Dasvidaniya

PrologueA seventeen-year-old c***k addict named Beulah Robinson lay strapped to a cot in my second floor bedroom. She'd crawled to my back door earlier that day, mewling. I'd heard a weak scratching on the screen and thought it had been a sick animal; a dog or cat from the alley out back. Beulah was the granddaughter of my neighbors, Fred and Alma Robinson. I'd watched her grow up, a beautiful girl, full of wonder and light. Then the c***k dealers got to her and her life plummeted faster and deeper than anyone could imagine. I wanted to take her to the hospital but she fought me, saying she wouldn't go, that she'd rather die on my floor. I carried her upstairs, just a bundle of bones, and laid her on the cot. “Tie my wrists,” she said. “You'll need to tie my wrists and my ankles.” I didn't argue. I cut some strips out of a pillow sheet and bound her to the metal frame. I gave her some water. She closed her eyes and I waited for the inevitable to happen. I knew they would come for her and I wondered if she had considered that. Whether she had wanted them to come to me? I didn't know. Beulah passed in and out of consciousness. I fed her chicken soup one sip at a time and waited patiently while she swallowed. It had been six hours since she'd arrived. Her hair had a bright henna rinse and it contrasted garishly with the ghastly pallor of her light skin. Her mother had been a white woman. Beulah jerked at the straps, writhed in the cot, gnashed her teeth and shrieked. She begged me for money. Begged me to buy her drugs, told me I could have s*x with her, called me dirty, foul names…but I didn't answer. I just wondered how such a fine girl could fall so far and whether she'd find her way back. Finally, she lay back, exhausted. I hoped she'd find some peace and fall asleep, even for a few minutes. Just as I was about to leave, she stopped me. “What is it?” I asked. “Talk to me,” she whispered. “About what?” “Tell me a story… tell me your story…please…don't go. I…need…you…to…talk to me…just keep talking…don't stop…” I got up to leave the room but again she stopped me. “Don't run out on me now, Mr. Goldman, please. Tell me…tell me about your life…so I can forget my own for awhile…please…tell me…I got time…not going nowhere…” I considered her request. I too had nowhere to go. Everyone who mattered was dead. What else did I have to do? And so, I began.