Running the Rift

by Naomi Benaron

  “Jean Patrick is sick from love,” Daniel announced. “I told him we would take him home, but he refused. I told him we would take him to his umukunzi, but he refused. What else can I do?” He made a face and put on his boots.

  “We’ll need to hurry to get back to Kigali before curfew, but can we take you somewhere? A doctor?” Pascal put his palm to Jean Patrick’s forehead. “You’re hot as a coal.”

  “Go. I’ll be fine.” He shooed them toward the door.

  “The rest of the candies are on the desk. Don’t forget my advice.” Daniel hefted his suitcase and followed his father into the rain.

  MOST OF THE students had left for vacation. No music drifted through the walls, no loud talk interrupted his thoughts, no RTLM stirred up his blood. Jean Patrick put on socks and pulled a sweater over his sweatshirt. Trying to concentrate was hopeless, but a ragged energy, fed by his fever, simmered. He picked up the pin-striped suit, put it down again, picked it up, and returned it to the shelf. He picked up his jacket from the floor where he must have dropped it when he came home. A scrap of green cloth protruded from the pocket. He pulled out a green bandanna and a note.

  I thought you might want this. It belonged to our friend. Suddenly, Jean Patrick recalled Isaka’s taking the bandanna to wrap his foot in the forest near Cyangugu. How had Roger managed to slip note and scarf into his pocket? He hid the note inside his physics text. Then he pocketed the bandanna, put on shoes and his jacket, and stepped outside.

  Only a few lights shone in the buildings. The rain had tapered into mist. It seemed pointless to remain in the dorm, sick and alone. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had eaten or even had a sip of water, and the cafeteria was dark. Behind his glazed eyes, the windows in Bea’s house beckoned like glowing candles.

  Once more he unfolded the pin-striped suit. He brushed out the creases and dressed. Over the suit he put on his tracksuit to keep him dry. Maybe Daniel was right: if he came to Bea’s gate like a great king, she would reconsider. Taking a flashlight from Daniel’s drawer, Jean Patrick set out. Near Cyarwa, he heard a faint bleating. He looked down to see a billy goat in step beside him. Either this journey is written, or my fever is talking, he thought. Here is Rugira, my ram, come to accompany me. And so I must be Gihanga, half of heaven and half of the earth, setting off to navigate my earthly domain.

  JEAN PATRICK RESTED his forehead against the cool metal of Bea’s gate. He called again, rattled the bolt; no one came. Night drifted down. Rain had soaked his clothing. Thirty seconds, and he would leave. At twenty-eight seconds, the front door opened.

  “Jean Patrick, is that you?”

  Jean Patrick let the sound of Bea’s voice fill him. “It is.”

  “My God. You are completely insane.” She unlocked the gate and let him in.

  “I am.”

  Niyonzima stepped out from the doorway with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Bea? Who’s there?”

  “It’s Jean Patrick. He walked here in the storm. He has drowned.”

  “Don’t keep him standing there. Bring him inside.”

  “Be strong, Jean Patrick,” Bea said before locking the gate behind him.

  Jean Patrick puzzled over her meaning, but the next moment he saw, pulled into the far corner of the yard, a car with the roof torn off, the windshield and windows gone. He felt his heart in his throat. Was he still in his room, wading through a fevered nightmare? Was Pascal still recounting his story of the accident, only to have it come to life in Jean Patrick’s mind? The earth lurched up to meet him. If Bea had not taken his arm, he might have fallen.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” he said.

  Niyonzima came out into the rain and took his other arm. “Nonsense. You are always welcome. Come inside—you are indeed drowned.” His shirt was spotted with blood.

  At the table sat a shirtless man. He nodded to Jean Patrick, and despite his obvious pain, he smiled. His left arm was bandaged, supported by a sling; his left eye, swollen shut and purple beneath a jagged, seeping gash. Small wounds peppered his flesh. Ineza bent over him, picking out shards of glass with tweezers. Jean Patrick thought to pinch himself to see if he was awake. Could it be that here, in front of him, was the man Pascal had stopped to help?

  The man extended his right hand. “Félicien Gatabazi. Sorry if I don’t stand to greet you properly, but you should know I’m a big fan of yours.” He squinted like a mole suddenly come up into the light.

  Gingerly, Jean Patrick took his hand. “I’m sorry. Your name is familiar to me, but I can’t say how or why. Did we meet at the reception in Kigali?” The room began to spin. Sweat beaded on his skin, and Jean Patrick worried that this friend of Bea’s would judge him for his slippery palm.

  Bea pursed her lips. “Félicien Gatabazi is the minister of public works, and head of our Parti Social Démocrate, the party to lead Rwanda into the future.”

  A sound like a mosquito’s whine grew until it filled Jean Patrick’s head. His field of vision shrank, and he realized he was about to faint. If he sat, he might be all right, but a bloody shirt lay across the nearest chair. Instead he took a step toward the wall so he could lean against it. The floor opened beneath him, and he fell through.

  HE OPENED HIS eyes, believing he was underwater and had to swim to the surface. As awareness returned, the water became a bed. He breathed in Bea’s scent from the sheets. Ineza’s face orbited above him and then became still.

  “Good evening.” She held a cup in her hands. The steam smelled of grass and citrus. “You frightened us. The second scare of the day.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have stayed at the dorm.”

  “And be sick alone?” She set the cup on the nightstand and propped pillows behind his head. “You must drink.”

  The tea tasted of hot pepper and lemon, sweet with honey. It soothed the burn in his throat. “When I came, I was not thinking well.”

  “You were thinking with your heart, but I will keep your secret,” she said. “Are you better now? Will you stay in the world awhile?”

  The lilt of Ineza’s voice, her tender care, unlocked Jean Patrick. Warmth spread through his chest. “I think so. Have I been sleeping a long time?”

  “Maybe an hour.”

  He shifted his weight, and the cloth of someone’s bulky shorts bunched between his legs. In a panic, he sat up and clutched the blanket to his chest.

  “Claire is wringing the weather from your nice suit and your track clothes,” Ineza said. “When did you last eat?”

  Bea’s voice drifted down the hall, and he cocked his head to hear. “Not since yesterday, I think.”

  “No wonder you fainted. I’ll ask Bea to bring something for you.”

  Jean Patrick settled back against the pillow and swallowed more of Ineza’s herbs. His eyes took in the room. His picture was there on Bea’s desk. Beside the photo was the pirogue he had given her, the fishermen still bent to their oars. “I would like that,” he said.

  Bea brought a tray with soup and a piece of bread and margarine. “You made quite an entrance,” she said. She pulled her stool next to the bed.

  Jean Patrick took a spoonful of soup. It was thick and pungent, creamy with vegetables and cassava leaves. He thought he might live. “Did you make this?”

  “If I had, you would not be smiling so.”

  He dunked the bread into the soup and ate it. “It was Daniel’s father who helped Gatabazi on the road,” he said, gauging Bea’s face for reaction. “He told us a strange story. I thought maybe he was protecting me, because of what happened to my father.”

  Bea confirmed nothing, denied nothing. She rose and shut the curtains. “Finish your soup and get some rest.” Before closing the door and turning off the lights, she smiled at him. It was a faint smile, but Jean Patrick held on to it. He did as Bea asked, wiping the bowl clean with the last of the bread. From the pillow, he breathed in the air Bea had breathed and let sleep carry him.

  THE DAY RETURNED to Jean Patrick in fits an
d starts. He winced at the thought of the picture he must have made at her gate. He did not know how long he had slept. Claire had pressed his clothes—even the track pants and jacket—and hung them up to finish drying. In a flash, he saw himself tucking Isaka’s bandanna into his jacket pocket. He kicked off the covers and searched; it was gone.

  Ineza came in with a shirt and sweater and a pair of sweatpants. “These will have to do until your clothes dry, unless you want to wear one of my pagnes.” She set a pair of flip-flops on the rug. Everything would be far too small. “Are you well enough to eat with us?”

  “I could go back to the dorm now,” he said. “I don’t want to stick my head into your private matters.”

  “Don’t talk foolishness. You are welcome here, as our son.”

  A polite silence greeted Jean Patrick when he came to the table. Bea laughed first to break the mood. “It’s an improvement over your appearance at the gate,” she said. “At least you no longer resemble a chicken swimming to its death.”

  Jean Patrick’s fever had broken. He was happy when Ineza piled his plate high.

  Gatabazi’s clothes must also have been Niyonzima’s, but the two men were nearly the same size. One sleeve of his shirt hung empty, his left arm immobilized against his chest. Although Ineza cut his meat into small pieces, he struggled to get his food onto the fork. “I miss my arm and my glasses,” he said.

  “The arm I can do nothing about, but if your eyesight is as bad as mine, I will lend you a pair of glasses,” Niyonzima said.

  “My good friend,” Gatabazi said, “you know it is far worse.” A car drove slowly down the road, and they all sat up to listen. Gatabazi squinted his good eye in the window’s direction, and Jean Patrick realized he must be quite blind.

  Talk wandered here and there. At some point, Niyonzima would fold his hands and begin to speak. Then Jean Patrick could make some sense of the afternoon. Ever since he had learned of the mine that killed the schoolchildren, the events in his life seemed to tumble down a path of their own making.

  Claire cleared the dishes and set down a bowl of fruit and a thermos of tea. When she had closed the door behind her, Niyonzima cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table. “My daughter has been against speaking to you frankly,” he said.

  “In these times, ignorance is a blessing.” Bea’s eyes flashed. Her glance flitted to her mother, then back to Niyonzima. “Knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

  Niyonzima shook his head. “Ineza and I think differently.”

  Jean Patrick could not think clearly. Since his head still swam, he let the current of Niyonzima’s words carry him. He hoped that when he reached the shore, Bea would be there, extending her hand to him.

  “As you doubtless know, this country becomes more dangerous every day for those who are not graced with the government’s good favor,” Niyonzima said. “You are in the spotlight, and you must be mindful of the company you keep.” He put a hand on Bea’s shoulder. “You risk your future if you are seen with those of us who openly oppose the government. It was Bea’s wish to sweep you from her door and make that decision for you, but she has agreed that we should speak plainly to you and let you decide for yourself. Whatever your answer, it must be given from your mind and not your heart.”

  After days of crashing around without direction, Jean Patrick had found the pointing needle of the compass. “I don’t have to decide. I know already.”

  Niyonzima held up his hand. “Consider carefully. If you stay, understand that you have walked into a dangerous room, and that once you have come inside, you cannot change your mind and go out again.”

  “And don’t forget there is someone else to consider,” Bea said. “Your coach holds your future in his hands. He watches the company you keep.” She pointed her knife at Jean Patrick and then peeled and sliced the mango on her plate.

  With the mention of his coach, the last variable in the equation fell into place. It was Coach who had refused to greet Niyonzima properly, who told Jolie that Jean Patrick was involved with a girl, and not a good one. All this time, Bea had been trying to protect him. He took the slice of mango she offered and let it slither down his throat.

  He would not be forced to choose between one future and the other. He had come out in the rain, burning with fever, to say his piece, and now he would say it. He had two fists; he could grasp one dream in each. “I can’t let worry beat me,” he said. “Any more than I can let an opponent beat me on the track. From the first day I saw Bea, I knew I would do what I had to in order to win her.”

  “That is not the right reason,” Bea said.

  “It is the only reason I have.”

  “My father went to prison a strong man.” Bea’s voice trembled. “When he came out, I thought the white-haired grandfather limping toward us was a stranger. He looked like the walking dead, and I told the guard, ‘You have made a mistake. This man is not my father.’ As you see, he has never fully recovered. This is what Habyarimana does to his enemies. Do not think you will be immune.”

  Ineza covered Bea’s hand with hers. “You must look with your eyes open into this room before you decide to enter.”

  Gatabazi pulled his chair closer. He had been so quiet that Jean Patrick had forgotten his presence. “Bea told us it was your friend’s father who helped me on the road. You must thank him for me. I believe I owe him my life.”

  “Pascal said a rock hit your car.”

  “I can tell you don’t believe it.”

  “As a student of physics and engineering, I was confused by the mechanics, especially when I saw your car. If such a big boulder hit the roof, how could you live?”

  “One hundred percent!” Gatabazi nodded his approval. “I will tell you the truth. A truck came up behind me, going very fast. When he pulled out to pass, he came very close, and the passenger threw something out the window. I knew immediately it was a grenade, but all I could do was steer into the bush and dive for cover. This time they failed, but they will try again. Eventually they will succeed. No matter—they can’t stop me from speaking out.”

  Jean Patrick recalled Bea’s comment on the morning she first told him about her father. Like Niyonzima, Gatabazi loved Rwanda enough to die for her. “Do you know who it was?”

  “Perhaps the extremists, perhaps someone from Habyarimana’s inner circle. I am a thorn in all their sides. We in the PSD, the Parti Social Démocrate, are trying to free Rwanda from Habyarimana’s stranglehold on power. We want a coalition government, and we want to share power with the RPF. The extremists can’t accept that.”

  “I’ve been waiting for the government to grow impatient with my articles and speeches again,” Niyonzima said. “Even with our Tutsi préfet, I don’t know if I can remain safe, but that is a risk we have all accepted.” Sweat shone on Niyonzima’s skin, and it gave the appearance of a glow coming from within, from his passion.

  Now that Jean Patrick understood why Bea had left him, he would plant his feet firmly and hold on. Just two months before, Habyarimana had thrown a party in his honor, and Jean Patrick had shaken his hand. It was foolish to think anyone would want to hurt him, and he wished everyone would stop worrying over him. All he wanted was to run and to have Bea beside him. “I understand what you are telling me. But as I said, I did not come here in the bad weather to let doubt beat me down.”

  ONLY BEA AND Jean Patrick remained awake. Gatabazi, asleep in Niyonzima’s study, snored softly. Rain struck the window and slid down in tiny streams. Jean Patrick studied their trace on the glass a moment before he spoke. “There was a scarf, a green one, in my pocket. Do you know what happened to it?”

  Bea put a hand to her mouth. “Just a minute.” She went to the kitchen and returned with the bandanna. “This?” She held it out, crumpled and wet, to Jean Patrick. “I found it in the bathroom, on the clothesline. I thought it was a rag for cleaning.”

  Jean Patrick cupped it in his palm. “It belonged to a friend.” Another door better left locked and guard
ed, but he opened it and invited Bea inside. “He stepped on a mine.” Bea gasped again. “He didn’t die, but he lost his leg.”

  “You surprise me, Nkuba Jean Patrick. I see we both have secrets.” She looked out the window at the rain. “Is he RPF?”

  Jean Patrick took a deep breath. “Yes. We ran together at Gihundwe. He was a great distance runner. Our last year, he just disappeared, never came back from vacation. People said he had been killed, but then I got a message—he wants me to run for him in the Olympics.” He chuckled. “The marathon.” None of this was a lie. Jean Patrick was merely selecting his truths, a lesson he was quickly learning. Roger’s story jumped onto his tongue, trying to find a way into the room, but Jean Patrick stilled it. That was a secret he needed to let sleep.

  “My God, you’ll die,” Bea said. “I’ve seen you after eight hundred meters.”

  Jean Patrick thought of the photograph in her room, and his heart grew full. “True enough. But I need some way to honor him. His spirit is so strong.”

  “I have an idea.” Bea disappeared and came back with a sketchbook. She turned the pages—flowers, her backyard, Claire’s children, portraits of Niyonzima and Ineza—until she came to a sketch of three men, two black and one white, standing on the medal podium at the Olympics. The two black athletes raised black-gloved fists. They wore no shoes, just black socks beneath rolled-up pants. All three athletes had large white buttons pinned to their warm-ups. The title of the sketch was Mexico City, 1968.

  “I drew this from a scrapbook my father kept. Long before he heard my first cry, he saved important newspaper articles for his children.” A faint smile graced her lips. “And of course to study how they were written.”

  “You drew this?”

  “I did.”

  Jean Patrick passed his hand lightly above the page as if to absorb its energy. “Like your mama’s painting, it comes alive.”

  “They were protesting apartheid in South Africa and racism in America. I was so moved. They could have lost their medals, but they were willing to take the chance for their beliefs.”