The Flower Plantation

by Nora Anne Brown

  “Albert,” said Mother, but Father shook his head.

  “I'll make tea,” said Dr Sadler, and he went to the kitchen.

  Mother, Father and I sat in silence while he was gone. Father continued to stare into the fire, Mother squeezed her fingers, I tickled Romeo.

  “Take some,” said Dr Sadler, when he came back, pouring Father a steaming cup of tea. “You need something hot and sweet.” Father hid his face in his palms and then rubbed them slowly down his face.

  “She was just hanging there,” he whispered.

  “Who?” asked Mother.

  “Laura,” said Father.

  Mother and Dr Sadler looked at each other as though Father had gone mad.

  “She was hanging from a branch with a broken neck.” Tears welled in Father's eyes. Mother sat on her chair as if she was glued to it.

  “Laura's dead?” she asked.

  Father nodded.

  “Where is she?” asked Dr Sadler.

  “In the cutting shed. Joseph and I carried her down.”

  “What happened?”

  “She was gagged, tied up and hung. Probably poisoned too,” said Father. I imagined the witch hanging like an antelope from a noose. “I found this glove in a stump close to the scene.” Father produced Sebazungu's black-leather glove with one fingertip missing. My blood turned cold.

  “Oh God,” said Mother, and she held out a shaking hand. Father gave her the glove. “This is Sebazungu's. He tried to tell me this morning that Joseph had stolen it from the filing cabinet.”

  Why I didn't either write something down or attempt to say something at that point remains a mystery to me. I knew Joseph hadn't stolen Sebazungu's gloves. Joseph wasn't the killer. Sebazungu was.

  Mother went out to the yard, where she dismissed Joseph immediately. Poor Joseph knew nothing of what she was saying. It was only after Father got up from the fire and went outside to translate that he knew he was being accused of theft and murder, and that he no longer had a job.

  21

  The next day Dr Sadler called Ms Laney's family in America from our phone to say she had died. He didn't mention the bit about her being gagged, tied up and hung. He told them she'd been drugged with digitalis – which, he said, “would have made her sleepy, so she wouldn't have felt a thing”.

  I was the only one who made the connection between Ms Laney's death and Monty's. Sebazungu had hung Ms Laney, after poisoning her with digitalis, and now I knew for certain that the witch hadn't killed Monty: Sebazungu had. I figured, that Sunday at the clearing, Simon must have been trying to hide Monty's body for Sebazungu and Thomas was trying to stop him. Nobody knew Sebazungu was a killer. It was the biggest secret of my life.

  Dr Sadler told Father that Ms Laney's family had said, “She was happiest in Rwanda, and that's where she'd want to remain.” Father received the news with a nod and took a swig of whisky from his glass. After a long discussion, they agreed that although Ms Laney's camp had been destroyed by soldiers, it was still the best place for her grave, close to the gorillas she loved so much.

  Ms Laney was buried two days later. Very few people came to her funeral, on the plateau where wild primroses used to grow. Dr Sadler, Father, Mother and I stood together in the damp mist. Sebazungu stood on one side of the priest and Simon stood on the other, in his floppy hat (even though the sun wasn't shining) and blue dungarees. I couldn't understand how Sebazungu could stand by Ms Laney's grave looking sad after killing her with his own hands.

  There was also a small group of men in camouflage gear by the graveside whom I didn't recognize. I thought they might be soldiers, but Father told me they were gorilla trackers who'd worked with Ms Laney. Being a gorilla tracker sounded like a great job: spending your day following the gorillas through the mountains must have been as exciting as studying butterflies. If I hadn't already decided on being a lepidopterist I might have decided to be a gorilla tracker instead.

  We gathered round the hole where Ms Laney's body lay. Rain formed puddles in the tarpaulin that was wrapped around her body. The priest began to talk. He spoke so quickly in Kinyarwanda that it was hard to follow, but his voice sounded as if he didn't much care.

  Once the priest had finished and we'd bowed our heads in prayer, Dr Sadler cleared his throat and said he'd like to add something. Over her grave he told the story of Ms Laney's life in Rwanda, of how she'd always battled for what was right – and not necessarily for what was popular – such as the end of poaching and Tutsi prostitution. When he spoke of those things he looked directly at Sebazungu, who stared straight through the doctor as though he wasn't even there.

  Dr Sadler said he hoped the rumours and myths surrounding Ms Laney's life, such as her poisoning men and snaring and caging gorillas would go with her to her grave. At that point I looked away from the doctor and into the hole: I didn't want him to know I had been guilty of thinking those things about a dead lady.

  “And now,” said Dr Sadler, when he had finished his speech, “I invite Albert, an admirer and fellow researcher of Laura's, to draw the service to a close.”

  Father took a step forward, but Mother put out a hand to stop him. His face was so drawn you could make out the bones of his skull. He obeyed Mother, and instead of talking he simply laid a bouquet of flowers he had picked himself on top of Ms Laney.

  I didn't know what to feel at the funeral. Looking into the hole, all I could think about was Beni and how much I wanted to be able to tell her that the witch had been killed and how, whatever Beni had been doing with Sebazungu at the hotel, she must not trust him any more.

  When the funeral was over and Dr Sadler had left the house, having drunk several pots of tea and eaten almost an entire packet of biscuits, Mother sent me to bed. I lay in the dark, with only the glow from Nyiragongo to light my room, and thought of Beni. I heard my parents’ voices coming from Mother's room. I knew the conversation must be important, as Father rarely went into her bedroom.

  Father's voice wasn't loud and bright the way it usually was – instead it was soft and dull, as if someone had turned a switch off inside him.

  “I only wanted to say a few words,” he said.

  “You would have said something you'd have regretted. Made it obvious that you and she were—”

  “What?”

  “You know ‘what’, Albert. I've been putting up with it for years. You sneaking off at every opportunity to be with her. I might have drunk too much in the past, but I'm not blind.”

  “Martha—”

  “Don't give me explanations or apologies. I dealt with it years ago. There's no point in going through it again.”

  “I—”

  “Since Arthur was born I haven't been a proper wife, we both know that. It would be foolish to think your needs weren't being taken care of elsewhere. I accept that. I just didn't want the staff to find out by you blurting something out over her grave.”

  I wondered what Mother meant by not being a proper wife since I was born. Was it my fault they didn't talk much to each other or that Mother had drunk a lot?

  “God knows how much business she lost Sebazungu by ranting and raving about the prostitutes at the hotel, and everyone knows she dismantled his snares,” continued Mother. “I just don't think it's wise that he should know you were involved with her, that's all.”

  “For Heaven's sake, why not?”

  “Because I don't trust him any longer, Albert. Something's changed. I don't know what.”

  I wanted to run through and tell Mother all about Sebazungu killing Ms Laney and poaching gorillas, but before I had the chance Father said finally: “You think I'm in danger from Sebazungu.”

  “I don't know what to think – and that's the point.”

  He said no more and went to his room.

  I lay in the dark, not thinking about Beni but of Father instead. Mother was worried that Father was in danger from a murderer. That knowledge, that responsibility pinned me to my bed like a butterfly with a pin through its thorax. For once
I wasn't fighting the words I wanted to say, for once the words didn't well within me or suffocate me. For once I had no words inside me at all.

  22

  1992

  “Your Father hasn't told you one of his stories in a while,” said Mother, trying to start the pickup – which eventually spluttered to life. We were going on a drive “to get out of the house and feel the wind in our hair”.

  We headed up the track by Beni's house. It had been such a long time since I'd seen Beni I wasn't sure I'd recognize her any more. I wondered if she had grown like me. I was almost as tall as Mother.

  “Has Father told you about Kayibanda, the President of Rwanda after Independence?” she asked, driving out of the plantation, honking at people ambling along to get out of her way. I shook my head. All I knew about Kayibanda was from Celeste and the photo Father had shown on his projector.

  “Kayibanda was a quiet man,” said Mother, dodging potholes. “He rarely left his palace, but because he was the President, people obeyed him just the same, whether they saw him or not.”

  We bounced up the track – the pickup's exhaust pipe clattered on every stone, and it spewed out black fumes.

  “Under the President, Rwanda was a lawful place: prostitution was punished, everyone worked hard and went to church on Sundays, just like they were told to do.

  “But with time the President became more and more reclusive and spoke to his government less and less. His politicians began to squabble” – Mother tried to change gear, but the gearstick wouldn't shift and she had to fight it into position – “and one man in particular was keen to make the most of his weakness. That man was Major General Habyarimana.”

  I'd heard of Habyarimana: he'd been the President of Rwanda all my life. There were pictures of him wherever you went.

  “He was a big man and a strong leader, and he decided he wanted to be President. Soon many of the President's men were found dead and their families paid to keep quiet.

  “I'm afraid the story has a sad ending, Arthur,” said Mother glancing over at me. The forest came into view. “After Habyarimana became President, there were rumours that Kayibanda and his wife had been imprisoned. People said they were starved to death.” I thought that sounded horrid, and felt bad for the old president and his wife. “No one really knows what happened to the reclusive President in the palace. And, as you know, Habyarimana is still our President, but” – and she added this under her breath after we'd stopped and got out – “who knows for how much longer.”

  I wondered why Mother thought the President might not stay in power for much longer. The ceasefire hadn't lasted long, but around the plantation the gardeners were talking about peace, new ministers and a renewed ceasefire. Did Mother know something they did not?

  “Fancy having a go?” she asked, holding the driver's door open. She moved the wheel from side to side and pointed at the pedals – which I understood to mean really having a go, proper driving, not just sitting on Father's lap and turning the wheel. I got in.

  Sitting with the wheel in front of me felt a bit like getting on my bike for the first time. It was risky and strange, but exciting too.

  “So, first things first,” said Mother getting in the other side. “Before we start, we need to check the vehicle's in neutral.” I wiggled the gearstick from side to side. “Good, now put down the clutch and turn the key.” I did as she said, and initially the engine coughed, but then it roared to life. “Now move the gearstick into first – that's it – and push the accelerator as you release the clutch.”

  And we were off. I couldn't believe it. I was driving!

  “Great, Arthur,” said Mother. “This is fun!”

  Little by little I became confident and learnt to change gears and go faster, under Mother's watchful eye.

  “Best to slow a bit here,” she said when we hit a difficult patch. She reached out to steady the wheel. I took my foot off the gas, hit the brake harder than intended and we rocked to a sudden halt. The engine cut out.

  “You OK?” she asked as the dust settled around us. I nodded. “Well, let's just turn it back on.”

  Cautiously I turned the key, but nothing happened.

  “Try again.”

  Nothing.

  “Let me have a look.”

  Mother couldn't get it started either.

  “It's not your fault,” she muttered, getting out and lifting the bonnet. “This old thing's been on its way out for years.”

  As Mother tinkered under the hood, I sat by the roadside, worrying that dusk was not far away. It was dangerous to be stuck on the track after dark – gunfire rattled around the terraced hills most nights. Soldiers continued to raid the shambas, killing anyone who got in their way. I thought that if we remained on the road the soldiers might shoot us.

  Mother was rubbing her brow with oily hands and making more and more noises of concern and frustration when a sound from the forest caught our attention. It sounded like the cry of a snared duiker.

  “We should take a look,” she said, closing the hood and wiping her hands on her trousers. “There's nothing more I can do here anyway.”

  I grabbed the torch from the glove compartment, and Mother reached for her pistol.

  “Just in case it's in a bad way,” she said.

  I'd never seen Mother shoot anything before; I wasn't sure if the idea filled me with excitement or dread.

  We crept into the forest, following the sound. I led, and Mother walked behind. I flashed the torch from side to side looking for signs of snares. Worried that Sebazungu might be checking them, I was glad that Mother had her gun.

  Over the months since Ms Laney's death I'd done my best to keep out of Sebazungu's way. I even managed to get out of working with him on Thursdays by teaching myself to cook, something that Mother valued, given that we still had no cook. I couldn't tell if Sebazungu was aware that I knew he was a poacher and Ms Laney's killer. I pretended not to know. Sometimes that helped me forget my fear, and at other times – such as now, as I advanced through the forest with Mother – it filled me with terror.

  Mother and I crept in deeper, until we came to a small dell where a group of men were gathered round a body on the ground. It shocked me to see the priest restraining Sammy, whose face was swollen – black and blue. Zach stood to the side of the dell watching Sebazungu, who was kneeling over the body. Simon had a hand in the pocket of his dungarees, rubbing himself.

  Sebazungu flipped the body over as if it were one of the rag dolls sold for tourists. It was then I realized this was no rag doll – it was Beni, who was screaming herself hoarse.

  The priest pulled Sammy's hair so tight he couldn't look away and said, “This is what the Tutsi deserve. This is what you should have done – broken her like a mule.” Zach whooped in agreement.

  Sebazungu undid the zip of his trousers and pulled at Beni's pants.

  The priest, Simon and Zach looked on as if they were watching a game of football or some other form of entertainment. Sammy closed his eyes and fought to turn away.

  “Jesus,” said Mother when she saw what they were doing. “Arthur, stay where you are.”

  She stalked up to the men and put her pistol to Sebazungu's temple, saying that nobody should move.

  Beni slithered on her belly away from him, into the long grass. I knelt down beside her and, without thinking, held her hand in mine. She sobbed heavily, unable to talk. I felt like crying too, but no tears came.

  Mother pointed her gun at Simon, who knelt and begged not to be shot. With Sebazungu and Simon down, she motioned with her gun for the priest to let go of Sammy. He did so and joined the others on the ground. Zach quickly followed.

  When the men were on the floor, Mother whispered something to Sammy, who ran off the way we had come. He returned with a rope from the back of the pickup. Together, Mother and he tied up Sebazungu, Simon, Zach and the priest, before rounding up Beni and me and guiding us home.

  * * *

  Mother never spoke to me about
what happened in the forest, but I overheard her telling Father:

  “We have to report them.”

  “There's no point – nothing will be done.”

  “Why ever not?” she asked

  “Because they'll turn a blind eye.”

  I knew neither who “they” were nor who eventually freed the four men, but Sebazungu and Simon never returned to work, and we, as a family, never went back to church. With Sebazungu off the plantation I was no longer quite so worried about him being a threat to Father, and Sammy didn't frighten me in quite the same way either. On the walk back from the forest that night, it was clear that he'd been badly scared. As we walked Beni explained that her sogokuru had been forced to put her “to work” to feed the family. Sammy hung his head. Mother's face crumbled. I wondered what she meant.

  For nights on end I thought about what those men had been doing, how long they had remained in the forest with their hands behind their backs and how Beni was feeling. I longed to see her again.

  In time everything regained an air of normality. Fabrice was given his job back, and so too was Joseph. The fighting stopped for a whole dry season and the following wet one. The guns remained silent, and people went about their lives, tending their crops and animals. But best of all, I was allowed to see Beni again. The sense of emptiness I had felt without her all but disappeared.

  Though it took her a while to recover from her experience in the forest, we spent most of our time together holding hands. And even though we had grown taller and Beni had grown fuller and begun to wear T-shirts and wraps instead of dresses, we still chased butterflies in the garden. One of the best days we shared was when we caught a second Charaxes acræoides, which was almost identical to the one now buried beside Monty. Father said that having had one was rare but to have had two was “something else”. Then and there I hatched a plan to take Beni up to the summit where we could release this butterfly – just as I should have done with the first.

  When we weren't catching butterflies we played Jenga in the yard. We spent hours sitting at the table we'd made out of a cooking-oil drum and a piece of scrap metal that Joseph had helped to hammer flat. Mother had bought the game from the wood-carving beggar in town – her one and only purchase from him.