In the Shadow of 10,000 Hills

by Jennifer Haupt

  “She? You think God is a woman?”

  “I never gave it any thought until coming to Rwanda, but yeah. The immortal entity or energy, whatever it is that watches over this country, is definitely female.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “The women here, especially in the remote areas. They’re strong and patient—spiritual. At least, I see them that way.”

  “You’d have to be strong to live out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Enduring. That’s the word that comes to my mind.”

  Rachel surveys the desolate landscape: the exact opposite of the blur of constant motion she thrives on in New York. It keeps her mind activated. Busy. “It’s so empty,” she observes. “Lonely.”

  Tucker laughs softly. “This is where I come when I need to refuel,” he says, and then recalls his first camping trip up here. He walked into the village they’re heading to, and introduced himself to the women farming the fields. Most of the men went off at dawn to find day labor in Ruhengeri or Kigali. Several women pointed out huts where there were ill neighbors. “I fell in love with the people, the simplicity of life here, and began bringing vaccinations and medicine every month or so,” he says. “They pay me with baskets of fruit and fresh-baked bread left outside my tent in the morning.”

  The end of the road is a plateau that overlooks terraced farmland in dazzling shades of green spilling into the valley below. While Tucker gets his duffle bag from the back of the Jeep and then checks the air in the tires, Rachel sits on a log and takes in the view: the chain of small lakes sparkles like tiny sapphires set in an emerald necklace. A curtain of late morning mist breaks apart to reveal flat, dormant volcanoes in the distance. “If there is a God, she definitely hangs out here,” she murmurs, thinking of what Nadine said about God living in the ten thousand hills.

  The low clouds cast shadows over the patchwork of green hills; translucent, shifting shapes appear to rise out of the earth. It would be nice to believe in a higher power that watches over everyone. But the genocide… “How can people still believe?” she asks aloud. “Ninety days was a long time for God to take a leave of absence.”

  “The story goes, sometimes God hides in the valleys.” Tucker sits beside her and shades his eyes, stares out over the hilltops nudging through the low clouds. “My guess is that it was too painful for her to watch what was going on. Or maybe she wanted to see how we’d take care of each other if left to our own devices.”

  Rachel follows his gaze. What is he searching for in the mist?

  He stands and offers her his hand to help her up. “Either way,” he says, “sometimes you have to look even harder to find God—or whatever. Something resembling faith.”

  Tucker leads the way down the winding path, carrying a duffle bag of medical supplies, tapping the ground ahead of him with a long stick to check for snakes. The grass is greener, the ground darker, than on the higher ground. Leafy eucalyptus trees signal that water is nearby. Rachel smells the lake before she sees it, and then a row of clay and grass huts shaped like mushrooms appear along the sandy bank. A young woman waves from a wooden bench in front of one of the huts. Two boys dressed in saggy shorts splash nearby in the clear water.

  “Mwaramutse, Clemencia. Good morning.” Tucker bows to the woman. The smaller boy runs up to encircle his legs. “This is my friend Rachel. We’re hoping to check on your father today.”

  “He has taken to bed,” Clemencia says. She reaches down to gently unwind her son from Tucker. “The diabetes has turned Papa’s left foot quite swollen, but he refuses the medicine you brought.”

  “I don’t get it. Joseph knows those shots, every day, are important. The medicine is keeping him alive.”

  Clemencia scowls. “The problem is our village healer. He believes Papa’s ancestors are angry and the sickness is a curse. No medicine, he says, just wait for comfort in the afterlife.”

  “I’ll go see what I can do,” Tucker assures her.

  Rachel pulls an old Polaroid Instamatic out of her backpack and aims it playfully at the children. “Clemencia, is it okay if I stay here a few minutes and take some photos?”

  Clemencia moves over to make room on the bench. Rachel takes photos while the proud mother directs her sons to stand still and look at the camera. The boys giggle, shove each other and make goofy faces. Some things are universal. They all watch as the photos develop before their eyes, the boys in quiet awe. “Some of the elders believe that cameras are taboo,” Clemencia says. “They steal a piece of our souls to make the pictures. I prefer to believe they preserve a bit of us.”

  “I like that.” Rachel gives her the photos. She thinks of the sonogram tucked away in her wallet.

  The brothers are back at the edge of the lake, the smaller one sitting in the water, letting handfuls of pebbles run through his fingers to make a waterfall. He stands up and, with a warrior’s cry, raises a fistful of pebbles over his head to take aim at his brother. He glances at his mom, sees she’s watching and releases the stones back into the water, laughing. “Aiya,” Clemencia says with a weary smile. “Do you and the doctor have children?”

  “Tucker’s a great dad. He has a daughter, Rose,” Rachel says. “My husband is back in the States.”

  “Forgive me, Madame. I thought, since you are travelling together…”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “And you? Children?”

  “Yes,” Rachel says. The word rises out of her chest, as if it has wings. “A daughter.”

  Rachel walks along the rocky shore of the lake and stops at a hut where Tucker’s voice drifts through the open window. He’s standing over an elderly man’s bed. “Joseph, you need to keep this nice and loose,” he says, wrapping gauze around the patient’s foot. “We don’t want the bandage binding, but we need to keep the open sores covered so you don’t get an infection.”

  “I am not afraid,” Joseph says. “Death will come soon enough.”

  Tucker places a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve been friends for, what, three years now?”

  “Nearly four. Since Clemencia gave me my third grandson. Long enough to speak the truth.”

  “From where I sit, the truth is that we all live with the pain of too many people who left us too soon. People who had no choice.” Tucker places a fist to his chest. “Don’t do that, not willingly, to your family.”

  Rachel watches as he finishes wrapping the elderly man’s foot and gives him a shot of insulin. She can’t take her eyes off the ring on Tucker’s finger. Who was this woman whose name he can’t say, who left a hole in his heart?

  They make rounds to the other huts on the lake, some with eight or nine children lined up for exams, siblings as well as cousins from nearby villages. Tucker makes a game of taking each child’s temperature, checking their hair for bugs, and listening to them cough. He’s enjoying this as much as the kids. Refueling, as he said. Rachel keeps the waiting patients busy by demonstrating the medical instruments, letting them look in her ears and mouth, and giving them Band-Aids to count.

  The sun’s setting as they walk back up the hill. “You’re a natural with kids,” Tucker says. “You’re going to be one hell of a mom.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “My mom wasn’t big on nurturing after my father left. I understand now, it’s okay. She was hurting and shut down her heart. But when I became pregnant, I was clueless. Jesus, I had no idea.” Rachel starts to laugh but it turns into a gasp. “I read tons of books on parenting, but they don’t begin to explain how much you’ll love the child growing inside you. How much—” She leans against a tree, her breath sharp and jagged in her throat.

  Tucker’s hand drops onto her shoulder. “It must hurt like hell to lose a child you never had a chance to hold.”

  “Serena was just six months along. She depended on me.”

  “You can’t blame—”

  “I don’t, not anymore.” Rachel shrugs off his hand an
d starts walking again, faster. It wasn’t her fault, she knows this now. But why do people think that makes her feel better? Serena is still dead. “I’m fine,” she says over her shoulder. Tucker doesn’t budge.

  “It’s not about blame.” The air in her lungs is a hot metal blade; she flashes on Mick pounding the side of the crib. Damn it, Ray, how could you not have known something was wrong? She stops walking and takes a deep breath. “I guess, if I’m honest, part of me will always believe I should have been able to protect her better. Love her better.” She waits for Tucker to catch up, tell her she’s wrong and this will pass with time. It’s what people say, because they don’t know—they can’t. They don’t realize there is no making her feel better, and that’s not what she wants. And so, she doesn’t tell the truth anymore. It’s much easier to insist that she’s fine, easier for everyone.

  One month. That’s how long her doctor said she should expect to grieve, like it was a fact. One month, and then Mick expected her to toss the sleeping pills and go back to work. Get on with her life. If only it was that easy to quell the pain that sometimes, unexpectedly, still churns up into her chest, making it hard to breathe. The least you could do is try, her husband kept saying. But Tucker’s just silently standing beside her, twisting the ring on his finger, both of them watching as the sun begins to set over the valley, the sky changing to dusty purple. It hits her: the something-like-faith he’s searching for here. His struggle, trying to stay positive with Rose. His love, still fresh and painful, for whoever wore the ring that he never removes. He’s grieving, too.

  Rachel turns to give Tucker a swift kiss on his cheek. He takes a half-step back and cocks his head. She flashes an it-was-nothing half-smile. A show of solidarity, nothing really. “We should go,” she says, rubs her arms like she’s shivering because she’s cold. “Rose will be bummed if you’re not there to tuck her into bed.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  RACHEL SKULKS ALONG THE PATH LEADING into Mubaro, hoping to catch the troop of vervet monkeys that patrol the fields. Nadine, less serious about subterfuge, follows behind, singing something that sounds like Christmas, shredding flat, ribbed banana leaves. “That’s a pretty tune,” Rachel says with a tinge of melancholy.

  “There’s no exact translation into English, but the Kinyarwanda words aren’t so hard.” Nadine sings the chorus, catches Rachel’s hand and swings it in time to the rhythm. “Inshuti,” she says, “we’ll teach the children this song at the tree decorating party on Saturday.”

  “I’d like that.” Rachel smiles down at their interlocked fingers. How can she break the news to her friend that she doesn’t plan on being here for the Kwizera tradition of decorating the fig tree in the backyard on the Saturday before Christmas? Instead, she’ll be picking out a Charlie Brown droopy pine in need of a good home with her husband.

  She sings louder, making her voice bright. It’s a good plan. Mick will be so happy she’s coming home early; she’ll spring the news—an early Christmas gift—when he calls this afternoon. They’ve been negotiating their differences by email during the past few weeks, using a practically new laptop Lillian loaned to her. It’s so much easier communicating in writing than over the phone, carefully editing her words. Of course she understands how important it is to go to his parents’ house for a big family holiday. And, he does miss her; he does want her to come home early. How could she have doubted his love?

  Mick is her priority, she sees this clearly now. He’s right, a month is plenty of time to give her father a chance to show up. The stories in her notebook and the corkboard of memories she and Nadine have assembled will have to be enough. It’s not the loving reunion she imagined, but it is closure. Mick will be glad to hear she’s finally letting go of her fantasies about reconnecting with Henry Shepherd.

  Nadine stops to wave to Lillian in the distance, in the field with three of the aunties. “Maman gave these women a piece of land to farm after the Hutus took their homes and their families, and something more,” she says. “After the genocide, we who survived were no better than dead inside. We could see no reason for tomorrow to come. Maman gave the widows in town a place to work, as well as a place to go where they didn’t have to be alone with their thoughts. Some worked the land, others came here to make baskets and sew. Together, they found renewed purpose.”

  “Lillian has such a big heart,” Rachel says. Why can’t the Lady of Steel find room to let her in?

  “Maman! Maman!” Nadine waves to Lillian, who is clearly too far away to hear her. “She may want some things from town,” she says, already running off, calling over her shoulder that she won’t be long.

  “Take your time.” Rachel sits on a boulder, smoothes the skirt Nadine lent her, a pale okra the same color as the grass that tickles her ankles, scattered with pink flowers. She’s in no hurry here. So different than at home, where she’s a clock-watcher even before getting to work. Here, the minutes of the day seem to evaporate into the air, seconds marked by the flutter of wings.

  She inhales the sweet earthen aroma pulled up from the ground by last night’s rain. It’s disappointing, in a way, thinking of being back in Manhattan’s gray slushy streets that overcompensate with gaudy lights and plastic Santas. Instead of decorating the fig tree in Lillian’s backyard, she’ll be pouring booze like courage for people trying too hard to be jolly, and drinking enough herself to stay moderately engaged at a round-robin of holiday parties thrown by Mick’s firm and his clients.

  She hums an approximation of Nadine’s Christmas carol, shades her eyes and watches the aunties embracing her friend. They are all surrogate mothers to Nadine. Her own mom made her promise to bring the baby to Jacksonville for Christmas. Serena would be about a month old, just the right age to sleep through a four-hour flight. A small part of her believes this will still happen; she’ll fight the crowds at Bloomingdale’s to find the perfect gift for her mom, a cashmere sweater the exact violet-blue of Merilee’s eyes. She smiles at the thought of searching for that sweater anyway and wearing it on Christmas, wrapping herself in the soft memory of her mother’s eyes lighting up when they had talked about the baby.

  The snap of twigs turns Rachel attention toward the path: two boys, around Nadine’s age or a bit older, are heading toward her. She braces a hand against the boulder beneath her. There’s the boy with the scar on his forehead who Nadine said was a childhood friend before the genocide. And she ran into his companion, heavyset with a clean-shaven head, a few days ago on her way into town. He had been sitting on this boulder, and he squared his thumb and forefinger, putting them to one eye, squinting shut the other as she passed by. He made a click-click sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as if taking a photo, and then laughed. Obviously, a reference to her father. Now, she stands as the two boys stop in front of her, both wearing the same uniform of green fatigue pants and black T-shirts, and mirrored sunglasses even though there’s a low-hanging blanket of clouds.

  “Mwaramutse,” Rachel says, her gaze sliding toward Lillian and the aunties. The field or the house, which is closer? Nadine’s former friend holds out his hand. “I’m Rachel,” she says, offering her own hand, and then immediately feels something between embarrassed and idiotic.

  Shaved Head laughs harshly and nudges his buddy.

  “Take it.” Scarface shoves a folded piece of paper toward Rachel’s chest.

  “For me?”

  The boy sighs loudly. “Read if you like. It’s for the girl Nadine.”

  “Who should I say this is from?”

  Scarface looks past her, as if her question isn’t worth the time to answer. Or, maybe it’s that Lillian is coming their way. “May I help you,” she says in an icy too-sweet southern drawl. A “fuck-you-very-much” that Rachel rather admires.

  “No, Madame.” Scarface bows and turns to catch up with his sidekick, who’s already well ahead of him.

  Lillian sweeps a hand along Rachel’s arm as if checking for broken bones, staring after the boys.

&n
bsp; “They gave me this note for Nadine.” Rachel unfolds the piece of lined paper and a book of matches falls out. Lillian takes a step back, as if an actual fire has been ignited, and then quickly recovers. She stoops to pick up the matches and snatch the note.

  “Who are they?” Rachel asks. These boys who have the ability to pierce Lillian’s armor.

  “Cowards.” Lillian shows her the note, written in English. Nadine go back to Nairobi so no more bad comes. Your mama surely not want more bad for you. The trial not good for anyone. Only bad. Bad for our family. Bad for new family of yours.

  “I suppose,” Lillian says, “the Kensamara brothers think we’ll be scared and tell Naddie not to testify against them at the gacaca.”

  “Kensamara…” Rachel reads the note again. “Is Maura, the woman who owns the bakery in town, their mother?”

  Lillian nods. “Their father, Rahim, was one of the men on trial two years ago in Arusha. Nadine was supposed to testify and couldn’t.”

  “This morning, Maura invited me to their home to talk about my father. I could go—”

  “No, that won’t help,” Lillian says, slipping the note and matches in her coat pocket as Nadine appears from the direction of the house. “That woman has no reason to tell the truth. She’s merely trying to protect her family.”

  “Why…” Rachel stops at the sight of Nadine cresting the hill. Why would Maura lie about her father? And, why doesn’t Lillian want her going to talk to Maura? What’s she trying to hide?

  Nadine counts off the grocery list on her fingers. “Flour, salt, currants, oats.” She puckers her lips, tapping her thumb. “And one other thing that I noticed we’re running low on. Milk?”

  Lillian’s squinting in the direction that the Kensamara brothers went, a hand worrying the thin silver chain around her neck. “Maman,” Nadine whisper-sings, as if awakening a child or bringing someone out of a hypnotic trance. “Milk, yes?”