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Cantata
The Cantera Cafe was lively, even at eleven in the evening. The beat of disco vibrated the walls, the doors, and the tables. It was rather hard to speak, so when the young woman came to the table where the old and bearded man sat, she had to shout to ask his order.
"Columbian Coffee, no sugar, no milk," he said in flawless Italian. He sat calmly and looked into her face, dark eyes hidden by black liner and shadow. Three studs were in her nose, one in her tongue, causing her to lisp slightly. Her eyebrows had two rings, and he could see an old scar running through her left eyebrow where one used to be. The nametag on her red and blue stripped blouse gave her name as "Bleri".
"You are very decorated," he said. "It is said that is the sign of individualism." He rolled up one of his sleeves, showing his right wrist. He displayed a thick ropy scar, starting at the base of his hand and running for five inches up his arm. "I say instead that it is a sign of survivors." He looked up into her young eyes and asked, "What do you think?"
Bleri didn't smile and gave no sign she had even heard the question. "I'll be back with your coffee." She turned and left.
Wells watched the dancers and listened to the music. He would tap his toes and drum his fingers to the rhythm. In many ways, it was very similar to the classical music of his younger days, and he found solace in it, letting the music take his memories away to different times.
Bleri returned with his coffee, placed it before him and asked, "Would you like something to eat, perhaps? The main kitchen is closed, but it would be nothing to make a sandwich. Some biscotti, perhaps? Anything at all?" Her voice was a soft purr of Italian mixed with a Croatian accent.
"Is there any lettuce?" He asked. "A bit of tomato?" She nodded.
"We had a shipment of fresh produce this morning from down the coast."
"Then," he said, smiling, "If you could fry some bacon, I would be forever grateful. It has been far too long since I've had a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich."
She stood for a minute, considering. "It would require me to heat the stove," she said. She looked over her shoulder at something, then turned back and nodded, "But for you, I don't think it would be a problem." She gave him the briefest of smiles, "Survivors have to stick together, you know."
"Thank you," he said. He lifted his coffee, sipped and smiled again. "It is perfect."
She flashed that brief smile and disappeared into the crowd. He saw the doors to the kitchen open and close.
He sat there, watching and listening.
One person in particular caught his attention. A young man, dark haired with dark brows furrowed over dark eyes was watching the kitchen doors where Bleri had gone. He stood in an easy stance, balanced on the balls of his feet, as if expecting a fight. To a trained eye, the slight bulge in his trouser legs as the smoothed over his boots showed a knife was hidden there.
"And that must be big brother," Wells said.
He watched Besi casually, letting his eyes roam around the room. His gaze gathered in the entire cafe, with its smooth cream-colored walls decorated with poster and paintings by local artists. The crowded dance floor was lit with multi-colored lights flashing with the beat of whatever tune was playing. Scattered through the cafe were small clusters of Toughs, Goths, and other young folks, chatting and drinking whatever was fashionable or whatever was cheapest. There were a few older people, in their twenties or thirties, and possibly one or two nearer his age. He was, indisputably, the oldest person in the entire building.
Bleri came to the table minutes later, bringing a small plate that contained his sandwich. "I hope you do not mind if the bacon is crisp. I imagined that is how all Americans like their bacon."
Wells nodded and took the offered plate. "Crisp is fine, thank you." He looked up at her and asked, "How did you know I was American?"
"You are so pale," she explained. "Your Italian is very good, nearly perfect, but there is a flatness to it that I can hear." She joined him, sitting at the chair opposite him. Wells' eyes flicked to Besi, and he saw that Besi's eyes were on him as well.
"So," she said, "what brings you here, American? You are fairly old for this sort of place, don't you think?"
"It's not so bad," Wells told her. "In the music I can hear the strains of the classical music I love." Responding to the skeptical eyebrow she raised, he nodded, sipped his coffee and continued, "It's true, though I'll be the first to admit I have a hard time understanding the words."
She chuckled and leaned forward. "I will tell you a secret," she said. "Some of us do too." She straightened back in her chair. "I do not think you are here for the music, though."
Wells was silent, filling it by focusing on his coffee cup, turning it round and round. Finally, he looked up and he had tears in his eyes. "Kaylee Gianni is my daughter."
Bleri paled, placed her hands on the table and levered herself upright. "I'm sorry; I do not know a Kaylee." She started to leave. "I am sorry, I must finish my shift."
"Bleri, wait." Wells said. "I've already seen her. I've already talked to her."
Bleri turned back to him. "So? What do you want of me? If you have already spoken to her, then you have no need of me, do you?"
"Yes, Bleri," Wells said, "I do. I have a great need of you... and your brother." He nodded in the direction of Besi, who stood against the far wall watching them. "I need some information that only you two would have."
"Oh?" Bleri asked. "I have no infor..."
"Yes you do," Wells interrupted her. "I need to know about September, 2002. I need to know about the rescue attempt. I need to know who raped my daughter."
"Signor," Bleri said, "That is something you would need to ask Kaylee herself about. I cannot help you here." She started again to leave, but Wells reached out and took her by the wrist. "Please let me go!"
Wells saw that Besi had begun to move in their direction. "Bleri! Listen to me. Kaylee doesn't trust me; she won't talk to me about it. I want to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else."
"I think you need to let go of my sister." A deep voice commanded. A heavy hand fell on Wells' shoulder. He let go of Bleri, and she backed away, rubbing her wrist.
"What is all this about, Bleri?" Besi asked.
"He says he is Kaylee's father." Bleri answered. "He says he wants to know about 2002. The rescue."
"What is there to know?" Besi asked Wells, clapping his hand down on Wells' shoulder again. "I will tell you what there is to know. There is nothing to know." He pulled Wells chair out away from the table. "And now it is time for you to go."
Wells stood, frustrated. This was not going well at all. "All right," he said, "I'm leaving. Just answer me this one question." He looked at the both of them, first Bleri and then Besi. "Have either of you heard of a man named Hamilton? Gregory Hamilton?"
Besi and Bleri exchanged meaningful looks but said not a word.
"He works," Wells explained, "at the same place I do. I know he was at the U.S Embassy in Zagreb when you two were rescued, and I know he sent the anonymous letter that set your rescue in motion. I know that Kaylee was involved in that rescue. I know that sometime during the two weeks she was away from her mother, while she was working with the Yugoslavian Underground, she was raped." He looked directly at Bleri. "I also know that you and she are lovers."
Bleri's mouth turned to a straight line, almost a frown. She looked at Besi and nodded. "He seems to know a great deal of information that many people do not know." She paused and then said, "Perhaps we should talk with him."
Besi sat down next to Wells, but kept one hand on his shoulder. "You know a great deal, old man. I will not say that I believe all you are saying, and I will not admit that what you are saying is true." Besi looked at his sister, while he said, "But I will listen to you, and answer what questions I feel I want to answer." He looked at his sister. "You should call Kaylee."
Bleri nodded and left the two men sitting at the table.
"Would you mind removing your hand?" Wells asked. "It's very heavy."
"My apologies." Besi said. He removed his hand, but kept it on the table. His other hand dangled down near his side, where he could reach his boot knife.
"You know," Wells said, "a sitting position is not the most comfortable to reach a knife that is hidden in your boot." Besi's eyes tightened. "You have nothing to fear from me, Besi." Wells assured him. "I am not here to bother you or your sister. I'm here to find out information that will help me to prevent Kaylee from being assassinated."
"Assassinated?" Besi questioned. "Who would assassinate Kaylee? And why?"
"All right," Wells began, "here's what I know. You, your sister, and four others were rescued on that day. I know that Hamilton got wind of the shipment of you six to somewhere and sent a letter to the Yugoslavian Underground. I know that Kaylee and a number of the Underground got you out, but not without cost. I know that Kaylee, sometime after your rescue, I think, got raped by either someone in the Underground, or someone connected with the Underground."
He took a breath, took a bite of his sandwich, saying, "If I don't eat it now, it'll get soggy, and it's been a very long day."
"Now, there is a concert in Catanzaro, Italy on August twenty-third. A benefit for the Orphanage. There is, from the evidence I have uncovered, going to be an assassination attempt against Kaylee. The attempt is to keep her from exposing some sort of evidence against one of the people behind the slavery. I suspect the evidence indicts someone very high up in the chain of command. It may be someone at NATO, it might simply be a local warlord, I don't know."
He took another bite. "This is very good. You should have your sister make you one."
"This is where," he continued, "you and Bleri come in. I need to know geographic details. I need to know where you were kept and where you were going to be shipped. Any details, names, or locations you can give me, I can use. Then I'm out of your hair forever."
"And if we can give you this information?" Besi asked. "What would you do with it? If we could give you the name of the man that raped Kaylee, if we could tell you the names of maybe a village and perhaps the names of some people you might talk with. What is it that you would do with such information?"
"Well," Wells said coldly, his eyes tightening and locking onto Besi's, "First, I plan to kill the son of a bitch that raped my daughter. Second, I want to find the guy behind the assassination and kill him too."
"Then, Signor," Besi said, "It is possible that we have things to talk about. Let us wait and see what Kaylee has to say, shall we?"
"That would be fine with me." Wells said. "I don't have any place to go right now."
"Excellent." Besi said. "Do you think I could have a bite of that sandwich?"
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He watched Besi casually, letting his eyes roam around the room. His gaze gathered in the entire cafe, with its smooth cream-colored walls decorated with poster ((singular?)) and paintings....
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*gasp* Things are moving now!!! *tries not to panic*
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