Blue Gold (21 page)

“What did you learn today?” she asked Pascal, ignoring Sylvie.

“Nothing,” replied Pascal, his lower lip thrust out in a pout that was becoming his permanent expression.

“You have to want to learn,” Sylvie told him. “It's up to you.” She lifted the lid from the cooking pot sitting on the ground. Porridge from breakfast was congealed in the bottom. “Are you hungry?” she asked Pascal, handing him the pot. He took it from her and dug his fingers into the gooey meal, eagerly gulping it down. Sylvie sat on the dirt floor and, taking the pot from him, dipped two fingers into the porridge to stave off her own hunger.

“Mama,” she said, swallowing the gluey lump, “I was trying to remember. Back in the village, what was the name of your friend, the one who used to come for chai?”

Mama seemed thrown for a moment, then she answered stiffly—making it clear she had still not forgiven Sylvie for the video—“I had many friends. Mrs. Bemba came most often. Also Mrs. Muamba, but she was a gossip.”

“I must be thinking of Mrs. Bemba. I wonder what became of her, after the village burned.”

Mama tapped Lucie's head and gave her a little shove to let her know the braiding was done. “I wouldn't know,” she replied curtly. It was one thing to talk about the village—quite another to mention the fire. It brought to mind too many horrors. Yet after a moment, Mama surprised Sylvie by adding, “Her husband had family in Kinshasha. They probably went there. Us, we had no family to go to.”

There was silence in the hut for a moment, so rare was it for the children to hear about their family's history. Even pouting Pascal looked curious.

“Why didn't we have family?” asked Lucie.

“Because Papa and I fell in love and married outside our tribes, and our families disowned us.”

Mama said this with a quiet pride, a stubborn defiance. Sylvie was stunned to learn that her mother had been so brave—brave enough to sacrifice everything for Papa. It seemed unbelievable, looking at her today.

“Didn't you miss them?” asked Lucie with a worried frown.

“I had Patrice. And then I had my own babies,” replied Mama, her voice unusually lucid, as though remembering her strength back then was giving her strength now.

A picture rose in Sylvie's mind, as clear as a movie on a screen. “Papa used to put music on the player and dance with you,” she said, hearing the lively music and seeing the broad smiles on her parents' faces—her father so handsome, her mother soft and round—as they moved together in perfect rhythm around the living room. Pascal was barely walking and Lucie hadn't been born yet, but Sylvie and Olivier hopped and shimmied in pure joy, trying to copy them. What was it that Papa had called the dance? “The rumba,” she pronounced. “That was the dance. Do you remember, Mama?”

Suddenly, without warning, Mama began to sob. Her thin shoulders heaved as deep waves of pain seemed to well up from inside her, all the pain of the past five years. Lucie began to cry, too, but Sylvie just stared, unable to move. What had she done? For so long she had despised her mother for living in her own world—for refusing to face reality. Now she willed her to go back to her delusions, where Papa was alive and at any moment would arrive to rescue them—anything to stop the raw outpouring of her grief.

Upset, Pascal went to Mama and took her hand. “Don't worry, Papa is coming!” he said, lying to comfort her.

Mama took a deep, rattling breath and became calmer, as though the storm of emotion had cleared her mind. “Papa is never coming, Pascal,” Mama said as she stroked his head. “Papa has gone to the other side.”

Sylvie's heart broke for her. Tears streaming, she went to her mother and put her arms around her. She felt her stiffen, and then gradually relax. Slowly, a bony hand reached out to cup Sylvie's. Pascal was weeping softly into Mama's neck. Lucie climbed into her lap and pressed her wet face into her mother's sunken chest. For several minutes, the four of them held together as one, clinging to each other.
Talking about it makes it better
. Feeling her family close around her, the truth of that came back to Sylvie.

 

THE NEXT DAY
was Saturday. Sylvie had just returned from the communal tubs and was getting Pascal to help her stretch the damp laundry against the thatch walls of the hut to dry when Lucie came running from where she'd been playing with some other children in the cluster's common area.

“Soldiers are coming!” she called out in warning.

Sylvie looked up to see several of Kayembe's men approaching, holding machine guns across their chests, their expressions set and stern. Sylvie recognized Fiston among them. At the center of the parade was Kayembe, wearing a military uniform and striding along like the all-powerful king of Nyarugusu—the air around him crackling with ill omen. A tiny woman, gnarled with age, shuffled behind him trying to keep up. She was Fazila, a
mkunga
—a midwife. And behind her was Olivier, an AK-47 positioned across his chest, just like the other soldiers. He kept his gaze blank and forward, as though he had no connection to this place, or to his brother and sisters.

“
Mademoiselle
Sylvie,” pronounced Kayembe with a sweeping bow. “Beautiful as ever, I see.”

Sylvie said nothing. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mama come to the opening of the hut. She stopped short when she saw Kayembe, eyes wide as though she was beholding a ghost—or a devil. Kayembe included her in his greetings.

“Sifa! How lovely to see you again. It's been too many years. How I regret that I never had the opportunity to offer you my sympathies when Patrice died. Such a loss to our country.” His words were kind, but his manner was dangerous. Mama's face was filled with rage, and fear. “Soon we leave for what was once our village,” continued Kayembe, not expecting Mama to reply, “to take back what is ours—to make it ready for our people to return. I wish to take Sylvie with me, as my wife.”

Sylvie's stomach lurched. Her heart was pounding. She gave Mama an urgent look, willing her to be brave, the way she was when she defied her own family to marry Papa.

“She is too young,” said Mama feebly. “My husband wanted her to finish school first.”

“By marrying her,” replied Kayembe, “I pay tribute to your late husband.”

And you benefit from his good reputation
, thought Sylvie. His motives were clear to her now. Y
ou think people will trust you if you marry his daughter
.

“His eldest son has given his consent to the marriage,” added the warlord reverently, implying that proper etiquette had been observed.

Mama and Sylvie glanced to each other, then looked helplessly down the line of soldiers to Olivier, whose eyes stayed forward, unflinching—uncaring.

“You may know Fazila,” said Kayembe, sweeping his hand toward the old woman. “She has come to check Sylvie, before the wedding.”

Now Sylvie understood why Fazila was here—to poke and prod her. “No!” she blurted.

“My dear, I do not expect you to be intact. How many girls are virgins, after what we've all been through? But I must know you are not too damaged to bear children.”

“I never said I would marry you,” Sylvie told him flatly, although her heart was hammering so hard, she was afraid he would hear it.

Kayembe turned his head slightly, signaling to Olivier, who stepped forward to the front of the group. He locked eyes with his sister.

“You will do as he says, Sylvie,” he told her, tightening his grip on the automatic rifle. Sylvie wondered,
If Kayembe ordered him to shoot me, would he do it?

“Mama?” she said, turning a pleading look to her, hoping somehow she could save her. But Mama had disappeared inside herself, leaning into the wall of hut for support. Pascal and Lucie stood like small statues, frozen with fear. Sylvie looked to Fiston, who has been so kind, but his expression was hard, his eyes wilfully unseeing. Sylvie knew she was alone. Her mind raced. If Fazila declared her fit to have babies, then there would be no stopping a wedding. She needed time to think of an escape. Turning to Kayembe, keeping her head high and her voice even, she told him, “I will agree to be checked, but only by the doctors at the clinic.”

A threatening scowl spread over Kayembe's face. He puffed himself up like an angry god summoning thunder. “The clinic!” he roared, making the air vibrate. “More foreign devils!” Sylvie felt her knees go weak, and Lucie began to cry. “You think I don't know about your video,” he ranted, “about your plan? I warned that doctor what would happen if she persisted in this brainwashing.” Sylvie remembered Marie's nervousness, her warning to stay quiet about the video. So Kayembe had been making threats against her! “You are Congolese! You will stay with your own people. You and you,” he commanded, pointing to Fiston and one other man. “Go to the clinic. Burn it down, and everyone who's inside!”

Without hesitation, Fiston and the other soldier marched away.

“No!” Sylvie shouted.

She dashed toward them—hoping somehow to stop them—but she took only a pace or two before Kayembe grabbed her violently by the arm, spinning her face-to-face with him so that her nostrils were hit by the sour stench of his breath. The scuffle caused Fiston and the other man to turn back, cocking their weapons by reflex.

“From now on,” Kayembe informed Sylvie with menacing calm, “you will obey me, as a wife should.”

“Leave the clinic alone! Please!” Sylvie pleaded with him, keenly aware of the automatic rifles pointing toward her and her family.

He tightened his grip to bring her even closer to his face, lifting his chin so that he was looking down his broad nose at her.

“I will give you a choice. Either I burn the clinic, or I burn your family's hut.”

His eyes were cold and heartless. Looking into them, Sylvie saw that there was no limit to the evil he was willing to commit to prove his power.

“Please,” she said, forcing her gaze to stay steady, “don't make me choose. Fazila can examine me. Just leave the clinic alone, and my family.”

“Kayembe does not make false threats,” he told her.

“Do this for me, and I'll marry you,” she choked out.

Kayembe studied her for a long moment, holding her arm so tight she feared it would break. Then, abruptly, his mood shifted, and a pleasant smile chased away the thunderous frown. He loosened his grip, his manner becoming almost gentle.

“Your wish is my command,
Mademoiselle
Sylvie,” he said. “Consider this my wedding gift to you.” Turning to Fiston and the other soldier, he nodded to them to get back into formation. “The clinic is saved, for another day!” he announced to the entire group, as though this was cause for celebration.

Rubbing the burning skin of her arm, Sylvie glanced at Olivier, wondering if he cared how close his family had just come to disaster. His eyes remained fixed forward, but she thought she detected a trace of emotion in his face. Anger, perhaps? Disgust? But a moment later the look was gone. There was nothing of her brother left in him.

 

INSIDE THE HUT
, Sylvie lay on her back, legs spread apart while Fazila examined her privates. She put her ear to Sylvie's belly, listening for what Sylvie didn't know, and pushed her fist into her gut until it hurt. Then she forced her hand up inside Sylvie, making her wince with pain. Finally, Fazila labored up from her knees and went outside to report back to Kayembe, without speaking to Sylvie.

“She is undamaged,” she heard her tell him.

She didn't hear what Kayembe said in response, but she pictured him grunting in satisfaction. She knew there was no way out. To save her family, to save the clinic and the doctors—especially Marie—she had to marry Kayembe. There was no hope left for a different future. Sylvie lay on the dirt floor, her limbs like rubber, unable to move—her heart oddly calm. She had a single thought in her head, which was strangely soothing:
This is what it must feel like to die.

AFTER FIONA
finished refilling the ketchup and mustard dispensers at the beach concession on Friday evening, and downing one of Cathy's special salmon burgers, she raced home to do her hair and change. Lacey had arrived back from her family's cabin the day before and, as compensation for depriving her of a life for a whole month, her parents were letting her have a few friends over. Fiona couldn't wait.

Getting ready for the party in her room, Fiona pulled a newly purchased black smock top over mid-calf skinny jeans. She was experimenting with a more sophisticated look—no more skimpy tops and three-inch zippers. She pulled her unruly curls into a sleek knot and took it easy applying makeup, foregoing last year's heavy eyeliner in favor of a more natural look—mascara, blush, and a light lipstick. Standing back from the full-length mirror, she was pleased by what she saw—a fresh Fiona for a new start.

After the long, boring summer, everything was starting to happen again. In just one more week, school started, and two weeks after that, it would be her fifteenth birthday. At last she'd have her smartphone! The latest version wasn't even in the stores yet, and people would be lining up for it as soon as it was. But her dad knew somebody who had an in and could get one for her. He'd promised.