Thirty Girls

by Minot, Susan

  Uneasiness came over her. She felt nauseated. Maybe she wasn’t getting enough sleep. Maybe they were drinking too much. Maybe she liked him more than he liked her. What was happening to her? Here she was reading about hostages and terrorists while wondering like an idiot if a boy she liked liked her back.

  But she did not drop the thought. He’d lost interest in her. Boys always did. She was too old. Too needy. He was put off. He was a healthy, self-possessed young person who didn’t have a neurotic need to merge with someone else. She observed herself, humiliated to be entertaining these thoughts, much less to find them true. In stunning relief rose the shadows, as if lit by the sun off Lake Victoria, of the contours of all her unappealing attributes: impatience, dissatisfaction, age. She lacked a calm, inviting interior.

  She regarded her legs crossed in front of her, her skirt to the knees, feet in flip-flops, chipped red-painted toes. She wished she had a different body, with long legs, and a different face, with full dark features, and a spirit that spread joy around her. What she saw instead was a person with no real home, a woman without a child, an idiot girl whose mind despite being full of hijackers and anti-Semitism, SWAT teams and demented dictators, was nevertheless still preoccupied with a man fifteen years younger who at eleven in the morning was still sleeping.

  How to stop the spiraling of the mind? Tumult led to restlessness. She got up from her chair.

  The door was open to the front room. Daphne was sitting on the floor against the couch, nursing the baby. She looked at Jane with searching in her eyes.

  How far away is the airstrip at Entebbe? Jane asked.

  It’s just here, Daphne said. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. She had a level gaze with dark defined eyebrows. The eyes said to Jane: I am trapped with this baby. You all still get to do things and go places.

  Jane, however, regarded Daphne with admiration. She had strength and maturity, a robust man, and had managed to have a baby. Daphne was ten years younger than Jane, but doing far more grown-up things than Jane had managed.

  I’d like to check it out, Jane said, holding up the book. Now I’m brushed up on it.

  It’s completely abandoned, you know. Nothing much there but a lot of weeds.

  Historical, though.

  What is? Harry said, coming into the room. He sat on the couch by Daphne. Jane got a pang at how near his leg was to Daphne’s bare shoulder. The pang was mortifying.

  Entebbe. Want to go see it?

  Sure, he said automatically, and she was grateful for his quickness. He rubbed his forehead with the heels of both hands. But coffee first.

  Daphne rose like a dancer, balancing with an extended arm, not disturbing the nursing baby. I’ll make more.

  No, Harry said, helping her up. No worries.

  It’s fine. Really. I’d like to do something other than feed this monster.

  They walked toward the kitchen. Harry let Daphne go before him through the doorway, and Jane imagined them as a couple with their baby. They looked more suited to each other than she and Harry could ever be.

  Her mood did not improve in the car. She felt impatient, tired of being a guest, mooching off people. She should have been in the north by now, working on the story, occupied with more substantial things.

  The truck was on another crude road, bumping as always. A jagged cliff rose up on her side in pale cubistic rocks. She watched Harry driving. He had on his hat with the zebra band and sunglasses, and his closed mouth looked sealed off.

  Did you want to come? she said.

  He glanced toward her, to check if he’d heard her right.

  You don’t seem as if you want to be here, she said.

  He drove on, staring like a stone person.

  Because you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to. We don’t need to go.

  What are you talking about? Harry said. He faced the road, doing his best to ignore this.

  You seem irritated.

  His head sort of reared back. What?

  She felt as if she were being sucked under by an uncontrollable force, and if that’s how it was going to be, then she might as well revel in it. She pressed on. You seem like you don’t want to be here, she said.

  You’re sounding crazy, he said mildly.

  They continued to bounce in the car, driving in silence. She felt as if loose wires were flying about in front of her face, each a different thought or thing she might say, with none being the right one. The silence felt unbearable.

  The cliff ended, and the road crumbled down to a wide unkempt field of weeds. The lake reappeared beyond lush tangled bushes. Far off, a tarred area encroached with grass surrounded a low white building whose windows were smashed out.

  There it is, Jane said, relieved for something outside of herself. Were you even born when this happened?

  Just, he said.

  She told him what she’d read, how in the end the Israeli commandos got the glory, not the Air France crew—who had chosen to stay with the hostages when they could have been released.

  They did their job, Harry said. He stopped the car.

  They got out on their opposite sides. The midday sun was strong and thin with the high elevation.

  I don’t even think that’s the original terminal, Jane said.

  They walked around the building, then strolled away from each other. Tarmac fissures sprouted grass. They met again in a shallow riverbed where puddles of water lay among white rubble and stones. Harry faced away from her; she deserved to be ignored. What was wrong, really? Nothing. Herself. If only she could observe the world with amusement and be inviting and light. If only she were ageless.

  One of the hostages had been an older woman with a medical problem who’d been allowed to go to the hospital in Kampala, leaving her adult son at the airport with the hostages. When the hostages were freed, her son had to decide if he would stay. He ended up flying back with the others, leaving his mother in Uganda. Idi Amin, infuriated by all the events, had the mother dragged out of the hospital and killed. Jane told Harry this as she balanced on the rocks. The poor woman, she said.

  Harry’s back was to her. It’s the son I’d worry about.

  The white stones buzzed with flies. Of course, he was right. Worse for the living. This riverbed felt like a bottomless pit of engulfment. She was thinking too much, and too much about him. Despair increased with this reflection. She made herself breathe, and an overwhelming hunger seemed to spread dark wings in her, and she longed to feel both everything and nothing.

  Let’s go, she said and turned. She could turn away from him, too.

  In the car the gaping thing expanded into something palpable, pressing on her lungs. What would become of her? The future loomed. Contemplating the future always guaranteed more worry. She asked Harry if he knew what his plans were when they got back to Nairobi, after the trip. This was a subject certain to hurt her, and apparently she wanted to be hurt.

  I’m not thinking of the next thing while I’m here, he said. People spend too much time thinking about what’s going to happen next. His face was calm and his voice sure and uninsistent. He did not seem to be fazed by her appalling behavior. This immediately calmed her, and all the whirling thoughts seemed to land, flattened out.

  Life could shift that way. You could be suddenly hijacked and the terms of your life would change. Someone outside of you could alter everything. By the same token you could be bereft and alone to the core one moment and with nothing outside in the world changing, and the next moment because someone spoke feel your existence united and whole. Things could change that fast. They had just now.

  I’m sorry, she said.

  He shrugged.

  I’ve taken out my bad mood on you. Really I’m sorry.

  It’s okay. He gave her a quick, kind look.

  Will you forgive me?

  No worries, he said. They were back at the driveway.

  Her relief was tremendous. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Really, will you forgive me?

>   Jane, I said it’s okay. This time his voice had an edge to it.

  Kampala was swirling with white dust and the sound of jackhammers. Rodney volunteered to drive Jane and Pierre in on Friday afternoon, through streets banked by sawhorses and pyramids of rubble. The city was enjoying a boom. Plastic flags decorated the awnings of new businesses, foundations were being dug for banks. At a roundabout, cars were at a standstill, and Rodney told Pierre to get out and ask a matatu to move so they could turn. Through the dust around a white clock tower they saw a bobbing line of helmets—hup-two, hup-two—jogging toward an unseen disturbance.

  I thought it might be something like that, Rodney said, unimpressed.

  What was that? Jane felt she was watching a newsreel.

  Rodney shook his head. Who knows. Some little riot being crushed.

  They wound their way out of downtown and up a hillside into trees on curving old streets with leafy canopies, past the quiet embassies barricaded behind electric gates, and the converted colonials that housed the nongovernmental organizations, the ubiquitous NGOs.

  At each short driveway was a sign: Oxfam, Save the Children, GOAL, Set Them Free International, Friends in Service, SMACA (Save Mothers and Children Association), Humanitas Foundation, Plan Uganda, EACO (Empower and Care Organization), Greater Life Mission, Action for Community Development. They passed more: Centre for Treatment of Rehabilitation of Torture Victims, Helpers International, Uganda Coalition for Crisis Prevention. Suddenly Rodney McAlistair’s silence broke, and out came a steady monologue about the ineffectuality of these so-called humanitarian organizations. He spoke as if he’d been talking all along and was not the silent brother. The effect on the country’s economy was parasitic, not to mention the psychological effect on people who as recipients of charity were only encouraged to remain helpless and dependent.…

  Jane and Pierre listened, nodding.

  World Vision, Jane interrupted. In here.

  They turned in to a parking lot.

  Concrete steps led up to the wide wooden veranda of a yellow building. They crossed a long hallway of walls painted brown halfway up in imitation of wainscoting, and came to a quiet reception area where an old black telephone sat on a high counter and the top of a receptionist’s head was visible behind. A few people waited in chairs around low tables scattered with pamphlets. Jane told the receptionist they were there to see Bobby Kiwanuka. She nodded. Please, you wait just here, she said.

  They sat on a bench. Pierre held his camera in his lap with the red light on, filming. Jane looked through the pamphlets. Fact sheets about sexually transmitted diseases, press releases on the battle against AIDS—Uganda had one of the best track records—booklets on agricultural development. And pamphlets about the children, with which she’d recently become familiar. She thumbed through. It was difficult to look straight on at the accounts written by the children: I tell you, a sword of sorrow will pierce your heart.… I have much more to tell you, but the more words I write, that is the more sad I become.… A woman strolled by carrying a box. Her heels slapped tan wedges, the only sound in the light-filled building, until the slapping faded away.

  Pierre said, One learns to wait in Africa.

  At last Bobby Kiwanuka appeared. Welcome, he said.

  He was a small, round-faced man with a walleye. He led them down steps, out through a courtyard, then back upstairs along a hallway, past small school desks shoved against the wall and World Vision calendars hanging and old file cabinets. Mr. Kiwanuka’s office was in the corner of the wing. It had wooden armchairs, a desk with a green blotter and a yellowing map of Uganda. He sat in a chair higher than his guests, as if to compensate for his short stature. He described how the children usually escaped during battles with the government troops and were brought in by the army to one of two main trauma centers.

  Jane was struck by his cheerful tone. Perhaps familiarity with such horror required an upbeat attitude if one was to maintain one’s spirits.

  When they come home, he said, making a gesture of encouragement, they are lost.

  First they receive medical treatment and their families are located. Many are rural village children who until now have never been away, he said. Often their villages have been destroyed or evacuated, so their families may be dead or relocated.

  Jane glanced at Rodney to see what he was making of this. His light-colored eyes were intent.

  Often they are unable to return to school, Bobby Kiwanuka said, clasping his hands. In the camps they receive therapeutic counseling and vocational training. In addition to everything they have a lot of guilt. They have killed, they have beaten. They may even have attacked their own village. You ask them what are their hopes for the future? He shrugged. They have none.

  So spoke the man heading a program of rehabilitation.

  Jane asked him why the Ugandan army was not more successful in stopping the rebels.

  It is a bit confusing, he admitted cheerfully. There are rumors that the UPDF disguise themselves as rebels and are the ones perpetrating these things. So, you see, it becomes complicated. He frowned, giving it more thought. Then he brightened up. But just recently, after a skirmish, seventy-one clients were brought in.

  Vocational training, Rodney said as they got back in the car. That means they repair bicycle chains.

  Better than nothing, Pierre said, and slapped Jane on the backside. Get yourself in there. Pierre couldn’t go too long without a flirt.

  They came to their next stop. Maybe it was always this quiet at the Ministry of Information, or just late on a Friday afternoon. An empty yellow and blue hallway led up a wide flight of stairs to more empty halls and more wide stairways. A large woman in a yellow dress glided past them, dreamlike.

  In the small room where the press passes were handed out, a goateed man in a tweed jacket said he had run out of glue. He asked Jane the name of her sponsoring organization and left, to return some time later with a small white tub. He scooped the paste onto photos of Pierre and Jane into small pink booklets.

  So, he said. Now you pay.

  Jane was handed her press card. Jane Wood. Herpes Magazine.

  Last stop was UNICEF, a slender white building surrounded by a fence of white iron bars in a chevron pattern. The one-car driveway was occupied, so they parked on the street. Rodney elected to remain in the car. I’ve seen all I need to, he said. The door and windows were covered with the same white bars. Knocking by Jane and Pierre produced no response.

  Maybe it’s too late. Jane peered through a chink in one window. Wait. I see a light.

  Pierre banged again. They waited. The street was quiet; no cars passed. The door opened.

  Yes? An unsmiling Indian woman with shiny hair opened the door. She wore a narrow skirt with a crisp tailored shirt tucked into a tidy and professional waist.

  Hey, yes, Pierre said, and started to move forward. The woman did not move. He stopped near her, smiling. Can we come in?

  Who are you?

  Jane told her. I called the other day? Jane said. Are you Rahna Puar? Jane had gotten her name from a human rights organization back in the States. Her title was Advocacy Officer, whatever that meant.

  I am. The woman’s eyes, lined in kohl, were sizing them up. Jane felt she was transparent as an amateur. Come in, Rahna Puar said flatly. It was hard to tell whether she was acting the jaded professional or being simply unfriendly.

  She led them up a narrow white stairway to a small room with one wall of windows and a round table filling the space. No one else appeared to be at the office. Covering two walls was a honeycomb of files and binders, and a large whiteboard in the center scribbled with indecipherable diagrams of initials and numbers. She left them and returned with four large black folders, which she dumped with a smack on the table. She was the staying-late girl, the expert, and looked unimpressed with her visitors.

  So what can I do for you? she asked, long-suffering.

  We were hoping for some advice, Jane began. We’re headed to the nort
h this week and wanted any, you know, tips you might have.

  Tips? The woman nearly spat it.

  Warnings, suggestions … Jane’s hand stirred the air, as it did when she was at a loss for words. She brought the hand back to the table and felt the metal edge. Any foreigner passing through, Jane thought, ran the risk of scorn by those rooted and committed to a place, the ones who stayed, who knew the ropes.

  Pierre stepped in. We were wondering how dangerous it is.

  The woman didn’t roll her eyes, but her tone conveyed the same thing. It is a war zone, she said. It’s dangerous.

  So … driving would be—? Jane said.

  You’ll be fine, she said, enunciating her words with a musicality which somehow conveyed hostility. People do it all the time. She might as well have been saying, Good luck, suckers.

  I’m sorry if we’ve interrupted you, Jane said. We don’t want to impose. While we’re there, is there anything we could do for UNICEF?

  The woman looked unpersuaded.

  Wait, Pierre said. Do you think it’s too dangerous?

  The woman spoke coldly. I go up there once a week. Then perhaps Pierre’s charm made a tiny impression on her. She sighed. Okay, she said, looking away from him as if that was dangerous. Don’t travel at night. Make sure you see people walking along the road. If you don’t see people walking, then the rebels have been nearby.

  Isn’t the military there, patrolling? Pierre said, with a melting look at her.

  The UPDF? She looked at them with pity. Sure, they’re there. But this apparently was another thing about which they’d have to learn themselves.

  When they got back to the lake, Jane found Harry helping Pat build a shed. They were both bare-chested, wearing hats. Harry waved and kept working.

  That night they barbecued fish. An English doctor named Arthur Saxon showed up for dinner. He’d just started working in Kampala and had a terrible sunburn. He blushed a deeper pink when he saw Lana, surprised she was there—they’d met, did she remember, at a wedding in Dorset?

  I think I do, she said, eyes flashing. I think I remember your brother, though. Vere?