Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  “She’s so small now. Has she shrunk or is it an optical illusion because she cowers?”

  “I don’t know. She is very subdued, and never has an opinion on anything. Have you noticed she’s always losing things, like the keys—how many times have we had to search for the keys in the past week alone?

  “Did you see how flustered she was preparing dinner the other night? It was as if she was learning something new. I had to walk away,” he said.

  “Maybe we should take her to the doctors for a check-up.”

  “It’s probably nothing. Just stress related from living with that imbecile.”

  Carl moved the cutlery to accommodate an oversized plate, and stared into the pasta.

  “Haven’t seen proper food in a while?” Matthew laughed. “I’ll leave it to you to persuade her to go. There must be some lawyer left in you.”

  “She’s had such a tough life, and made so many sacrifices. Can you imagine how much it must have cost her to send us both to university in Sydney?”

  “I never really thought about it, but whenever I wanted something she always made it happen somehow, even if it was second-hand.”

  They ate for a while in silence.

  “Have you noticed she still has the same clothes she wore in all the photos of her and dad before they were married, and they only take up half the wardrobe?” Carl shook her head. “Motherhood is just one momentous sacrifice.”

  “We should head home and rescue her from that idiot.”

  “As soon as I’ve finished my lunch,” she said. “This is good.”

  Watching Walter strut around Orchard Road like a rooster ruling his roost, was like yeast on dough, and Matthew did little to hide his rising unease. He would leave any room Walter entered, and sat in his immediate vicinity only when dinner forced it. It would not take much. A bellow would do it.

  “I haven’t finished with that!” Walter yelled as Helena took his plate with the knife and fork lined side by side. Matthew hurdled two dining chairs to get to Walter at the table’s head, fists flying for any contact. Walter fell backwards to the floor still seated in his chair, and fought back as best he could. Helena cowered in a corner facing inward while Carl watched, did nothing, and wondered what the nuns would think of such a scene, and her inaction. Matthew had Walter around the throat, and the fight for desire and conscience was visible on his face. He stepped back and stared down at Walter before walking away.

  “You’ll live to regret that,” Walter said as he crawled onto his feet. “I’ll be pressing charges, and you can get the hell out of my house!”

  Matthew stopped, turned, and raced back to within a breath of Walter. “This is not your house! This is our house. You get the hell out!”

  They stood there, nose tip to nose tip, with fists poised and willing, until Walter took his turn to step back and away. “Pack your bags, and don’t come back this time!” Matthew yelled after him.

  Helena cried softly into the corner.

  Several days after the Walter showdown, Helena emerged, happy in the comfort that came from having her children home again and without the tension. The reunion though, would not last—the quiet ordinariness of life at Orchard Road pricked at the soles of Matthew’s feet.

  “No luck getting mum to the doctors?” he asked Carl.

  “I’m afraid not. She says she’s fine, and she seems a lot better since Walter left.”

  “Is that because he has left or because we’re here?”

  “Both, I’d say.”

  “I have to be getting back.”

  “Have to or want to?”

  “Have to, but I want to as well. Can I leave though if he’s going to press charges against me?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that. He won’t be pressing charges.”

  “How do you know? He’s not the type of man to let something like this go by without retribution.”

  “I went to see him at his shop, in front of his staff and customers, and encouraged him to press charges so that his decade of mental and physical abuse could be made public, and everyone would finally know that he’s not the upstanding business man he pretends to be.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not a lot, possibly because his lips were quite swollen. I told him you were leaving for Rwanda, and it would be in his best interests to let you go. Since Sergeant Mackelroth hasn’t knocked on our door, I think it’s safe to say he agrees.”

  “I take back everything I’ve ever said about you lawyers.”

  “I’ll send you my bill.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m not sure. Mum saw the letter from Doctors Without Borders. I told her I wasn’t going to accept, and stay with her instead, but that upset her—she said she didn’t want me giving up my life on her account. I don’t want to leave her on her own—I’ve done that twice before—but I also don’t want to stay in Maine. There are just too many memories here.”

  “So you’re a runner too,” he said with a smile.

  “It’s self-preservation. If I immerse myself in other people’s misery, maybe I will be able to put my own into perspective. While I’m here, living this life, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself—everything tells me that I’m the only one who has lost anything significant.”

  “If you need to go, then you should go. Mum will be OK. She’s a survivor. Look at what she’s been through and she’s still standing.”

  “Maybe I’ll go for twelve months, and see how she is after that. It would make it easier if I knew someone was watching out for her. It’s a shame she lost touch with her sister.”

  “She wouldn’t be much help in any case. Grace lives with dad in Sydney.”

  “What? Grace has moved in with dad and Andréa? I didn’t even realize they had stayed in touch.”

  “No, not with Andréa—they’re not together anymore. He’s with Grace.”

  “Oh, with Grace.” Carl paused. “Mum doesn’t need to know that.”

  Matthew started to pack while Carl watched from his bed.

  “Where would you be stationed if you join Doctors Without Borders?” he asked.

  “Angola.”

  “We’ll be neighbors!” He paused and sat down beside Carl. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Nothing can prepare you for what you’ll see, and—”

  “And?”

  “You’re not as strong as you used to be. The things you’ll see…you need to be strong.”

  “I don’t know what I’m capable of anymore, but I need to do this. What else is there?”

  “When will you leave?”

  “In a couple of months, but before I go, I’ll get mum involved with the church. I’d be happier knowing there were people looking out for her.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. We should get her a dog.”

  “What were you doing, visiting dad in Sydney?”

  He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know for sure. Looking for answers I guess, just like you.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “It wasn’t my imagination. He really does resent me, but the feeling’s mutual.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Journal Entry: 22 April 2004

  Sister Mary Catherine suggested I keep a journal—it would help me, she said, to write it all down. Reading your own thoughts is apparently therapeutic so here goes with my first entry.

  I arrived in the Angolan capital, Luanda, three days ago. We flew in from London after ten hours on a plane packed with a diverse group of people—from beautiful, statuesque Angolan women in long, brightly colored wraparound dresses, to business men in gray suits headed for the comfortable compounds of the foreign oil companies.

  The pilot did two loops around the city before landing at Luanda International Airport, so I had a good view of my new home. There is a beautiful bay, dotted with containerships and oil tankers, and surrounded by shanties. Office buildings mark the core of the city and industrial development en
circles it.

  In Russia, red means beautiful, so I guess this place is very beautiful. Red is also the most common color in national flags—I learnt this from the in-flight magazine. The magazine was well worn; the article was not. I guess people just aren’t that interested in flags.

  You can tell a lot about a country by its airport so I knew then what lay ahead. There were a lot of restless people in the customs queue waiting for unhurried index fingers to tap everyone through, but not me—a benefit of being permanently numb and immune from the unimportance of everyday life.

  I was picked up at the airport by Lucas Tanner, a volunteer from Australia. Lucas is the logistician—a man who likes to get people and things to wherever they need to be, and so it was fitting that he was the welcoming party for the latest influx of volunteers—there were three of us.

  Lucas herded us into the Land Cruiser, also red although there was a hint of white paint under the dust. The interior was much the same. I have decided to keep a list of everything that might take some getting used to—mum would be proud—she is the Queen of Lists. At the end of my time here, I will go back over the list and see how far I have come, if anywhere. First on the list will be red—red is not my color of choice, then dust. I might even go so far as to say I prefer salt on my skin to dust, and that’s really saying something.

  The journey from the airport was interesting, and red. Lucas drove us ‘home’ where my heart will rest for the next twelve months. The MSF houses are scattered throughout the city intermingling with the real world, unlike the oil people who live in compounds in another foreign, western, world. I guess that is the fundamental difference between a volunteer—people about people, and employees—people for prosperity.

  I am sharing a room with a Polish girl, or woman, I’m not sure which. She looks very young, but could be much older. Her name is Ala Nowakóna. Her surname lets everyone know she is single and available. If she were married, her surname would be Nowakowa. It seems like a complicated system to me, but I guess they know what they’re doing. Ala tells me her name means truthful.

  I haven’t shared a house, let alone a room, since my uni days and that wasn’t a particularly good experience, but having met Ala I’m sure this will be different. I’ve spent a lot of time on my own since Ethan died so it will be good for me to try the alternative since solitude didn’t work out so well.

  I share the house with three other volunteers. In total, there are two doctors, two nurses, and one administrator—that’s me. It’s not a bad place to be if I get sick.

  The house is not as nice as the monastery, but it is pleasant enough with pale blue walls and colorful curtains tied in knots to allow the air to flow through. The concrete walls and floors are better than air-conditioning—it’s almost arctic in here (that’s quite an exaggeration and I don’t have an eraser).

  There was not a lot of time for getting settled in after we arrived, but it was not needed anyway—it’s not as if there are resort facilities to check out. We went straight into orientation sessions until the sun set then Lucas escorted us to dinner.

  We drove to the peninsula, the Ilha de Luanda, which used to be an island, but is joined to the mainland now by a causeway. There were restaurants lining both sides of the road, catering for every taste bud, and many with discos, bars, casinos and or local singing and dancing. We went to “Coconuts”—a bistro where you can drink, eat, or swim in the rolling surf. After a few drinks there, we moved on to a restaurant which served national dishes including palm oil beans, dried meat, corn funge (sort of like mashed potatoes) and chicken muamba. We wondered then if the pre-dinner alcohol was medicinal—a necessary pre-requisite before sampling the local cuisine, but in Lucas we trusted. He surely would not throw the new ones into a furnace on the first night.

  At the apex of the curved bay, we could see the Marginal, a wide pedestrian sea walk lined with coconut palms and rose-colored Portuguese colonial architecture highlighted by the terracotta of the earth. And from the beachfront restaurant with its views of the African Rio, it was easy to believe you were on an island paradise anywhere in the world.

  Several others from the MSF community joined us for dinner and it was a fun night. The life of a volunteer is not all work, it would seem.

  The potholes on the way home seemed even bigger. They are everywhere and unavoidable. I would not attempt to drive in Luanda in a car—it is four-wheel drive territory, especially during the rainy season they say. In fact, I would not attempt to drive in Luanda, period—the streets are a maze and I have never been one for puzzles. My mind is too linear when it is operational.

  So that was my first day in Angola, my first day in Luanda, my first day as a volunteer, and the first day, I hope, of a new beginning.

  Journal Entry: 23 April, 2004

  Breakfast on the first morning caused a gush of stupid tears. The stale bread did it. It reminded me of Ethan—he loved bread. He would eat stale bread, pick the mold off it if he had to, and he would have stolen it from the geese at the park if allowed. I was sad because I wanted to give him my bread, like I used to, and I was sad because he was not here to witness the first time I actually ate dough that was not just out of a baker’s oven. Ala put her arm around me and everyone rushed to see if I was OK. They all thought I was suffering culture shock and I really didn’t want them to think that of me—as if I was too precious for the conditions, because I’m not. I had to decide whether to correct their misperceptions or to tell them about Ethan. I didn’t want these new people in my life seeing me as a pathetic little widow, which I am. Precious or pathetic were my options and I did not want to be either. I went with the truth because Ala was looking into me with those doleful blue eyes and her name means truth. I was surprised that I felt better afterwards, and the incident seems to have shortened the bonding process between us.

  After breakfast, there were more briefings until lunch. Then there was an afternoon tour of Luanda courtesy of Lucas. He greeted us with, “Welcome to the Paris of Africa.” Jan, our housemate doctor from Denmark, said he had read that Luanda was also known as the Rio de Janeiro of Africa. It seems that Luanda could be a lot of places, but from what I’ve seen, it is uniquely Luanda. I have not been to Rio de Janeiro, but I did stop off in Paris before coming here and this most certainly is not Paris.

  I like Jan a lot—he has a great sense of humor, and won’t hesitate to tell you what he thinks. I like that trait in people, but I guess it’s not so successful with sensitive types. He asked me, “What are you doing calling yourself with a boy’s name?” Karl, with a K, he says, is a very popular name for boys in Scandinavia. I suggested to him that he has a girl’s name, but he said, very matter-of-factly, “No, it is not,” as if that was conclusive on the issue. Ala said she thinks Karl means strong man, but was not certain, to which they both laughed a mixture of amusement and embarrassment, for me.

  Gisele, the French doctor, has a room to herself and she enjoys her solitude. Jan shares with Thomas, a male nurse from Berlin—they have been sharing a room for two years and still like each other. It is early days yet but I wonder if it is coincidental that everyone who lives in this house can get along, or if it is an inherent trait of volunteers. I’ll answer that question in months to come—as I said, it is early days yet.

  Luanda is divided into two parts, the old city (the baixa) and the new city (the cidade alta). The old city is next to the port and has narrow streets with colonial Portuguese architecture. We went to the São Miguel Fort perched on a hill above the city. From our vantage point, I could see a place that may well look like Rio de Janeiro with high-rise buildings gracing the foreshore of a beautiful bay. The views were breathtaking, so long as I did not look down, although that perspective was also breathtaking but in a negative way. I wonder how long it will be before the displaced people will have somewhere permanent to live—how long before they can move from their sheds, garages, and chicken coops. People elsewhere would pay a fortune to live by the ocean like they do, bu
t life in a musseque (shantytown) is not a dream come true for these people. The shantytowns are called musseques after the red ground on which they are built. The red dirt turns to red mud in the wet season, which lasts for six months. There are millions of people living in the musseques and probably more to come.

  The fort was once a Franciscan monastery, but now it is the Armed Forces Museum filled with rusty relics of the civil war that lasted thirty years. There is some irony in that—that an army museum commemorating war would be housed in a monastery, a place of peace. The people of Luanda have only known peace for three years and many of them have not known a life other than one mired in bullets. It’s not comprehensible for a girl from Maine via the monastery.

  Many Angolans still live hiding in the jungle not realizing the war is over—there are no telephones or internet to alert them. Masses of Angolans made the treacherous hike to Luanda during the war—it was the safest place to be back then. Five million people live here now, in Luanda, in a city built for four hundred thousand. Imagine if every person in Sydney went to live in Canberra. I do not think there is a city in the world that could cope with a population surge of that magnitude. You can’t judge this city for being what it is and the fog of war lifts very slowly.

  I’m exhausted. Tonight will bring sleep, I hope, uninterrupted by a two o’clock waking from dreams that remind me of what I want but cannot have. Ethan is gone.

  Journal Entry: 6 May 2004

  I never thought it would be possible to be so full of hatred as I am, to hate with a passion another of God’s creatures, but these wretched mosquitoes are driving me nuts. We are protected in our beds by a shroud of netting, but nothing can stop the incessant squealing as they press inward trying to break through to get to me. It is without doubt the most excruciating sound—worse than fingernails scratching a blackboard, and relentless. Only the female bites, Jan informed us suggesting also that this was expected of any female of any species—they are “the aggressors” he said. We threw various accoutrements at him to which he calmly replied that we had proven his point. He is very courageous, living in a house with three women, four counting Thomas (he is one of us) but Jan obviously thrives on it.