Dark Heart

by Tony Park

  The whore on the far side of the bar smiled at him again, over her umbrella-decorated Coke. He gave what he hoped was a polite but uninterested smile, but she took it as an acknowledgement and slowly ran a finger up and down the dewy side of her glass. He remembered this place back in late ’94, when the pool was nearly empty from the Tutsis who’d stayed here and used cleaning women’s buckets to scoop out the water to drink and cook with. The Belgian chef who ran the restaurant on the top floor also ran prostitutes, and it was a given that if you wanted to eat in the Hotel Rwanda the meal came with a girl as a side order. And you had to pay the chef for both.

  Times had changed. The hotel’s foyer and rooms had undergone a facelift so that the place looked like every other bland Sofitel or Ibis or Holiday Inn around the world, and most of the hookers had moved downstairs to this pool bar, where they now preyed on visiting western businessmen and local fat cats.

  He was relieved when he saw Carmel walk across to the bar. He stood to greet her, and took her hand, to show the prostitute once and for all that he was taken, and because he liked the feel of Carmel’s smooth skin.

  ‘Enchanted.’

  ‘Kiss it and I’ll slap you,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  Her eyes were red and her face looked tired, as if some of the life had drained from her body through her tear ducts. This place had that effect on returnees, he remembered. ‘No, nothing. It’s just that I know it can be trying, coming back to this part of Africa.’

  She shrugged. ‘Is that Primus you’re drinking?’

  He nodded. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘No thanks, but I remember it. Watery. I’ll have a Coke Light, please.’

  He ordered, then asked: ‘Where are you going to start your search tomorrow?’

  ‘The Ministry of Justice.’ She took a long sip of her drink and half wished she was weak enough to have alcohol again. ‘I know one of the country’s senior prosecutors. We worked together for a while, even though the ICTR and the local authorities haven’t always seen eye to eye.’

  Henri shifted on his bar stool so the working girl couldn’t keep catching his eye. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t paid much attention to the prosecutions. What’s the problem – I thought you would have all been on the same team, no?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Carmel said. ‘That’s a bit simplistic. We – that is the ICTR – are primarily concerned with prosecuting the big men behind the genocide, the architects of it, and those responsible for inciting the people to kill. Sure, we’re after some of the mass murderers, but we just don’t have the resources or the time to prosecute every killer. That’s being left to the Rwandan judicial system and the Gacaca village courts. There were more than a hundred thousand people indicted for crimes relating to the genocide.’

  ‘That’s quite a backlog. But why is there friction between the ICTR and the Rwandan judicial system?’

  ‘Rwanda still has the death penalty, but the ICTR doesn’t. There’s a strong feeling in Rwanda that those most responsible for the genocide may live out their days in comparatively comfortable prisons in The Hague, while the middle-ranking killers will be executed. It doesn’t seem fair to many people.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Carmel slumped forward a bit. ‘I can see both sides. I’m duty-bound to stick to the letter of the laws I work under and prosecute to the best of my ability. I’ve been involved in the incarceration of a few very bad people. I don’t believe in the death penalty, but I can understand how incensed some people here may be at the outcomes from the ICTR. I mean, there are women in Rwanda, Tutsis and Hutu women who were married to Tutsi men, who were gang raped during the genocide by men who were known to be HIV positive. They were spared a bullet or a blow from a machete so that they would die of AIDS, in long-lasting shame. That is some evil shit, and yet the organisers of this evil who are in the ICTR detention facilities are getting three meals a day and anti-retrovirals to keep their HIV under control. Is that justice? I don’t know.’

  ‘What makes you think the people who want to stop your investigation into the photo are here in Rwanda, and not elsewhere?’ Henri asked.

  ‘It’s just a hunch. Most of the stuff in Mike Ioannou’s files is about his interviews with Liesl and Richard, but Mike spent a lot of time in Rwanda over the last few months. He kept his cards close to his chest, so no one really knew what he was up to, but he was digging around here.’

  Henri nodded. ‘And what makes you think this white man in the photograph would still be in Rwanda after all these years?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t care if he is or isn’t, or what colour he is. The man in the picture, holding up the picture of the white guy and the others, told Richard Dunlop that everything that had happened in Rwanda was because of this photograph.’

  ‘It could be nothing.’ Henri waved a hand in the air. ‘Perhaps the old man was trying to big-note himself so that he and his family would get preferential treatment. The RPA was trying to round up Hutu criminals at Kibeho, as well as disperse the innocents and force them to go home. Perhaps the man feared for his life, if he was arrested.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Carmel concurred, ‘but that doesn’t explain why someone is trying to kill everyone who saw that photo and heard the old man’s story. I need to find out who he was and who the people are in that picture. Look, if you want out, that’s fine by me. I shouldn’t be involving you in any investigation anyway. Please, if you want to go and collect your chimp tomorrow and go back to Zambia, that is totally fine with me, Henri.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. No way. I want to come with you, to help if I can, and I stand by my earlier offer – and I do believe I can help you find that white man. I’m sure I can find my old contacts in the mountains; if not, the people looking after the chimp may be good sources of information, which is why you should go there with me.’

  ‘To the Volcanoes National Park? Gorilla country?’

  He saw she still wasn’t convinced. ‘Yes. Ruhengeri, the major town near the park, was a stronghold of Hutu Power. If there are powerful Hutus responsible for the genocide still in hiding somewhere, they could be there. It’s an easy place to get lost in. Also, many of the génocidaires, both big fish and little fish, escaped through that region to Goma, across the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo, when the Tutsi army returned and took over the country.’

  ‘I hope this investigation doesn’t lead us into the DRC. There’s no way I’d be able to go over there, and I have no contacts or jurisdiction there. Ironically, the country where most of the war criminals are now living in exile is one of those we don’t have an extradition treaty with.’

  ‘I’m pleased you just said “us”,’ Henri said. ‘I’m still in this with you, Carmel. But now we must eat.’

  ‘Spoken like a true Frenchman.’

  18

  It was well after dark when Liesl’s plane landed at Kigali International Airport. She’d been mildly annoyed to find the overweight but well-dressed Zambian businessman who had struck up a conversation with her at Johannesburg Airport was on the same flight as her again to Rwanda.

  When she climbed into the Hôtel des Mille Collines minibus she took the rearmost seat and sat her backpack beside her to stop him from squeezing in. He was polite, and had done nothing improper, but all the same he gave her the creeps.

  ‘I know it may seem forward of me,’ he said to her as they queued behind a couple of American tourists at the hotel while they waited to check in, ‘but would you care to join me for a drink in the hotel bar after you’ve freshened up? I promise you, it is simply to talk about Rwanda – in case you need any help with your itinerary or your travel articles. My name is Aston, by the way.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied, and was then saved by the clerk on reception.

  ‘Well, if you change your mind . . .’ Aston said after he’d been issued his key.

  ‘I’m fine, r
eally.’ Liesl lingered by a stand of tourist brochures at the end of the counter. When the lift doors closed on Aston she said to the man behind the counter, ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘I have an acquaintance staying here. Her name is Carmel Shang. She arrived earlier this evening.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ The clerk tapped his computer keys and checked the screen. ‘She is in room two-one-two.’

  ‘Can you call her please?’

  ‘Ah, she and the gentleman have gone out to dinner.’

  ‘Gentleman? Really? Do you know where?’

  The clerk shrugged. ‘I am not sure. They asked about the American Club, which was located across the road from the hotel.’

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ Liesl said. She’d been drunk there many times. ‘You said “was”?’

  ‘Yes, madam. The American Club has closed. It is now an Indian restaurant. I also recommended Chez Robert to the lady and gentleman, so if they are not in the Indian restaurant they may be in the French one. It is also nearby.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Liesl took her bag upstairs and found her room. She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth and took her hairbrush from her daypack and ran it through her hair. Rummaging in her bag, she found the half-jack of vodka she’d bought at Johannesburg airport, unscrewed it and took a couple of slugs.

  She left her room and went back down through reception and out into the night. She was pleased Carmel and whoever she was with had gone out as it would mean she could get another drink without bumping into the creepy Zambian in the hotel bar, or being forced to order room service. Liesl walked into the night. The temperature had dropped and she felt a slight mist on the breeze.

  ‘Howzit,’ Liesl said to the security guard as she walked past the booth at the entrance to the hotel. He smiled and touched his cap. She knew the club – or restaurant as it was now – was just across the other side of the roundabout. She didn’t feel in danger; Rwanda had a reputation for low street crime now that the population had got mass murder out of its blood.

  She forced herself to remember to look left instead of right when crossing the road, then headed over. She passed a trio of fairly badly interpreted statues of mountain gorillas. Her emails to her editor and to several tour companies who advertised regularly with Escape! had paid off. One of the operators had agreed to comp her – to give her complimentary accommodation – at a lodge just outside the Volcanoes National Park, and her long-suffering editor had agreed that the magazine would cover the five hundred US dollars for a gorilla-tracking permit. The tour operator had had a cancellation for the day after next, so fortune was smiling on her. She had paid her own airfares, but figured she could claim them back later on expenses. Her father was organising to transport the BMW loaner back to Johannesburg. It was ridiculous that she should have to work while attempting to find out who was trying to kill her, but despite her parents’ wealth, Liesl was serious about her financial independence. Besides, her father would kill her if he knew where she was.

  Liesl was on edge as she walked down the darkened Avenue du Roi Baudouin, but the nervous tension was almost intoxicating. It was, she realised, like being in pursuit of a good, hard news story again. If she found out the significance of the photo she’d taken all those years ago and if, say, it led to the prosecution of some major war criminal, then she might have an even bigger story she could sell to one of the broadsheets back in South Africa, or even to one of the big international news agencies. She’d left that world because she could no longer cut it, but she missed it too.

  What had once been the simple whitewashed walls of the American Club were now decorated with coloured light bulbs and a painted sign that said Royal Garden Restaurant.

  Liesl walked down the same old steps, but the place had undergone a Bollywood makeover. The basketball hoop was still up, but tables had encroached onto the court. The small pool in the corner, in which she’d once ended up after being thrown in by a marine, was now a rather neglected water feature. The food, however, smelled better than the greasy chips and burgers and burnt barbecue.

  She hadn’t seen Carmel Shang in seventeen years, but she recognised her at the outdoor table straightaway. It was only partly because she and the guy were one of only two non-African or non-Indian parties in the half-full restaurant. Carmel still had that ice-maiden lawyer look about her, and her part-Chinese heritage meant her skin and lustrous hair were slow to age. Her face was a little pinched and drawn – no fat there – but her mouth was still sexy and pouty and her dark eyes were just as accusatory as they’d been all those years ago. Liesl took a deep breath and walked over.

  Carmel stayed seated. ‘Liesl.’

  The man stood. ‘Hello. My name is Henri Bousson, how do you do?’ He held out his hand.

  Liesl thought the politeness and smile were a little forced and wondered what Carmel had said to him about her. Still, she took his hand and returned the smile. He was handsome, whoever he was.

  ‘Please, won’t you join us?’ he said.

  Liesl let Henri seat her, briefly enjoying his old-fashioned manners even if they were a bit of an act. She noticed the pointy icicles in Carmel’s eyes. ‘Good flight?’

  Carmel banished the small talk. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said.

  Liesl was tired and dirty – she hadn’t showered since she’d left her parents’ place the previous morning. She’d known this meeting wasn’t going to be easy but this woman was already doing her best to piss her off. ‘Someone tried to kill me, and Richard, because of your crusading.’

  ‘It’s not “crusading”, Liesl, it’s the law.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say about the law . . .’

  ‘It is, as the English say, an ass?’ Henri picked up the bottle of South African red and held it over Liesl’s glass. She nodded. He poured. ‘The goat vindaloo is very good.’

  Liesl noticed they were halfway through their meals and her stomach rumbled. She called the waiter over. ‘I’ll have the goat vindaloo, please. And another bottle of the red.’

  Henri smiled at her, and Liesl saw the frown deepen on Carmel’s face.

  ‘What are you doing here? What do you hope to achieve exactly?’ Carmel asked.

  Liesl took a sip of wine and put her glass down on the table. ‘I’m actually here on a work assignment, to photograph the mountain gorillas. I might go see the chimps at Nyungwe National Park as well, if I have time.’

  ‘We’re going to see the mountain gorillas also,’ Henri chimed in.

  Carmel looked at him. ‘We are not. Listen, if you’re planning on conducting some amateur investigation –’

  ‘You said in your email that you wanted to see me,’ Liesl interrupted, ‘and then you subpoenaed me – well, here I am.’

  ‘I directed you to go to Arusha, where the ICTR’s offices are.’

  ‘Well, then I’ll kill two birds while I’m here. You can ask me whatever you want and then I’ll go ahead and get my work done and then fly back to South Africa and wait until whoever is trying to kill me gets the job done properly. OK?’

  ‘What do you think of the wine, Liesl?’ Henri asked.

  She looked at him, wondering what he was trying to do. Defuse the tension, she guessed. ‘It’s all right. It’s a Nederburg; you’d pay about fifty rand for it in South Africa.’

  Henri sighed. ‘I just paid fifty US dollars for it here. This country has become so expensive. Have you travelled much in this part of Africa? You are a photographer, yes?’

  Carmel sat back in her chair and folded her arms. Her meal was only half-eaten. Liesl wondered why this Frenchman was flirting with her. What had he said his name was? Bousson? Yes, that was it. Something clicked in her memory. ‘I know your name.’

  He shrugged and raised his hands, then went back to his curry. ‘It is possible. Your magazine covers matters of wildlife conservation, and that is my business as well.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. You own the animal rehabilitatio
n place in Zambia – Livingstone, right?’

  ‘C’est moi.’

  ‘How do you fit into all this?’ Liesl asked.

  ‘Henri has come to Rwanda to collect an orphaned chimp which he’s going to take back to Livingstone to try and integrate it with his captive troop,’ Carmel said before Henri could answer. Liesl couldn’t help but wonder if she was trying to keep her attention away from Henri. Perhaps there was something between the lawyer and the scruffily attractive Frenchman.

  ‘And that’s all?’ Liesl looked back to Henri, who in turn looked at Carmel, as if waiting for permission to speak.

  ‘That is all,’ Carmel said. ‘I’m tired, and I don’t share Henri’s enthusiasm for the curry. Please excuse me, Henri, I’m going back to my room.’

  Henri shifted his chair back and wiped his lips with the serviette. He gave Liesl an apologetic tilt of his head and began to get up.

  Carmel put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No, stay. Finish your dinner and your expensive wine.’

  Henri looked from woman to woman, as if trying to work out what the most chivalrous course of action was.

  ‘No offence, Henri,’ Carmel said, reaching in her handbag and pulling out some US dollars, ‘but I need some time alone right now. I have work emails to do and I need to think about tomorrow. Liesl, shall we talk over breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Liesl raised her hand in a mock salute.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Carmel said.

  Henri sat back down.

  ‘I see she hasn’t changed,’ Liesl said.

  Henri topped up her wine. ‘You two know each other, outside of the investigation Carmel is conducting? She told me there was a photographer involved, but not that you two had met previously.’

  ‘You could say we have some history. Not good history.’ Liesl looked around the restaurant. The place was doing OK for a week night, but it had lost its character. As the American Club it had been a place of intrigue, where western spies and Rwandan officials met and shared secrets, and death-weary aid workers and journalists blew off steam and cried into their beers before going back to the hotel to try to fuck away their guilt and grief. ‘I wonder what we should call this place now – “the American Indian Club”?’