expats had taken position in front of their hut and were shooting the .50 caliber from the ground. On her left, the rest of Keisha's girls were running through the tall grass.

They directed the deafening staccato of their assault rifles towards their edge of the camp.

Keisha was still between the Toyotas. Three girls joined her. The men inside the depot were shattering the windows, tires, and sides of the trucks with bullets.

She felt, for a moment, overpowered, overmatched. No more sound came from the right, behind the depot and towards the huts. Suddenly, it started again. The girls had charged the hostage hut, in full auto mode, and neutralized the two shooters on the ground. The men in the depot began firing again.

" Let's go!" Keisha said.

More fighters emerged from Moktar's hut. They were shooting, picking off the girls at an angle. One was hit in her left temple; another caught a bullet in the stomach and began yelling. A third girl felt a burn through her throat, and collapsed. The smell of powder enveloped the entire perimeter in the fury of the fight.

Djambo, Felicia, and Patricia heard the automatic bursts echoing from the other side of the river behind them. They continued running.

In the hostage hut, the two expats were shaking. The sound was terrifying. Two girls entered it and began untying them.

" Stay here. Stay on the ground." they said.

They exited the hut quietly, like two lionesses, and disappeared in the bushes behind it. Once they reached Moktar' sleeping quarters, they emptied both their clips, sixty bullets in all, in the back of the five shooters guarding it.

In the depot, one of the rebels, stunned at Keisha' sudden appearance charged with his bayonet, and she pulled the trigger. Three other men turned around from the back windows. The other girls emptied their clips, littering the floor with empty brass cases.

They could barely see through the screen of blue smoke. Keisha shot the man again, in the chest. And she did the same with the other three.

The whole camp fell quiet. Two rebels, still wrapped in full gear, slowly emerged from behind the rock. They raised their hands. The girls walked silently towards them, frightened, and ready to kill them.

Then they split in groups of four, meticulously searching every corner of the compound. The night before, once Djambo had given them his tactical lecture, one of the girls painted a batik motif on a piece of white cloth. It was ripped from a bed sheet grabbed in a previous raid to make a flag.

She had painted a cheetah at the very center of it. Now, she tied it to a wood stick and planted it in front of Moktar's bunker.

XIII

EID AL FITR

" He admits whom he wills into his mercy;

But the wrongdoers,

He has prepared for them a painful punishment."

~ Quran 76.31

As soon as they reached the Land Rover, Felicia and Patricia covered themselves from head to toe. They were shivering. Djambo was still naked, and glistening with palm oil. He had prepared for everything: wrestling, tracking, stalking, and killing if necessary. He would go to the very edges of the earth to rescue Felicia.

He was Djambo the magnificent, Djambo The Cheetah. Only him could run a forty-yard dash in four seconds. He was the king of the African savanna. Now, in the Land Rover, he already started the engine, and handed a plastic gallon of water to both women.

They were silent, stunned.

" Everything ok?" Djambo asked.

" Why did you do that?" Felicia asked.

" Kill these men."

" Why do you think?"

" To save you."

" That wasn't necessary."

" It was absolutely necessary, it was a matter of life and death."

" How do you know that?"

" Believe me, I know. These men are no good."

" No good? They took good care of us..."

" Good care? Felicia, look at you."

Her face was burnt by ten straight days of sun. A few more weeks at the camp, and her psychological perversion by the terrorists would be irreversible. Djambo saved her in-extremis. But she didn't see it that way.

" We spoke a lot."

" I'm sure you did."

" Moktar was a good man."

" Who?"

" Moktar. The man you killed last. The leader."

She had been secretly attracted to him, and began to adhere to his cause in the last days of her captivity. They didn't have sex, but she had longed for it. She loved Moktar's manhood, his camouflage uniform, his oversized rangers, and his warrior scent.

He respected the almighty, and feared for his own life. He was an extremely powerful and disciplined man with his soldiers. Yet he still kept, deep in northern territory, a modicum of fear and sense of self-preservation.

Touching Felicia would surely have guaranteed his death. The mysterious figure above it all had been formal in its instructions. Felicia not only began to identify with Moktar's cause, but she also found all of his men attractive in one- way or another.

Their morning showers were a ritual she secretly enjoyed watching. She would nonchalantly compare the various lengths of their long manhood's. They disappeared under the white soap bubbles, and surged again between their hands. She would contemplate them until they would be fully rinsed; clean, soft, long, ready to be provoked, tickled, annoyed, and satisfied.

Felicia didn't know where she was anymore. The past twenty-four hours had been completely confusing. She was still mesmerized by the alpha, massive stature of Moktar.

She was torn between her secret temptation to run away with him to Cameroon, where no one would find them – and her husband's sudden re-appearance to save her.

The ochre burnt bush was whizzing by the Range Rover's windows.

She looked back, and stared at the red swirling clouds behind them, mile after mile. She was measuring the distance increasingly separating her from the Boko Haram camp and her future. Her heart was pinching.

Djambo felt it. He stayed quiet, and continued fixating the arid undulations of the road ahead through the windshield.

The bordering villages came and went on the side of the trail for hours. Late afternoon, they reached the greener, moist and fertile forest of mid-country. It was blessed by a band of rain, and the tropical storms that separated north from south.

Djambo had taken the northern route through Benin, Togo, and Ghana in order to avoid the civil war in southern Nigeria. He turned back towards Felicia.

" You've always wanted to see my village, darling. We're not far from it now."

" I didn't think it would happen under these circumstances," she said.

" Me neither."

An hour later, they reached it. Djambo turned to a narrow trail almost invisible from the main road. It was hidden and the yellow weeds parted ways along both sides of the Range Roger. Finally, it emerged, near the rocks of a waterfall.

Djambo stopped a good two hundred yards away from it, and rolled down the windows. Felicia and Patricia were looking also. The circular red huts with the dried out palm roofs were motionless in the early evening heat. The village melted in the green landscape in front of them, and it felt the trail leading up to it entered Djambo's heart.

Children were already running towards them, smiling, yelling, and celebrating. They were too young to know Djambo, but he told them this was his home.

A handful ran back to the huts to carry the news. Patricia and Felicia exited the Range Rover and were walking next to Djambo.

By the time they reached the huts, everyone knew their son had come home. The elderly were crying, and women surrounded Djambo with joy. They wouldn't stop talking. He knew his parents had passed, but in the celebration of his return, he had forgotten it.

The entire village surrounded them; dozens of cheerful souls greeted them in the loud cacophony of love. The children ran to Felicia and the women carefully touched her hair as if she and Patricia were curious creatures.

The three of them finally stopped right in the center circle formed by the huts. The villagers brought wooden chairs, water, and food. Patricia was used to the custom, but it was all new for Felicia. She was enchanted, surprised, and amazed. Djambo sat down. He hadn't been home in over twenty years. He was crying quietly.

For the rest of the afternoon, he narrated his ordeal to everyone in the grand African oral tradition. It was his story, and the woman sitting next to him was his wife.

The village knew war was raging in both countries, and felt blessed that it had been miraculously spared. An old man suggested that the spirits designated Djambo to pay, but now that he had accomplished his deed, they would leave him alone.

His uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters surrounded him in tears. They recognized Djambo the Cheetah. They began dancing to the drums, and soon the entire village was celebrating.

Felicia and Patricia remained glued to the wooden chairs, and watched the spectacle. They finally realized they were free.

Djambo was smiling for the first time. He began dancing, instinctively following the rhythm of the drums and the call and response of the songs. It was cathartic. The feast continued late in the evening. At around midnight, they collapsed in Djambo's hut, exhausted, but relieved.

In the morning, Djambo kept a few hundred CFA francs for the ultimate leg of the journey, and offered his backpack as a gift to the children. Felicia was waking up. She had been moved from the music and the love given to her. For a moment, she thought she was still in the hands of Boko Haram.

Then she saw her husband's face, smiling over a clean white tee shirt. He had gone swimming at the foot of the waterfalls, and was now cleanly shaved, ready to leave. They still had hundreds of miles before reaching Abidjan.

They stopped half way, at gas station that also served as a bar. It was painted all in blue. Patricia and Felicia jumped out of the Range Roger, stretched their legs, looked around, and headed inside for the bathrooms. Djambo called Francoise. It was the first telephone in six hundred miles.

" Maman: It's Djambo. I've done it. She's alive. There's another lady too..."

" Oh! Djambo. I was so worried." Francoise said.

" I know Maman. There is no phone in northern Nigeria."

" I know son. I know."

Francoise Martin had relied on her instinct. She cultivated the African way of dealing with silence: No cell phone, no television, and no news. She endured the passing days with the trust she had in her stepson. He wasn't going to die. She was sure of it. He was her Djambo.

It took him and the women another four hundred miles to reach the coast and the villa. The dusty trail turned back into asphalt, and soon, civilization re-emerged from both sides of the road.

Thousands of French paratroopers had fallen from the sky in the previous days. Their deployment was a miracle.

They freed the entire country from the certainty of chaos and darkness. They secured the entire perimeter of the city with roadblocks, and the rebels had been crushed on the steps of the presidential palace.

" Papers, please." the French soldier asked when they approached Abidjan. Djambo handed his. Neither Patricia nor Felicia had any.

" Where are you going?"

" To the American Embassy." Djambo said. He did not want to mention Francoise Martin. News travelled fast.

" These women are American."

" Ok. You can go."

At the villa, Djambo opened the gate quietly, and parked at last. The Range Rover was red with dirt, and its windshield obscured by hundreds of dead bugs. Francoise came out, gorgeous on the front steps, and hugged Djambo.

" Maman."

" Felicia, I haven't seen you in so long. Since the wedding, I think," she said.

Felicia smiled. It was the second time she met Djambo's stepmother.

Still stunned by the ordeal, she did not know quite what to say.

" Let me show you around." Francoise said.

" Maman, I think they are extremely tired."

" Very well, go straight to the showers then. I've made dinner."

Francoise had set up the table on the patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, exactly where she used to dine when Robert was alive. She still ate breakfast there, but lunch and dinner were reserved for company. She did not want to face her loneliness.

She had lived a lot and loved a lot. At sixty, her love of Africa had not diminished. Her husband just passed and she had not decided yet what to do with the rest of her life. All she knew is that she felt young.

" How about yourself?" she asked Patricia over dinner.

" I am in the same place. I feel deserted."

" Deserted? "

" Yes. I feel God has left me, the same way your husband has left you, yet I still feel young."

" In what way?" Djambo asked.

" Not necessarily in the sense of losing my faith, despite all this, but losing myself and my ability to serve God. I don't feel I have it in me anymore."

" You will serve him in your own way, I am sure of it." Djambo said.

" How can you be so sure? "

" The things of the spirit never leave us." he said; " They evolve, transform, it's the journey of life. We are tested along the road. Look at Felicia, she was tested too."

Felicia smiled and looked at her husband.

" You have an amazing wife." Patricia said.

" I know I do," he said.

" Are you ok, baby?" he asked Felicia once in the privacy of their bedroom.

" I'm fine. I think I'm fine. It's. It's been a long time without you, sweetie."

Felicia looked into Djambo's brown eyes, straight into them, for the first time since her liberation. He had changed. He was more animalistic. Civilization, it seemed, had receded from him and left a void filled only by nature.

" What's wrong baby?" he asked.

" I'm going to need some time to absorb it all. I can't believe you're here; you've come all this way to rescue me."

" I was the only way. It was that, or perhaps never seeing you again. You realize what these people are capable?"

" Oh yes, I do."

" I have an idea: I'll talk to Francoise tomorrow morning. She owns a little bungalow thirty miles from here. It's right on the beach; there will be nobody there but you and me. We should go for a couple of days."

They woke up early in the afternoon. Francoise was already nude bathing at the pool, completely oblivious to the presence of the two other women. Patricia was not offended. As a female pastor in Africa, she grew very comfortable with the sensuality of others as well as her own.

" Maman" Djambo asked, " I'd like to take Felicia to the bungalow."

" You don't have to ask, son. You're a grown man."

In Francoise' smile, he remembered her free spirit, her hippy ways that puzzled her husband at times. Djambo inherited it from her, and he loved every moment of it. He rushed to the bedroom with joy, quickly packed, kissed Felicia, and led her the Range Rover.

At the pool, Francoise was smiling too. She felt relieved her stepson was alive. She was elated Felicia had survived the ordeal. Yet she felt the loneliness of him leaving her again, as if he had evaporated again into the new day, the heat, and the sun.

Patricia plunged into the pool nude. The sudden parting of the lukewarm water all around her felt like a deep cleansing. She swam like a child, happy to be alive.

She breathed deep in the scintillating water, and was forgetting the oppressive heat and dirt of the last ten days. She had enjoyed speaking to Francoise after dinner the night before.

All of her life, in the Third World, she dedicated herself to helping humanity in any way she could. In the bush, she had been the teacher, the spiritual leader, the builder, the judge, the counselor, and the voice of God and good conscience. Africa loved her for it. Now, at sixty, her captivity had made her realize her own mortality. She also felt Francoise sadness at her husband's passing. Francoise knew Djambo would soon be moving on with his new life, wherever it would take him with Felicia.

In that sadness, she felt close to Francoise. When they kissed on the edge of the pool they did not feel a hint of false modesty or discomfort. They were equal in their nudity, and under the sun. Gorgeous in their nobility, wisdom, and understanding of their mutual attraction, they began to explore each other with delight.

Francoise quickly found the abundant pubic fold of the religious woman at the tip of her fingers, and with it, she felt she was teasing God and the meaning of life. Patricia felt it delicately, between her thighs. She was looking at the ocean below the pool, while standing, thighs fully apart.

She immediately welcomed the inquisitive licks of the French woman underneath her.

They woke up the distant memory of pleasure she had herself encountered with younger men when she first arrived on the continent. She remembered feeding them her astounding breasts. Francoise continued to lick and looked straight into Patricia's eyes. Soon, the mature American woman started oozing a delectable white cream and her clitoris emerged, surprised and excited.

She looked down at Francoise and saw and the massive thighs of her brunette counterpart squatted below her. She wanted to reciprocate.

She led Francoise to the navy blue lounging chair, and began exploring her from behind. Francoise opened fully, and planted her elbows in the thick mattress of the lounging chair.

The sun emerged over the palm grove. It was already red, oppressive, and gorgeous. Djambo and Felicia had slept in the beach bungalow. He dreamt of her. He loved her, and she loved him. Their love was sweet, faithful, forgiving, and righteous.

There was between them no greed, no prejudice, no political correctness, no anger, no revenge, no hard feelings, no more doubts, no other woman, no other man, and no judgment.

In her dream, Felicia realized that only God could judge. She knew it intrinsically, but the certainty came to her in her sleep, like a revelation.

In their convoluted and solitary journeys their love endured the loneliness and the horror. It resurfaced polished like a gem, with radiant beauty. Felicia had held strong. Despite the temptations along the way, her heart, centered on her faith and the love of her man, she never gave in.

Djambo embraced her contradictions, her dilemmas, the complexities of her heart and mind, like the cartographic journey he undertook to save her life and their love. She was shaken, traumatized. But she grew also. On her own, she became more courageous, self-assertive, and confident.

She woke up, in the palm fringed thatch, floating in the late morning heat. She walked the hundred yards to the end of the green coconut tree line. She had wrapped an orange Indonesian sarong around her naked waist, and let her magnificent breasts bounce fully free as she headed towards the green water beyond the burning sand.

She brought her I-phone6 with her. The grove was completely deserted. The fishing village nearby had long been abandoned. Its inhabitants moved to the city years before. The young tried their luck with work in the huge metropolis thirty miles away. Unable to find it, many migrated to Europe and even the Americas to follow their dreams.

Djambo was thinking about it when he woke up. He dreamt of his childhood, in his village, north, where the desert descends to meet West Africa. Francoise had made him a man and prepared him for the unpredictable journey of life.

Felicia, vulnerable, young, naïve, educated in the things of the books, but not really in the things of life, fulfilled his sentimental search. She was his first love. They were rapidly approaching forty and they had spoken about children before.

Felicia desired a child, a child from God, and a child from her husband. She wanted a sweet little devil of a baby fathered by a real man. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Djambo medically. Multiple check-ups, tests, and analyses had demonstrated his full fertility potential.

The doctor attributed their multiple failures to stress, and guaranteed

" Things would work out", and that " nature had its own mysteries." Djambo was thinking about it now. He had given Felicia the time, the night before, not to rush into anything, and get all the sleep she needed.

With time, he thought, she would remove herself from the syndrome that had infiltrated her mind while captive of Boko Haram. They did not harm her, rape her, or even touch her. They solely contemplated her arousing and creamy white nudity on bathing days at the river, and it had touched a sensitive chord in her.

Those brutes could not be monsters. They had to have values, as she had education, wit, wisdom, experience, maturity, and faith. Their cause had to have its own logic, the logic of the oppressed, which she had so often defended and protected in her life.

She stood against her own family, against society, other women, predators, to protect her marriage. Deep in their hearts, she thought, those murderers had to be gentle; soft in their love, yet extraordinarily powerful and protective of the women they protected. The contradiction disturbed her.

Djambo understood that. He knew it would take her some time to realize his wife was victim of the Stockholm Syndrome. Her nature was delicate. His phone rang; He smiled and expected to hear her sweet voice to be covered by the waves of the ocean.

It was Zawar. A glacial horror invaded his whole being. He was still lying in bed. Felicia's warm scent emanated from her side of the cot. The sun was now flushing on the entire cement floor of the hut with a vengeance.

" Francoise? Don't worry; She's alive and well. Wanna call her to verify?" There was no time for it.

" Where is Felicia?" Djambo asked.

" Oh she's right next to me. Wanna talk to her? Here..."

" Oh baby!" Felicia screamed. " He made me...."

" Made you what? " Djambo asked.

" We're out here." Zawar said. " We're not going anywhere. Why don't you come on out, to the beach?"

Djambo realized if he ran out to the open, he was dead. He kept Zawar on the phone.

" Boss, are you there?"

" Yeah. Yeah. I'm here..." Djambo mumbled, rushing around the hut.

" Then why don't you come out boss?"

" I'm coming. I'm coming."

He was running sideways under the shade of the coconut grove, lit by magnificent streaks of blue and green coming from the horizon. The hut was a good hundred yards deep into the lush vegetation, and he could not possibly be seen from the beach.

Felicia walked through it half an hour before to reach the fresh sand. Now she was completely naked, her thin sarong gone, and her thighs spread apart. She was standing on the side of the speedboat, and staring at the green lining of the beach.

Zawar used four sets of handcuffs: One for each of her wrists along the steel tube, and one for each ankle, down below. She could not move. She was bent forward, and her large soft breasts were freely hanging over the railing.

Zawar was standing behind her, nude also. He was holding his cell phone in his left hand, like a triumphant sheik on a French Riviera yacht. Felicia was a substantially higher prize than the twenty-something European summer girls.

He had been waiting for this for a long time. He recalled the night he first saw her, gorgeous, at Djambo's arm.

It was the DCM summer party on Lake Michigan. She didn't even notice him that night.

He confessed to Felicia that he masturbated to her profusely, for months, after renting the loft opposite theirs in Chicago. It was he, behind the window across the street.

He was the tall and mysterious neighbor with the somber skin and the fat cock. He was also the gentle and well-mannered yoga stranger who courted her in her husband's absence.

She realized he grand-mastered her husband's ruin, and organized her kidnapping under a dubious ideological pretext.

Djambo was running towards the bright grassy leaves bordering the beach. He was running as fast as he could, cell phone in his ear. The aluminum speedboat was slowly rocking under the noon sun, with Zawar waiting for him to emerge.

" Why?" asked Djambo.

" I love your wife. I can't help it. I'm blind. Hopelessly blind for her."

Felicia heard him say it. He was masturbating behind her, contemplating his prize, up close for the first time. Zawar had never seen her this close, even on the Wisconsin lake. He was saving the best for Djambo. He wanted full, savage intercourse on the speedboat, in full view, with the three of them reunited one last time.

He felt he owed it to the both of them. He wanted both Djambo and Felicia to endure it, before speeding away with her. He wanted Felicia to conform, and finally be his.

She could sense it as well. She was frightened and the fear made her terribly wet. Zawar could see it. Her white liquor was oozing at the intimate partying of her lips. He approached, his imperial cock fully erect and very eager for the rose petals now at his mercy.

" So that's what it comes down to, my wife?" Djambo asked. He was lying low in the vegetation. He could see Felicia, butt naked, her back arched towards her captor.

The speedboat was anchored two hundred yards away. It faced the clear alley leading up to the hut, and Djambo was hiding well to the left of it.

" Come on out. We don't have all day." Zawar said. He was getting increasingly impatient, staring at Felicia's open fruit.

" You want me to come out huh?" Djambo said.

" Well, I've had my share of seeing you, in that loft, fucking her day in and day out."

Felicia remembered it too. She had wondered at times, about the dark silhouette watching them. Through rain, sleet, shine, or snow she had always sensed his presence. Zawar was the soul behind the dark shadow across the street. Now it was his turn. Yet he had the discipline not to do it without Djambo watching.

" What about all that religious stuff? I thought you were a faithful Muslim?" Djambo asked.

" What religious stuff? I'm an American."

" You're no American, mother fucker. You lost your green card when I fired you. You have no faith. You're a pathetic little fuck. A sicko."

" What about you? Are you a true American? Or just a lucky immigrant?"

" Well; I have a passport. You know that. I'm looking for it right now. I want give it to you."

" What for?"

" Just so that you have it. You've stolen my money, my identity, my life, my wife, I think you deserve my U.S. passport too"

"Bring it. We're out front, in the water. Don't even think about swimming up."

" You've won, Zawar. I'm coming out. Give me two minutes."

" Hurry up boss!"

Felicia knew Djambo would never be able to swim the distance to them. Zawar would lead the cigarette boat to international waters in no time. Then, he would steer it to the nearest village of pirates. There was no U.S. coast guard, no French paratroopers, and no pan-African army to save her. Zawar was the last man standing.

" Do you intend to apply for citizenship?" Djambo asked.

" Hell yes." Zawar said. He was still stroking his cock, and had moved closer to Felicia.

Her vagina inexplicably began to drip. He hadn't anticipated this much that soon. He could already taste the welcoming viscosity of her. She visually titillated him with the Tahiti pearls she attached before leaving the hut and her husband.

Their tingling, through the metallic little shocks, excited her senses. Zawar had appeared from the bushes, grabbed both her wrists, threw her into the dinghy, sped to the speedboat, and easily handcuffed her. Horrified at first, she had sobbed, grew quiet, and was now aroused by the cosmic intensity of the situation.

She could sense the enormous hunger of the thick cock about to invade her from behind. Djambo began praying on the phone.

" When they came to a place called the Skull, there they crucified him along with criminals – one on his right, the other on his left, Jesus said:

" Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they're doing. "

" What are you saying?" Zawar asked.

" I'm losing my faith." Djambo confessed.

" What do you mean? Come on out boss, I know you have courage and dignity. You must want to see your wife one last time before we say good-bye"

" Nah. I'm not coming out." Djambo replied.

Zawar sought to go to the end of his folly and come inside of Felicia. He wanted that moment. Without it, he felt their future would never be quite the same.

" Why the fuck not?"

" I'm losing my faith. I'm no Jesus you know..."

" I know that. But you're a fighter, boss."

" I'm no fighter. I'm losing my faith."

" Faith? "

" Yes. It's Christian concept, probably foreign to you. You've got me, son. You've got all of me. I've lost mine but I want to gain yours, however improbable it may sound to you..."

" Mine?"

" Yes: The righteous way of Allah: ' Not the way of the impostors: O Prophet! Strive hard against the unbelievers and the hypocrites, and be unyielding to them; and their abode is hell, and evil is the destination."

" I don't get it."

" Oh yes you do, son. And you're about to become an American too. With Felicia, you will become a Christian, you will learn forgiveness."

" Maybe. But what about you?"

" I'm toast. You know it. I know it. And Felicia too. She's a smart woman."

" You got that right, boss."

" Those who disbelieve follow falsehood," Djambo said, " while those who believe follow the truth from their Lord. So when you meet and fight Jihad in Allah's cause, those who disbelieve smite at their necks till you have killed and wounded many of them. If it had been Allah's Will, he, himself, could certainly have punished them. But he lets you fight, in order to test you, some with others. But those who are killed in the Way of Allah, He will never let their deeds be lost." Djambo said.

" Come on boss! " Zawar replied, " I can't take it anymore!"

Felicia sensed it as well. She overheard Djambo's voice. Zawar had put him on speaker. She was resigning herself to her husband's capitulation, his outspoken conversion, and she felt closer to him.

Djambo's conversion imbued her with a feeling of pity. Zawar's hard cock and triumph were about to do the rest. The tall muscular young man behind her was now begging Djambo to come out of the bushes. His desire had reached its apex, and he could no longer hold it. His mind was still fighting Djambo's resolve not to come out to watch the spectacle. Yet his cock was mesmerized at the lubricated clit pearls from Tahiti dangling right before him.

Felicia gripped hard on the blazing hot tubular railing of the speedboat. Her eyes were fully focused on the empty beach clearing.

She was also waiting for Djambo to appear, and see her, one last time. Zawar was determined to own her. Now she was in a position where she couldn't do a damn thing about it.

The Tahiti pearls fully exposed to the sun had heated, and their insolent dangling all along her meaty clit became unbearable. Timidly at first, she started oozing a long contained white cream, while her maternal areolas extended out to the maximum. Her nipples stretched and grew enormous over the hot steel tube. Zawar still hadn't touched her.

" Come on out mother fucker! " he screamed in his phone.

" I have one last request when you get there, Zawar. You know I'm not going back to America. There won't be room for the three of us there."

" Ask away, then come out!"

" I want you to read the Second Amendment. Can you promise to do that for me?"

" I promise." Zawar said. He couldn't take it anymore.

Weaker than both bulls fighting for her, Felicia capitulated under the sweet black pearls beating on her clitoris. Her initial oozing under the gentle rocking of the speedboat had grown into bursts from her pussy lips. The first ones dripped on the teak flooring. Then they came in successive jets, aggressive, and unrepentant. They were flying across the two or three feet that separated her from her captor.

Zawar must have felt it. At least her first burst, when the .460 magnum hollow point pulverized his chest. Possibly, his mind functioned an extra second, and registered the sound of Felicia's ferocious orgasm as well the magnificent arc of her liquor reaching his cock for the first time.

The supersonic detonation of the rifle, two hundred yards away reached the both of them under one second. It was a six hundred grain bullet. Through the Nikon scope, Djambo saw the flash of blood behind his wife. She did not.

ASSUMPTION

" Blessed are you among women,

And blessed is the fruit of your womb!"

~ Luke 1:42

In the Luxembourg Garden, Sally Jones was strolling with her new man. He organized her visit to Paris and paid for her trip. It had been a long wait. For six months, they conversed on Skype virtually every night. Now they were here, in Paris. The city was deserted in mid-August. They took the shadowed alleys under the oak trees away from the water fountains of the Senate garden.

The man was holding her hand. They reached a darker, more private corner of the garden.

" You're finally here," he said.

" One has to know how to wait for good things." Sally said.

" I don't know about this internet thing."

" What don't you know?"

" It's different. I'm old school, you know."

" I'm old school too."

" Good. I was wondering about the reality of it."

" It is reality."

" Now it is. We lived by correspondence for six months, Sally."

" Well, so did Djambo and Felicia."

" They had no choice."

" Neither did we, because of work."

" True. But they had history before that."

" We have history now."

She looked up at the man. She had not stopped thinking about him since Christmas. She learned about his life, his feelings, and he discovered her. Now, in the Luxembourg Garden, in the middle of summer, there was not a hint of wind. The air, especially in the green shade, had become thick, oppressive. And they came to the point where words were no longer enough.

In Wisconsin, Wolfgang visited Gretchen. She was in the heavens now and had been heroic until he end. He told her he loved her. He told her he had never loved anyone but her. He had been faithful. There were no stories to explain, no apologies to make. Except that he had been wrong about Djambo. He told her he knew now what he didn't know at the beginning; That Djambo was a good man.

There was a gorgeous red barn, cutting the yellow wheat fields next to the cemetery. He never noticed it in the forty years driving that way. Gretchen's face was always there instead, on the passenger seat, her blonde hair blowing towards the backseat.

Young, faithful in their future, she used to look at her wedding ring as they drove through the Wisconsin summer. The baby girl behind them was asleep. They didn't know it yet, but she would turn out to be a handful.

Alexandra Parker saw the news on CNN. Djambo was cleared of any wrong doing by the SEC after three months of investigation. The authorities also confirmed the origin of the cyber-attack: It was Zawar, and she had not heard from him.

His absence made her lonely. She no longer enjoyed herself at night, even when she thought of him. She hoped he would return soon to visit. But the two men who showed up behind her screen door that afternoon worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigations. They had additional questions for her.

Francoise was still naked when the bell rang. She had a lifetime practice of answering the door that way in the middle of the afternoon. She left Patricia near the swimming pool and walked into the shade of the villa. The young man was impeccably dressed. He was an old friend of Djambo.

He heard about the kidnapping of Felicia and was extremely worried. He had confidential news from America that couldn't wait to be delivered. It was urgent. He had to speak to Djambo. She told him his best bet would be the beach bungalow.

When Djambo and Felicia returned from the beach, they both seemed happy and relieved. Djambo meticulously cleaned the Weatherby, exactly like Robert Martin used to in the old days. It was shining under its new coat of oil.

The barrel was immaculate, like a mirror, and there was not a spec of powder in it.

" I'd like to ship those guns to France. They're yours now " Francoise said.

" Sure. Why not? " Djambo said.

" I can keep them in Chatou, or the Riviera house, until you take them with you back to America."

" Back to America..." Djambo said.

" Yes. Or you can keep them in France if you prefer."

" Let me think about it." He said.

Francoise looked at Djambo. She remembered the moment they parted ways at the Abidjan airport in the presence of Robert. From the rooftop of the tiny airport, she saw the jet rolling down the runway, powerful, majestic, lifting up in the orange evening sky. She had followed it until she could no longer see it. Then, the sadness came.

On August 15th, under a clear, blue azure, impeccable Mediterranean sky, the Virgin Mary was ascending to the heavens. The Cannebiere is the main artery in Marseille. It descends towards the harbor, and the shimmering sea behind it. The procession began. The men of Provence were carrying the sacred golden lady statue above them.

It was a dry, gorgeous, navy blue morning. Elegant older men wearing black hats, a white outfit, and a red belt, were firing their shotguns into the August sky.

Puffs of black smoke dissipated in the air. Century old stone homes, extended all the way to Italy on one side, and Spain to the other. Mauve and green lavender fields unrolled as far as one could see. They reminded Djambo of the French authors of his childhood: Daudet, Giono, and Pagnol. From the foothills of the Alps south into the clear Mediterranean Sea, there were in the heavens of France, its clitoris.

Like Felicia, Provence was magnificent woman, gorged with food, wine, milk, and yellow fields of sunflowers in her heart. Their sanctuary was perched up in the hills, under the sun, beating over the tile roofs. They were drinking Cote de Provence, eating olives, and contemplating each other in the shade.

Felicia smelled like fresh soap, and the perfumes of Grasse. It felt like her Guerlain fragrance, extracted from the local flowers, evaporated to Paris, New York, Chicago, Tokyo, Shanghai, and all of the earth.

Under the shaded terrace at the bastide, Felicia was wet under her thin sarong from Tahiti. She was staring at the daisy fields that led to the next village, on a hilltop, two miles away.

The temperature was perfect for a Chateau Sainte Marguerite 2013 Rose Grand Cru, and its subtle nuances of plum and strawberries. It was supremely fresh. Djambo cooked up a storm: Red mullet with Pastis, a daube Provencale a Provencal stew, aioli, ratatouille, pesto soup, lavender sorbets, fig tart, bouillabaisse, tapenade, and a truffle omelet.

They promised each other a festival of great food that would last until Labor Day. That morning, they made it to Marseille, just to see the procession of the golden statue with the blue ribbons flying all around her. Her grace ascended in the Provencal sun as she exited Notre Dame cathedral.

Flowers were attached to the Virgin Mary's back. She looked like a newly wed woman. Under her, slowly advancing through the narrow streets, all of Provence was singing.

That same night, in Lourdes, Rome, all over Africa, South America, millions of candles would be lit. Mary, mother of Jesus, had completed her life and was ascending into the heavens.

Meanwhile in Arabia, Eid al Fitr marked the end of Ramadan for Muslims. It was a time for peace. Families gathered, and generosity, humility, food, and joy, were reigniting the human spirit under the thin and fragile crescent of the new moon.

Djambo turned on CNN:

" And in financial news today, missing fund manager Djambo Diallo, founder of Diallo Capital Management, known as DCM in Chicago, has been cleared of any wrong doing by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Mr. Diallo believed to be in hiding in Africa, secretly collaborated for months with the SEC and the FBI. He provided the authorities with irrefutable evidence that his firm was the victim of financial fraud.

DCM's Head Counsel, Alexandra Parker, is questioned on her relationship with terrorist financier Zawar Puniet. An international warrant has been issued against DCM's enigmatic twenty six year old intern, whose whereabouts are unknown. Mr. Puniet was the Chicago leader of an international ring of cyber criminals closely linked to the group Boko Haram in Nigeria. He was convicted in absentia of soliciting young Americans via Twitter and of social media to join a terrorist network, and train to kill Westerners in the Middle East, Africa, and Europe. He is also accused of securities fraud, wire fraud, kidnapping, and financing terrorist activities in England, France, Nigeria, the Ivory Coast, and the United States."

Djambo turned off the television and his cell phone rung immediately:

" Mr. Diallo?"

" Speaking."

" This is the head of Tracfin in Chicago. We've recovered the $ 50 million stolen by Mr. Puniet's organization. You will have to wait a year and a day to access the funds. If unclaimed, under Illinois law, they will be restituted to your firm."

" That is excellent news. Thank you."

He walked out of the living room, and joined Felicia on the terrace.

" Looks like our troubles are over, darling."

" What troubles?" Felicia asked.

It was early evening. Crickets all across Provence began singing and buzzing in the twilight. The world was at peace. One billion Catholics and Muslims had followed the saga on television and social media.

The next morning, Djambo woke up early and walked down to Manosque to buy some croissants at the local bakery. The young brunette girl at the register smiled to him:

" Et avec ca Monsieur?"

" Deux baguettes s'il vous plait."

The bread was still warm, its crust was burning hot, and he bit into the very tip to savor the crispy cooked dough from the wood oven. The bakery had the finest of France: Baguettes, Provence bread, croissants, mini tarts, and even some majestic cakes made with love by the pastry chef at four in the morning.

Felicia was still asleep. In the kitchen overlooking the garden he prepared her cappuccino: One third of milk, steamed all the way to the brim of the ceramic cup. He added two shots of Italian espresso on top the gorgeous white foam, and a minuscule teaspoon of cocoa powder.

The warm, inviting coffee, mixed with the oven scent of the croissants woke up his wife. She moaned, rolled over, and finally emerged from her royal sleep for good.

" Where are we, darling? I can't figure it out anymore..."

" In Provence, love. We're in Provence. It's all over. Forget Africa."

He kissed forehead softly. She dipped her lips into the cappuccino, closed her eyes, and stretched her legs. Djambo was sitting next to her, fully dressed already.

" What's the plan for the day?"

" A visit to the Calanques." he had answered enthusiastic.

" What are the Calanques?"

" You'll see."

They hadn't made it there on their first trip to Provence, some fifteen years before, when they married in the presence of Wolfgang, Gretchen, Francoise and Robert Martin, family, and friends. Their wedding had been a small affair, up the coast, closer to the Cote d'Azur.

Felicia remembered the same pure sky, right at the turn of the new century. It seemed the world had changed so fast in such a short time. Back then, the Internet and cell phones barely existed. They were not even twenty-five years old yet, and their love was new. Wolfgang and Gretchen insisted the wedding would take place near Grasse, fifty miles away; both her and Djambo loved the idea.

They married in the hills burnt by the southern sun for two thousand years. Through the certainty of love, its security and promise, God made his way into their hearts further yet than it had before. The wedding was held in French since they both understood it.

The tiny church was filled with loved ones. There were no grooms, no maids of honor, and no tacky dresses. Felicia also remembered young Djambo's stunning arrival in his Roger Sebag suit, and his promise to her in front of God.

Francoise and Robert Martin flew in from Africa, Gretchen's relatives from Norway, and Wolfgang's from Germany. The village bells rang, inundating the tiny plaza along with the flying confetti. They boarded a cart pulled by two horses and slowly climbed up hill to the reception. Young children dressed in white were running behind them.

She clearly remembered how, in the carriage, she moved closer to him and how he put his arm around her, silent, looking at the church bell tower past them, as if it were the starting point of their life. She thought of married life.

" Will you be faithful? She asked.

" We wouldn't be here today if we weren't ready for this." Djambo had answered.

" How can you be so sure?"

" Because nothing changes, ever, in love."

" People change..."

" They do, and we will. But the love doesn't change."

Both horses came to a halt, and the sound of the gravel below them with it. Djambo helped Felicia off the cart, so that she could admire the view on the right side of the path.

The children hadn't caught up with them yet, and it was still quiet. The immense blue pool of the sea glimmered below them.

" It's magical." Felicia said. " Magical. No other word for it."

" Makes you want to swim into it, absorb it all..."

" Maybe we should..."

" Some day we will." Djambo said. " I promise you."

At the reception, at the Bastide Saint Andrew, Wolfgang walked up to Djambo after the first dance. For a moment, he looked like the young, tall, German playboy who had seduced Gretchen a quarter of a century before. He appeared very aristocratic in the evening light. Above the white cloth tables, the silverware, the French wine, the candles, and Gretchen herself, he told Djambo:

" You take good care of my daughter now, son. She's in your hands."

" Yes sir."

Gretchen saw it. She walked near Wolfgang, and gently pressed against her husband's right arm. She was smiling too. She led him to the dance floor, and a sublime slow song completely darkened the veranda, the tables, and the garden.

The broken voice of the Italian singer erupted and chilled not only the parents, but also Felicia herself.

Despite their insistence, Djambo respectfully declined the invitation to sleep at the Bastide that night. It was cozy, and extraordinarily peaceful and romantic.

After midnight, he held Felicia's hand tightly and they walked down the hill under the moonlight. When they approached the beach, she removed her shoes.

" What?" she asked.

" Jump in!" he said.

" Shit, I can't believe we're doing in this!" she said and laughed.

The black dinghy was motionless under the silver light. The small current gave Felicia shivers and goose bumps under her wedding dress. It seemed to have lit magically, like a thousand stars sparkling in the Riviera night under the dark domes of the parasol pines.

" You like it?" Djambo asked.

" Fuck yeah." Felicia responded. " Best time of my life!"

" Well you ain't seen nothing yet, darling..."

He fired on the tiny petrol engine, and discreetly, they disappeared into the silver of the night, towards Italy.

Now she emerged nude from the bathroom, burned from head to toe from the African sun. Her gorgeous husband was looking at her, fully, for the first time since Africa.

" You like what you see?" she asked.

" You look better than ever sweetheart," he said.

She quickly slipped into a flowery cotton dress, and they walked down the cement steps to the garage. It housed the black Jaguar Wolfgang had babied for forty years.

He purchased it in the early 1970s. He was still a young wild German playboy living it up. It was a gorgeous E-Type two-seater.

The biscuit cream-colored leather seat, and twelve-cylinder engine had been meticulously loved and preserved. Wolfgang drove Gretchen all the way to Italy and back in it, staying at quaint hotels all along the coast. Felicia had seen their photographs, and it was one of her dream trips. She wanted to experience it with Djambo.

For now, they were driving downhill to Le Lavandou, a small coastal village at the southern most tip of Var country. Secluded, it was pinched between St Tropez, Monte Carlo, Nice, Cannes to the east, and Marseille to the west. The village seemed to have been missed, and completely forgotten by real estate developers. They had disfigured the entire coastline since the 1960s with eastern block concrete bars of housing, but curiously, missed that secluded little corner.

Djambo parked the Jaguar safely a tree next to the village plaza, near the café. They walked across to the tiny harbor where the pointy fishermen boat were still sleeping in the late morning light, like colorful lizards. He had planned the rental of a sailboat for the day. Soon, they headed out, westward into the blue sea.

The Calanques was local term in the old Provencal language, for the natural rocky bays that penetrated inland for two, sometimes three hundred yards deep. It is a beauty of nature.

The translucent blue turquoise water made its way like a snake surrounded by tall rocky walls, themselves peppered with pine trees that looked like green umbrellas.

There were hundreds of little bays along the coast from Marseille to Le Lavandou. Locals boated there on weekends. They usually brought along a full lunch. Djambo had prepared it for Felicia the night before: Thick bread with olives, a pot full of mussels in marinated white wine, grilled rouget, two amazing bottles of Cotes de Provence, from Bandol, and some cassis, myrtilles, groseilles, and framboises for dessert.

The sun was at its zenith when the nose of the sailboat entered a rather narrow bay. It was completely empty. It was the middle of the week and silent. Djambo and Felicia felt the light breeze dying softly inside the cove. No one would find them there at that moment, or ever.

Felicia was absorbing the quiet beauty of the cove. Birds had grown quiet in the shade, some fifty yards away, under the white rocks. She watched Djambo undress, masculine, powerful, suddenly alive and joyful. They had reached the end of the world. His back muscles sharpened considerably during the entire African ordeal, and he was again the youthful taxi driver she met for the first time in Chicago: Tall, chiseled, and dark.

He looked back at her. She hurried out of her cotton dress, and dived first into the cove. She was swimming in circles, delighted the water neither warm nor cold was perfectly licking every single square inch of her skin.

It was scintillating from the sun above, and they stayed in it for a good hour, unwilling to leave the happiness of the moment. She kissed him, quietly, passionately, and felt his hand on the small of her back, sliding down to her curvy hips.

They climbed up the shining metallic three-step ladder of the sailboat, and found the cool shade under the canopy. It was time for lunch. Djambo set the white tablecloth and the silverware, while the appetizing rouget fish was roasting in the oven.

" Maybe we should stay here for ever," she said.

" Maybe we should. Why not? We've lost everything anyway."

" We haven't lost anything," she said, " We gained everything. I love you more now than I ever have, darling."

After lunch, she stood up, dropped her white towel, and walked nude to the end of the boat leaving her wet footprints on the teak floor. She was suddenly hungry for her man. She stretched sideways in the sun, and waited for him. Her abundant breasts were resting, and her wide areolas were already tingling. Djambo was still sipping his espresso. He looked at his wife who was offering herself to him like a fruit.

He was also very eager for her. Massively erect, he stood up and walked towards her. Her first kiss was passionate, eager, wet, and begging.

But she knew he enjoyed long preliminaries, made her wait, and prepared her patiently. She loved it that way. Her grown nipples pointed straight at the pine forest across the bay. She kissed him more to fully savor his tongue, his mind, and his heart.

He was caressing her curves. He found the wet opening where her pubic hair had grown back. He teased her clit, and went back up to her nipples. Her lips had already fully parted. Felicia turned around and raised her shapely leg over the railing of the sailboat.

She turned her head back towards him, as far as she could, and with her devilish green eyes, she looked at him like a savage. Her magnificent anus, immaculately washed by the salt water, did taste like the sea. It was as if his fresh tongue was discovering it for the first time. She felt like a virgin again. He hadn't touched his wife in six months.

He had waited and abstained, committed to their vow. Felicia had held equally strong. No other man had penetrated her, no matter how hard they tried or how close they came. Now her butt was fully open to him, in the sun, and he was licking her, opening her tiny little treasure more and more as she moaned. When it was ready, he started to bounce the head of his cock on it.

She pulled out her tongue, panting, and looked at him. He was gripping on the metal fishing chair behind him, and bounced his arrogant head on her. He bounced it until she came prematurely. She arched her back and pushed an uncontrolled:

" Uuuh! Ooohhh!"

He looked at her pink lips dangling down and oozing at the same time. Both her magnificent holes were royally surrounded by the ever-growing blond forest around them. He measured his long, wide, fleshy, and now inflexible ten inches against it.

It was sliding up and down on the outside, contrasting handsomely with her fair white skin. Her anus contracted, closed back down, and so he licked it to reopen it.

First he occupied the little entrance with his turgescent head, and, as she felt the invasion, opened more. Felicia curved her splendid back to welcome the sweet burn below. Her toes curled, and slowly, Djambo went in fully, dilating the thin pink skin all around it, before fully disappearing between her white mounds. He was sodomizing his wife for the first time in their life.

His cock was filing away both the tiny entrance and the fragile walls, and procuring Felicia cascading rivers of pleasure. Djambo kept pumping, each and every time going deeper, pulling out screams from her, and leaving her mouth permanently open. He raised her while she faced away, and slid her up and down, powerfully, going deeper yet into her.

He had grown wider and she had dilated sufficiently. Both her breasts were heavily lunging forward during each of his phenomenal intrusions.

He finally let her feet touch the teak floor after five or six orgasms. He turned her around, thighs wide open, so that she could finally welcome him face to face. They were both looking down at her magnificent hairy bush.

It had regrown fully over the last six months per his request. His ferocious head, teasing her clit this time, occupied the fold, and then receded. They were admiring the extraordinary proportions of her miniature version of a penis. It was quite a sight. It bloomed like the red button of a flower, eager to fuck.

Her hands together could barely cover Djambo's full length. It was impressive. He went in further, now eager to be fully immersed in her. She was ready for him at last. The brush of his electric thickness was so enticing, so fulfilling, that she came immediately, profusely inundating his abdominal muscles.

" Fuck me, baby. Fuck me good."

Djambo took her up on it: Slowly at first, and then more and more rapidly. He stopped, to delay the inevitable end. Then he started again, until she planted all ten fingernails into his muscular back. She exploded all over him, but he held strong; he was a real man.

Each time his thickness retreated from her golden bush, they both watched her fragile pink lips accompanying it all the way out. The coming and going was the most magnificent sight, and was turning them on terribly.

" Ohhh God!" Felicia screamed.

The angle was unforgiving. Every time she leaned up ever so slightly, her fleshy clitoris would meet the full run of the thick cock, laminating her at will. Djambo still managed to lean forward and kiss Felicia's gorgeous lips.

They were kissing and fucking at the same time. Kissing made it sweeter, more profound, with each thrust more pleasurable. She completely opened herself to the sensual abundance of his lips, and simultaneously welcomed his overwhelming penetration down below.

" Right there." she kept repeating.

His balls were bouncing on her anus every time and bringing her closer. Her elbows were planted in the vinyl of the narrow bench, and her pussy projected savage jets of white juice.

Djambo finally stood her up, turned her around, and penetrated her from behind, holding both her wrist with one hand while pulling her left shoulder with the other.

Her pleasure, and his, surpassed everything they had ever experienced. He let go of his full fury. Now his hips were wildly fucking hers, faster and faster. Her breasts were once again bouncing freely.

She found his rhythm, and undulated with her man, fucking him, like a savage.

" Mmmmmmmm. Yeah...."

Now she was stuck against the railing with nowhere else to go but to get fucked. She felt him getting bigger yet, and her own orgasm irrupted, deafening. She screamed like a feline, and her exquisite ejaculation of a blonde met his. She was still breathing hard. She could have sworn, at that very moment, that she felt her man giving life inside of her.

Only her, and perhaps God, were able to appreciate his extraordinary odyssey. He had crossed from the black world to the white world, from Africa to America. The torch of freedom was shining for him, for the both of them, and millions of others before and after. They had survived another icy Chicago winter. They were beyond intolerance, hypocrisy, political correctness, success and failure.

She remembered them standing at the naturalization ceremony. It was pure. There was not an aircraft in sight that week. All flights over America had been suspended. She stood by him during the pledge of allegiance, and cried quietly next to him. She felt his unwavering newborn love of country at the very core of her.

All of them came from every corner of the world to sing the Star-Spangled Banner in the Federal Court House. When it was all over, they walked out holding hands on the concrete plaza, which was trapped by the skyscrapers like a canyon in the September sky.

Djambo had stopped and looked at it for a long time, at the very top of the metal pole, flapping, furiously, into the wind of the season to come.

