Small Country

by Gaël Faye

  “Go on, clear off, you bunch of cockroaches!” spat the soldier, flinging Aunt Eusébie’s identity card in her face.

  The second soldier returned Maman’s passport, pushing her nose roughly with the tip of his index finger.

  “Au revoir, serpentess!” he smirked again. “Oh, and since you’re a Frenchie, remember to give a nice deep bow to our friend Tonton Mitterrand!”

  When Aunt Eusébie started up the car, one of the soldiers gave the bodywork a kick. With the butt of his gun, the second one smashed a back window, sending shards of broken glass flying over Christian and me. Ana let out a high-pitched shriek. Aunt Eusébie sped off.

  * * *

  —

  We were still in a state of shock when we arrived at Jeanne’s house, but Aunt Eusébie asked us not to say anything, for fear of spoiling the celebrations.

  Jeanne’s family lived in a modest red-brick house, surrounded by a euphorbia hedge, in the hills of Gitarama. Her parents, brothers, and sisters were all waiting for us and we were duly subjected to a lengthy ritual of traditional greetings, by way of a welcome, which included having our backs and arms pummelled while the customary salutations were spoken. Ana and I felt at a loss with our clumsy bodies, and we were incapable of answering the questions our hosts asked us in Kinyarwanda.

  Just then, Jeanne appeared in her wedding dress, almost as tall as Pacifique and breathtakingly beautiful. She was holding a bouquet of pink hibiscus flowers, which she gave to Ana. Maman approached her tenderly, cupping the young woman’s face in her hands to whisper a few blessings and welcome her into our family.

  Once we had changed into our outfits, we headed to the mairie on foot. We took a shortcut—a narrow earth track that flanked a series of small village huts all in a row. I was up at the front with Christian, while Jeanne and Maman held each other by the arm as they tried not to lose their footing. The track emerged onto the wide asphalt road leading to Butare. As we trooped along, passersby turned round, bicycles stopped, curious folks came out of their homes to watch us. Their gaze was insistent, boring a hole into us, dissecting us on the spot. Our procession was the talk of the town.

  Pacifique was waiting for us in the ceremonial hall, dressed in a gray suit that didn’t fit him properly. His gentle and trusting expression had returned. The registrar, on the other hand, appeared to be in a hurry and slightly drunk. For several long, monotonous minutes, he set forth the articles of the law and the duties of the spouses. There weren’t many of us in the hall, just close family. Nobody was smiling, some even yawned or stared outside at the tall eucalyptus trees swaying in the sunlight. Pacifique and Jeanne didn’t hide their emotions, and seemed to find it funny that they were now husband and wife. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other, smiling at their happiness to come, their bodies brushing against one another at every opportunity. They had said yes beneath the portrait of the president. The same one Pacifique had been fighting against before the peace agreements.

  After the ceremony, we all walked back to Jeanne’s house. The sky was so gray that it was almost dark in the middle of the day and a violent wind whipped up clouds of red dust over the town, ripping the corrugated-iron roofs off some of the huts. Aunt Eusébie told Pacifique that we had to be back in Kigali before the end of the afternoon, it would be safer that way, and he didn’t put any pressure on us to stay. He knew the risks and was glad we had made the journey, against the odds.

  We were delayed by a sudden downpour that washed the sky and restored the lost sun, and then it really was time to leave. Jeanne thanked us and gave each of us a present. I received a clay statue of a mountain gorilla. Maman wouldn’t let go of Jeanne’s arm, she kept telling her how impatient she was for Jeanne to join us in Bujumbura so that we could all get to know her properly. When nobody was looking, she slipped a small envelope containing some banknotes into the pocket of Jeanne’s elderly father. He thanked her by tipping his funny cowboy hat. Aunt Eusébie wandered with Jeanne down to the bottom of the little garden, where she said a few prayers for the baby and placed her palms on the young bride’s belly. Everybody said their goodbyes, surprised to be leaving each other already and taken aback at the speed with which the marriage had been celebrated, almost on the sly. Christian and I clambered back into the trunk.

  “We’ll throw another party worthy of the name,” said Pacifique, leaning into the car after closing Maman’s passenger door, “and next time I’ll bring my guitar!”

  We all voiced our approval.

  “Hey, what’s happened to your window, Auntie?”

  “Oh, nothing, just a little accident.”

  Aunt Eusébie started up the engine and manoeuvred the car out of the small yard. Before we were through the gates, I turned round to say goodbye. Jeanne and Pacifique were in front, hand in hand in their wedding clothes. Jeanne’s father was to one side of them, waving his hat above his head. Behind him, Jeanne’s family stood motionless, as if in a painting, with the pinkish late-afternoon light shining sideways on them. The car jolted from left to right, as we made our way slowly back down the dirt track. Eventually they disappeared altogether, swallowed up by the slope.

  21

  I was finishing off my homework on a corner of the kitchen table while Prothé did the washing up, lost in his thoughts. The radio was broadcasting a speech by the new Burundian president, Cyprien Ntaryamira, a member of Frodebu, elected by parliament after several months of a power vacuum.

  That morning, an assassination had taken place in the street not far from school, and afternoon lessons had been cancelled. Since my trip to Rwanda and school starting again, I hadn’t been round to see any of my friends. I closed my exercise books and decided to head over to Gino’s, in the hope of ending the awkwardness that still hovered in the air between us. But he wasn’t at home, so I went to the twins’ house instead. They were slumped on the sofa with Armand, hypnotized by a Kung Fu film. I stretched out on the living-room rug. The images paraded in front of me while my mind drifted. I must have dozed off for a while, because when I opened my eyes again the credits were slowly rolling. We decided to decamp to the hideout to play cards. Opening the sliding door of the Combi, we stumbled on Gino and Francis sharing a cigarette. It took me a moment to register what I was seeing.

  “What’s he doing here?” I asked, outraged.

  “Calm down. I invited Francis to join our crew. We’re going to need him to protect the street.”

  Francis was sprawled on the banquette, looking relaxed and at home as he smoked a cigarette from the lit end. Armand and the twins didn’t react. So I slammed the door with all my might. I felt betrayed. I was almost out of the patch of wasteland when Gino caught up with me.

  “Come back, Gaby! Don’t go!”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I shouted, shoving him backward. “Francis is our bitter enemy and you want him to become part of the group?”

  “I didn’t know him properly before. I was wrong about him. He’s not who you think he is.”

  “Oh yeah? And what about what he did to us in the river? Have you forgotten that? The maniac wanted to kill us!”

  “He’s sorry about that, he came knocking at our gate a few days later, to apologize…”

  “And you believe him? Can’t you see it’s just another of his ploys? Like at my birthday?”

  “No, Gaby, you’re wrong. He’s on our level. I’ve talked about a lot of stuff with him. He’s really not a bad guy, it’s just that he hasn’t had much luck in life. He lost his mother, too. Anyway…you wouldn’t understand, you’ve still got yours. Losing a mother can make you different sometimes, it toughens you up…”

  Gino looked down and started scuffing the earth with the toe of his shoe.

  “Gino…I’ve been meaning to say…I’m sorry, about your mother…but how come you never told me?”

  “I don’t know. See, the thing is, my mother isn�
�t really dead, for me. It’s hard to explain. I talk to her, I write her letters, there are even times when I can hear her. D’you understand? My mother’s here…somewhere…”

  I wanted to give him a hug, to say something comforting, but I didn’t know how to go about it, or what words to use. I’ve never known. I felt so close to him, I didn’t want to lose Gino: my brother, my friend, my better twin. He was the person I most wanted to be. He possessed the strength and courage I lacked.

  “Gino, am I still your best friend?”

  He stared me in the eye, before walking over to an acacia bush behind me. He broke off a thorn, sucked it to remove any dust, and then jabbed his fingertip. A drop of blood appeared, like when you do a finger-prick test for malaria. He took one of my fingers and pressed the same thorn into it, until I bled. Then he stuck our two fingers together.

  “That’s my answer to your question, Gaby. You’re my blood brother now. I love you more than anyone.”

  His voice was wobbly. I had a tickle in my throat. We avoided looking at each other in case either of us started crying. Hand in hand, we made our way back to the Combi.

  * * *

  —

  Francis was deep in discussion with the twins and Armand. They were just as transfixed as they had been by the Kung Fu film earlier. He was almost better at storytelling than the twins, punctuating his sentences with made-up words, mixing Swahili, French, English, and Kirundi.

  Once the temperature outside began to drop again, we suggested he come with us to cool off in the river.

  “If you want to swim, I’ve got somewhere much better than the Muha,” said Francis. “Follow me!”

  Out on the main road, he flagged down a blue-and-white taxi. The driver began making excuses, to avoid giving a ride to a bunch of kids, but Francis thrust a one-thousand-franc note under his nose and the guy set off straightaway. We couldn’t believe our luck: a magical mystery tour! We were excited to be leaving our street and setting off on an adventure, all of us together.

  “Where are we going? Where are we going? Where are we going?” the twins kept asking.

  “It’s a surprise,” Francis replied, enigmatically.

  A blast of warm air rushed into the car. Armand was leaning his arm out of the window, his hand an airplane in the wind. The city around us heaved with life, the market area was raucous and the bus station was a tangle of bikes and minibuses. You would never have believed the country was at war. Mango trees laden with fruit adorned the main road, chaussée Prince Louis Rwagasore. Gino tooted the horn when we spotted some kids from another neighborhood picking off mangoes with their long rods. The taxi drove up into the hills surrounding the city, where the air became cooler. We passed the Prince’s tomb, with its great cross and three pointed arches in the colors of the national flag. The country’s motto was emblazoned above it in capital letters: “Unity Work Progress.” We were high enough to glimpse the horizon now. Bujumbura was below us, in the shape of a deckchair by the water’s edge. You could have mistaken it for a seaside resort, stretching from the mountain ridge as far as Lake Tanganyika….We stopped in front of the collège du Saint-Esprit, which loomed like a vast ocean liner above the city. We had never been this high up in Bujumbura before. Francis handed another thousand francs to the taxi driver and told him to wait there.

  When we entered the school grounds, rain started falling in warm, fat drops that formed tiny craters in the dust and splashed our calves. The scent of damp earth rose up from the ground. Students were running to shelter in their classrooms and dormitories. Soon we were alone in the large empty playground. As we followed Francis along the pathways, I walked with my mouth open to catch the raindrops on my tongue. We discovered the swimming pool behind a low wall. It was like something out of this world. A proper Olympic-sized pool with a high concrete diving platform. In a flash, Francis stripped off and rushed into the pool. Gino followed close on his heels. Then we all undressed, even body-shy Armand, and dive-bombed into the water with our knees against our chests. The rain was beating down in furious squalls onto the water’s surface, which was occasionally shot through with a ray of sunshine. We felt as elated as on the first day of falling in love. We laughed like lunatics, tiring ourselves out by swimming lengths and competing in stupid races, tugging each other’s legs from below and dunking one another under the water. Francis stood on the pool’s edge and performed backflips. Our little gang was under his spell; and Gino more than any of us. All this physical prowess made his eyes shine. I could feel myself gripped by jealousy.

  “Wanna dive from the top board?” Gino called out, overcome with admiration.

  The rain whipped our faces as Francis stared up at the concrete platform in the sky.

  “Hey, you out of your mind? That’s like ten meters! I’d kill myself.”

  I didn’t hesitate, not for a second. I wanted to show Gino how much better I was than Francis. I hauled myself out of the water and strode purposefully toward the tall ladder. It was slippery and the top was lost in the mist. Rain was streaming down my face as I climbed, so much so that I couldn’t open my eyes. I used all my strength to cling on and prayed that I wouldn’t lose my footing. The others were staring at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses. When I reached the top, I walked to the end of the diving board. Down below, the band of brothers watched incredulous, their tiny heads bobbing about like balls in the water. Although I didn’t feel dizzy as such, my heart began to race abnormally fast. I wanted to turn back. But I could already picture Francis’s reaction, his mean laughter and his sarcasm about spoiled brats wimping out. And Gino would be disappointed, he would close ranks with Francis and turn his back on me, forgetting about our friendship and our blood pact.

  From the top of the diving area, I could see Bujumbura, the vast plain and the age-old mountains of Zaire on the other side of the blue expanse that was Lake Tanganyika. I was standing naked above my city and a tropical rain was washing over me, thick as curtains, caressing my skin. Silvery rainbow reflections drifted by in soft clouds. I could hear my friends’ voices: “Go on, Gaby! Go, Gaby! Go!” My fear had returned. The same fear that always delighted in paralyzing me. I turned my back to the pool. My heels were hanging over the edge now. Sheer terror made me piss myself, the yellow liquid curling like ivy around my leg. The driving rain pounded like a waterfall, and in the din I let out the whoop of a Sioux chieftain to summon up my courage. Then my legs bent as if they were springs and propelled me backward. My body completed a rotation in the air, in perfect motion, controlled by who knows what mysterious force. Next, I felt myself falling like a ridiculous puppet. I had no idea where I was when the water took me by surprise, welcoming me with cushioning arms, wrapping me like a fever in its eddies and air bubbles. When I reached the bottom of the pool I lay spreadeagled on the tiles, to savor what I’d just accomplished.

  And then, on resurfacing, triumph was mine! My friends rushed over shouting: “Gaby! Gaby!” The surface of the water became a drum. Gino raised my arms as if I were a victorious boxer, and Francis kissed my forehead. I could feel their slippery bodies against mine, brushing, gripping, hugging. I’d done it! For the second time in my life, I had overcome my miserable fear. One day I would leave behind that crippling burden.

  An elderly caretaker arrived to chase us out of the pool. We gathered up our sodden clothes and ran off, bare-bottomed, laughing until our sides ached. The taxi driver also gave a great belly laugh when he saw us climbing into his cab, in our birthday suits. Night had fallen beneath the rain. Headlights on full beam, the car began its slow descent through the winding roads of Kiriri. In order to see the city below, we had to wipe the steamed-up windows with our underwear. Bujumbura was a plantation of lights now, a field of fireflies illuminating the murky plain. Geoffrey Oryema sang “Makambo” on the radio, his voice a moment of grace, dissolving like sugar in our souls, soothing our excess of happiness. We had never felt so f
ree, so alive from head to toe, all of us as one, joined by the same veins, the same life-force flowing through us. I was sorry for what I’d thought of Francis before. He was like us, like me, just a kid getting by as best he could in a world that didn’t give him many choices.

  A torrential downpour beat down on Bujumbura. The gutters were overflowing, carrying muddy, rubbish-filled water from the heights of the city all the way down to the lake. The windscreen wipers exhausted themselves, to little effect. In the inky blackness, headlights swept the road, coloring the raindrops yellow and white. We were on our way back to our street, where this crazy afternoon had all begun.

  It was on the Muha bridge that the taxi driver suddenly slammed on the brakes. Nobody had been expecting it, and we all crashed into each other as we were flung forward. Francis’s head hit the dashboard. When he sat up, there was blood trickling from his nose. As we came to our senses, the taxi driver’s physical reaction chilled us to the core. He was petrified.

  “Shetani! Shetani!” he kept saying, his hands paralyzed on the steering wheel, his terrified gaze on the road. “Shetani!” The devil.

  Ahead of us, in the darkness, just beyond the beam of the headlights, we saw the shadow of a black horse pass by.

  22

  On the morning of April 7, 1994, the telephone rang and rang. Papa hadn’t come home that night. Eventually I picked up:

  “Hello?”

  “Hello?”

  “Is that you, Maman?”