“Why are you showing me this?” Jean Patrick felt a twinge of annoyance. He did not want to be pushed into anyone’s politics.
Bea touched her finger to the gold medalist. “His name is Tommie Smith. You can’t see it, but he also wore a black scarf to stand for black pride.”
“A scarf! Mana yanjye! I don’t have to run the marathon after all. I just have to wear my friend’s scarf in the eight hundred. But me, when I win a medal, I will not chance anyone taking it away.”
“One more thing,” Bea said.
She leaned closer to flip the pages. He felt her quiet, steady breath, her heat. Suddenly, Jean Patrick was looking into his own face, sketched from the photograph on her desk. He believed she had captured him perfectly, down to the mix of pain and transcendent joy radiant in his eyes.
1994
TWENTY
JEAN PATRICK HAD BEEN HOME for Christmas vacation when he heard the announcement on the radio that Gatabazi’s PSD party would get what they had struggled so hard to achieve—a role in a transitional government. For the first time, they would share in power and have a true voice in shaping Rwanda’s future. Jean Patrick and Uncle had celebrated with urwagwa, sipping the banana beer from a common straw, but as they sat and watched evening swallow the lake, Uncle wagged a finger. “This does not mean Tutsi should sleep with both eyes at the same time,” he said, the same words Roger had used to warn Jean Patrick about Coach. When he heard them again, uneasiness crept from the mist to sit beside him in his rickety chair. Its presence stuck with him for the rest of vacation and even on the bus ride back to Butare.
Now, the day of the swearing-in, Jean Patrick tried to shake nervousness from his fingers as he prepared for his workout. This morning, Bea and Niyonzima had gone to Kigali to watch the ceremony, and to keep his mind going in one direction, Jean Patrick had come to the track to run. The workout was pinned to his shorts: a series of four hundred meters, fast, followed by a two-hundred-meter recovery, then four eight hundreds at race pace. He was on his last four hundred, not looking forward to the eights. A trace of sluggishness from his cold still lingered. Much of the time he was home, he had been too sick to run. This was his first attempt to return to his training, and yesterday’s rough bus journey from Cyangugu had not helped.
He passed the start line and glanced at his watch: not good. The watch was new—a Timex, a Christmas gift from Coach. He had found it folded inside the package of workouts Coach had left for him, along with a note. This will substitute for me. The Americans have created a miracle, keeping track of ten laps at once. Which you will write down in my absence.
Seeing his four hundred time, Jean Patrick wished he didn’t have the reminder. He wished he had Coach to push him, the rest of the team to challenge him. On his own, his muscles tired and out of shape from too much rest, he couldn’t reach his goals. There was at least one good thing: the truck tire existed only in memory. Coach would reinstate this torture when he returned, but for the present he had disappeared. Jean Patrick had gone to see him as soon as he returned, but Jolie said he was not expected back before the end of vacation. When he asked where Coach had gone, Jolie called him inshyanutsi—a nosy one.
Jean Patrick slowed for his recovery, shook out his fingers, tried to find in his legs the tempo he had lost. At his peak, he felt as if he sliced the air when he ran. Now he pushed against it, left jagged flaps of it in his wake. Crossing the start for his first eight hundred, he called back the memory of New Year’s Day with his family to keep him company.
“I AM TELLING YOU,” Uncle Emanuel said. “These days, prosperity opens her arms to me. I have seen a motorboat and soon it will be mine.” The table was crowded with family and neighbors, piled high with food. Mukabera brought a large dish of igisafuria, made from a plump hen and her own peanuts ground into a spicy sauce. The front door remained open, and all day people from the surrounding hills came to say umwaka mwiza, happy New Year, and to share food and urwagwa. Even now, on the track, the vision made Jean Patrick smile.
He brought back the taste of the ibijumba n’ikivuguto his mother had made him. He saw himself take a sip of thick, sweetened milk, a bite of sweet potato, letting the two mix and melt in his mouth. Surrounded by family, the smells and tastes of his childhood cooking, he could almost believe he had returned to his previous life, one with two feet planted on the earth.
“Uncle,” he joked, “all these years I broke my back paddling, and now that I’m gone, you get a motor?”
“I have seen this boat with my own two eyes,” Fulgence said, emphasizing his words with a long draft of urwagwa and a tug at his Saint Christopher medal. “The man says it is not for sale, but me, I say if your uncle wants it, he will have it. His talk his too sweet—like honey.”
Zachary sat beside Uncle with his luminous smile. He had received a scholarship for school in Kibuye. In the new term, he would begin his studies for the priesthood.
The vision gave Jean Patrick enough strength for one last brutal kick. He wheeled past the line, and the numbers on his watch gave him a glimmer of hope.
The second eight hundred proved harder than the first. He probably went out too fast. Maybe, finally, he was beginning to understand what Coach meant by pace. For distraction he recited the names of minerals found in Rwanda: cassiterite, columbite, tantalite, wolframite, quickening the tempo of the chant as he pounded the dirt. Another tenth of a second shaved from his time. For the third eight hundred, he switched to physics: Energy is the property of matter and radiation manifested as a capacity to perform work. Energy. Energy. Energy. He was two-tenths slower and had to jog a little extra to regain his breath.
For the final eight hundred, he conjured up Bea in her blue shawl (azurite, beryl, chrysocolla) her skin (cinnabar) gleaming in the room’s dim light (serpentine, olivine, mysterious minerals of the sea). She hovered in front, his rabbit, exiting turns as he entered. The finish wavered in front of him. He crossed and stopped his watch and then doubled over, nothing left to give. Three-tenths of a second shaved. Now he knew he was clawing his way back. For luck, he touched the knot of Isaka’s bandanna at his neck.
When he regained his breath and looked up into the stands, Bea was watching him, as if he had truly called her forth. He waved and trotted toward her. Taking the steps two at a time, he shouted, “I broke my own record in the eight hundred. Could you tell?” Bea covered her face with her hands, and his stomach twisted. “What’s wrong?” He took his track pants from the bench and pulled them on. “I thought you’d be happy today. You got your wish.”
“There is no new government. Habyarimana had himself sworn in, and then he left. It was a complete joke.”
Jean Patrick sat beside her. “I thought everything was settled. What happened?” He recalled Uncle’s warning. The heat of exhilaration drained from his body, the sharp chill of afternoon taking its place.
Bea pulled her jacket around her. “Will you eat with us? You don’t have to change; no one will care.” The sheen of her tears gave her eyes a hard, polished look, like metal.
“I’m soaking wet. Let me get dry and put on clothes. Pass by my room with me.” He looked out across the field, the road above the track. He saw no one there to watch or judge, so he put his arm around her and led her down the steps. “Shh,” he said. “Shh. It’s OK.”
Bea shook her head. “No. Nothing is OK.”
What heat was left in the day had fled. Soon the light would follow it, vanishing behind the hills. “Tell me,” he said.
“None of us believed Habyarimana meant to proceed, so we went with our eyes open. There was a big crowd outside the parliament building, shouting, joking, milling about together. It felt festive. Dadi and I began to get excited. We thought maybe we had been wrong, maybe our dream would come to pass after all.” She paused to wipe her cheek. Her malachite bracelets jangled. “Habyarimana and his convoy came zooming up like Hollywood gangsters, horns blaring, weaving so fast and crazy we all had to jump out of their way. Even UNAMIR
troops—they almost ran them over. The Presidential Guard leapt from the trucks, waving their guns and machetes, and swarmed into the crowd. They had on civilian clothes, but no one was fooled.” Bea trembled. Jean Patrick thought it was from cold, but when she turned to him and held his gaze, he saw the anger. “They were the petrol poured on the smoldering fire,” she said. “Of course the mob ignited.”
Jean Patrick knew the face of this force. Frenzy shimmering like chemical vapors, the flash point dangerously low. He had looked it in the eye. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Not seriously, as far as I know. But the crowd attacked the moderate candidates—PSD and the other allied parties—as they tried to enter the building. They couldn’t pass. We planned to follow Habyarimana inside, but when we realized what was happening, we stayed in the street to help protect the delegates, because the police did nothing. I heard Dadi yell, and when I looked around, he was on the ground, someone hitting him. Finally some UNAMIR soldiers stepped in and saved him.”
“And until then, UNAMIR did nothing?”
“They protected those few they could, but they did not step in.” Bea stopped to remove a stone from her sandal. “I do not think we can count on them, if it comes to that.”
They had reached Jean Patrick’s dorm and stood outside the door. Aside from two women strolling arm in arm on the path to the library, the campus was deserted, everyone still home for vacation. “Come in with me,” Jean Patrick said. “You can close your eyes while I dress.” He opened the door and turned on the light.
Bea paused as if weighing her options in her two hands. For a moment, Jean Patrick thought the balance would tip against him, but then she pulled her jacket tighter and stepped inside. Jean Patrick shut the door behind her.
“What happened then?” he said.
She turned and leaned against the door, forehead pressed to the shabby wood. “We learned Habyarimana had himself sworn in with a fancy ceremony.” She hugged herself. “Along with a gang of Hutu Power thugs whose names mysteriously appeared on the list instead of the true delegates—the moderates.”
Jean Patrick watched Bea’s back, her bowed head. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He took off his clothes and toweled dry. Bea’s nearness made him shiver. When he had dressed, he stood beside her.
She faced him, her body pressed against the door, as if without its support she would sink to her knees. Her cheeks shone with tears. “For the first time since my father was in prison, I’m frightened. This country is going to explode. That is what I felt today.” She began to weep, and Jean Patrick raised a hand to her hair. A strand, straight and silky, had come loose from the tie that held it, and he tucked it carefully behind her ear. “God help us,” she said, and she closed her fingers around his.
“You’re safe now,” he said. The air trembled, his words moving outward as a ripple moves out from a pebble tossed into the depths of a lake. Outside the window, a night bird whistled. A purplish dusk curled around the last wisps of daylight. They would be walking in darkness. Jean Patrick reached across her and turned out the light. Before opening the door and letting in the evening, he sang to her, “Cyusa,” the song his mother used to sing to him when he was small and frightened by shadows. It was a lullaby, a mother telling her child to fear nothing because his parents would always watch over him. It was the only thing he could think of to do for Bea.
It was Friday night, the Murakazaneza crowded beyond belief. Jean Patrick and Bea pushed their way inside. “I think Susanne will be easy to spot,” Jean Patrick shouted into Bea’s ear, in order to be heard above the onslaught.
Bea leaned into him. “What makes you so sure?” She was already moving toward the cap of blond-white hair at the center table, the focus of all eyes in the restaurant. Not even the football game on TV could compete.
In person, Susanne did not resemble a boy. She was tiny and thin, hair cropped closer than in her photo, flyaway spikes caught in a current of air. “These are my very best friends, J. P. and Bea,” Jonathan announced to anyone who cared to hear. Susanne raised her head, and Jean Patrick looked into two flakes of malachite.
Jonathan called the waiter to the table. “Brochettes et chips? Plantains?”
“Sounds wonderful,” Bea said as she claimed the chair beside Susanne. “It’s nice to finally greet you—we hear so much of you.” She kissed Susanne’s cheeks Rwandan-style.
Jonathan ordered in a mixture of French, Kinyarwanda, and English. The waiter, who knew him well by now, teased him with a rapid-fire Kinyarwanda response. “And beer. Inshi, inshi Primuses!” Jonathan spread his arms wide to pantomime many. The waiter chuckled and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jean Patrick understood Jonathan’s fire now, the way love lit him up from the inside.
The waiter returned with food and beer. Susanne’s eyes looked glazed. “Excuse me if I seem a bit out of it,” she said. “I’ve been traveling for two days; it’s been a really long and insane journey.” She picked up a stick of gizzards from the plate of brochettes, and Jonathan gasped.
“Probably not the best first choice,” he said as he took them from her fingers.
“Try this instead.” Jean Patrick gave her a goat brochette.
With the tine of her fork she pulled the meat from the stick. “Mmm! What is it?”
Jonathan spoke over Jean Patrick’s response. “Beef.”
Bea looked at Susanne and smiled. “How do you find our country?”
Before Jonathan could stop her, Susanne spooned pilipili over her chips. “Wow,” she said, her eyes watering. “Not quite ready for that.” She gulped her beer and turned to Bea. “I love Rwanda. The beautiful landscape, the friendly people. I’ve never seen so many breathtaking smiles. Although tonight I may need a little coffee to stay awake.” She slumped against Jonathan.
Raising her beer glass, Bea said, “A toast for our New Year’s celebration. Uzakubere uw’amata n’ubuki.” She translated for Susanne. “May you have a year of milk and honey.”
Susanne gave Bea a sleepy smile. “How funny! We say that, too—halav oo d’vash—only I think it has to do with the land of Israel instead of the New Year.”
“Ha-rav oo vache.” Jean Patrick tried. He couldn’t get his tongue around the sounds. “Vache like cow?”
“Oh no—sorry—it’s Hebrew.” Susanne giggled.
“To milk and honey—whatever the language,” Jonathan said.
Everyone clinked and drank. Jean Patrick prayed their wish would come true in any language Imana heard.
All through dinner, Susanne and Jonathan swayed into each other like drunks. Jean Patrick envied them their bold and easy touch. If he lived in a place where such things were possible, he would sweep away hesitation, throw an arm across Bea’s shoulder, and kiss her in front of the world.
Empty bottles disappeared; full ones took their place. Fresh brochettes arrived to replace the piles of empty sticks. Beneath the table, Jean Patrick sought Bea’s sandal. She tapped his toe with her foot. An American movie, muted, flickered in the TV’s blue light. Something about a war. A haze of cigarette smoke blurred the evening’s edges.
Susanne talked about her NGO, their plans to plant new trees on denuded slopes. She had majored in forestry, minored in French, and when she confessed to having been Jonathan’s student, she blushed. She ate a boiled plantain slice with her fingers. “C’est si bon,” she said.
“Biraryoshye cyane,” Jean Patrick taught her.
Susanne would spend two weeks in Gisenyi for training, then work in a small town near Ruhengeri, on the slopes of the Virungas.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Bea asked. “That’s right next to the DMZ.”
“Should I be?” Susanne’s brow furrowed. “The State Department told us it was safe.”
“Of course,” Bea said. Magma flared and then extinguished in her eyes.
“I can’t wait to see the mountain gorillas. I was stunned when someone murdered Dian Fossey. And when I think of poachers killing tho
se poor animals—” She broke off the sentence and sighed.
Bea scowled. Jean Patrick could see her boiling up. There are Rwandans in the Virungas, too, she was thinking. Innocent Rwandans are murdered every day.
WHEN SUSANNE PASSED out on Jonathan’s shoulder, Jonathan signaled for the bill. Jean Patrick glanced at his watch. Less than half an hour until curfew. What was it like not to scurry into hiding when a certain hour arrived? He could scarcely remember. With Susanne’s arrival, he saw his life with new eyes, all its faults and restrictions.
Jonathan had rented a car for the weekend, and he offered Jean Patrick and Bea a ride. Bea had calmed down, her resentment blunted into friendly goodwill. She watched, amused, as Jonathan fumbled with the key. The grating voice of an RTLM journalist came from a radio down the street. We expect this government to be reasonable and not help the RPF create problems.
Bea maneuvered into the tiny backseat, and her pagne flared open. A red pantaloon leg flashed in the light from the overhead bulb. Jean Patrick ducked in beside her, his bony knees nearly in his chest.
Jonathan drove carefully, Susanne asleep against his shoulder despite the skull-jarring bumps from the road. At the checkpoint, she half awoke and gave the soldier an angelic smile.
“Welcome to Rwanda,” he said with a salute. He returned her smile. His finger brushed hers when he returned the passport.
“Thank you. I may never leave.”
The soldier slid his flashlight beam over Bea and Jean Patrick and then made a sweeping circle to wave them through. Jonathan thanked him and drove on toward Cyarwa Sumo.
“It helps to have a mnyamerikakazi in the car,” Bea said in Kinyarwanda. “The guy was so crazy for her blond hair, he forgot about us completely.” Jean Patrick grinned. Bea had a human side after all; she was jealous.
Jonathan, brave as soon as he passed through town, sped around corners like a true Rwandan driver. Jean Patrick and Bea slanted one way and then another, like fishermen on a stormy lake. A crescent moon swam through the clouds. Jean Patrick pressed his mouth to Bea’s ear. “Do you know what Americans do in backseats?” Bea shook her head. He took her face in his hands and kissed her.
Running the Rift Page 24
