Luna: New Moon

‘I work at what I can get. I am – I was – a Process Control Engineer.’

‘You work for Corta Hélio now.’

Lucas offers a hand. Marina takes it.

‘Talk to my brother Carlinhos. The Cortas owe you.’

And gone. Still numb with shock, Marina tries to work out what happened. The Cortas try to slit her throat, now she works for them. But: the Cortas. Blake, it will be all right. I can get you meds. We’ll never be thirsty again. We can breathe easy.

TWO

Luna Corta: small spy. Boa Vista is rich in hiding places for a bored girl. Luna discovered the service tunnel following a cleaning bot one long Boa Vista morning. Like all moon kids Luna is drawn to tunnels and crawlspaces. No adult could fit it and that is good because hiding holes and dens must be secret. The shaft has grown tight since Luna first crawled in and realised she could look down into her mother’s private room and, if she held her breath, hear. Tucked up behind the eyes of Oxossi, Luna squirms, a constriction in a sinus in the head of the hunter and protector.

‘They put a knife to my throat.’

Her father says something she can’t make out. Luna twists closer to the ventilation grille. Dusty light-rays strike up around her face.

‘They put a knife to my throat, Rafa!’

Luna sees her mother brush fingers against her neck, touching the remembered edge of the knife.

‘It was just security.’

‘Would they have killed me?’

Luna moves again to fit both of her parents into her narrow slot of sight. Her father sits on the bed. He looks small, diminished, as if the air and light has gone out of him.

‘They were protecting us. Anyone who wasn’t a Corta was suspect.’

‘Amanda Sun isn’t a Corta. I didn’t see a knife at her throat.’

‘The fly. Everyone knows you people use biological weapons.’

‘You people.’

‘The Asamoahs.’

‘There were other Asamoahs at the party. Abena Maanu for one. I didn’t see a knife at her throat. My people, or just some of my people?’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because your people, Rafa, put a knife to my throat. And I don’t hear anything from you that says they wouldn’t have cut me.’

‘I would never let them do that.’

‘If your mother gave the order, would you have stopped them?’

‘I’m bu-hwaejang of Corta Hélio.’

‘Don’t insult me, Rafa.’

‘I’m angry our security put a knife to your throat. I’m angry that you were a suspect. I’m raging, but you know how we live here.’

‘Yes. Well maybe I don’t want to live here.’

Luna sees Rafa look up.

‘I know how we live in Twé. It’s a good place, Twé. It’s a safe place. With my people, Rafa. I want to take Luna there.’

Luna gasps. The shaft is so tight she can’t press hands to mouth, to try and call back the noise. They might have heard. But then she thinks, Boa Vista is full of sighs and whispers.

Rafa is on his feet. When he is angry, he gets close, breath-close. Spit-in-my face close. Lousika doesn’t flinch.

‘You’re not taking Luna.’

‘She’s not safe here.’

‘My children stay with me.’

‘Your children?’

‘Didn’t you read the nikah? Or were you too eager to jump into bed with the heir apparent of Corta Hélio.’

‘Rafa. No. Don’t say this. This is beneath you. This is not you.’

Rafa’s anger is stoked now. Anger is his sin. It is the other side of his affability: easy to laugh, to play, to make love. Easy to rage.

‘You know? Maybe your people planned …’

‘Rafa. Stop.’ Lousika presses her fingers to Rafa lips. She knows his anger is as quick to ebb as to flow. ‘I would never, ever plot against you – not me, not my people – to get hold of Luna.’

‘Luna stays with me.’

‘Yes. But I won’t.’

‘I don’t want you to go. This is your home. With me. With Luna.’

‘I’m not safe here. Luna’s not safe. But the nikah won’t let me take her. If you’d once said you were sorry that your escoltas put a knife to my throat, it might be different. You were angry. You weren’t sorry.’

Now her father speaks but Luna can’t hear his words. She can’t hear anything but a rushing noise inside her head that is the sound of the worst things in the world arriving. Her mamãe is going away. Her chest is tight. Her head rings with the horrible hissing, like air and life leaking away. Luna wriggles free, pushes herself down the shaft away from the hidey-hole where she overheard too much. She has scuffed her shoes and torn her Pierre Cardin dress on the raw stone.

The rain has swept the dead butterflies into floes and flotsam. Their wings form an azure scum around the lips of pools. Luna Corta sits among the corpses.

‘Hey hey hey, what is it?’ Lousika Asamoah crouches beside her daughter.

‘The butterflies died.’

‘They don’t live very long. Just a day.’

‘I liked them. They were pretty. It’s not fair.’

‘That’s how we make them.’

Lousika kicks off her shoes and sits down on the stone beside Luna. She swishes her feet in the water. Blue wings cling to her dark legs.

‘You could make them live longer than a day,’ Luna says.

‘We could, but what would they eat? Where would they go? They’re decorations, like flags for Yam Festival.’

‘But they’re not,’ Luna says. ‘They’re alive.’