Commune of Women (27 page)

He shifts his feet again, clearly desiring to leave this obligatory interview and return to his command post.

“What are the factors in
this
case?” the reporter persists.

“We’re just beginning to put together profiles of the individual terrorists. I’ll let my Public Information Officer fill you in on what we know.” He shifts his weight away from her and, taking the cue, the reporter lets him go.

“Alright, thank you, Commander.”

Before she can continue, his back is already disappearing through the media throng, the emblazoned
FBI
glowing eerily in the artificial light with a cold phosphorescent fire, long after his human form is dissolved in darkness.

“We’ll take a commercial break and then we’ll be hearing from the FBI’s Public Information Officer with some very interesting information on the background of the terrorists.”

She lowers the mic and snarls into the glare of the lights. “Where the hell is Stacy? I need my makeup checked, like,
yesterday
,” unaware that she is still on camera.

So now X understands: it is not that her body is cowardly and weak. It is that it
knows!
It knows danger and it knows when to eliminate or refuel – and, it knows the voice of betrayal!

Her entire being is quivering like a frightened animal. She cannot think clearly. How did this man come to be in their lives? How is it that his promises of glory spurred them on, so that she is here now in Fat Guy’s room eating his tuna sandwiches and shaking with shock? None of it makes sense.

After the meeting when the man came and she was dismissed, she asked Jamal what had happened, even though she already knew.

His answer was strange. “I think the President needs an incident – and we are it.”

When she tried to get him to explain, he said he was sorry he had said anything and would respond no further.

Later, she heard him arguing with Ibrahim, asking, “Are we pawns in the game of rich men, then? Is that what you think we should be?”

And Ibrahim answering coldly, “What difference does it make how we do it, as long as we make our point?”

The argument went on and on and, at the time, all she wanted was to get away from their harsh voices. Now she realizes that she should have listened and learned.

Can it be possible that they are here to be exploited for the present administration’s political gain? Is it possible that the President is so evil as to wish death on his own citizens, so that he may then be a hero, soothing them? Or even that he might use their attack as a pretext for war?

Allah! What have we done?!

She glances at the television, just as the Public Information Officer steps before the cameras. He’s a slender man in his thirties, handsome in a weak way, with perfectly razor cut and moussed hair, and a well-tailored suit. He holds a sheaf of papers in his hand, obviously aware of the expectant hush that falls around him.

“Our agents have been working tirelessly,” he begins, “to identify the terrorists. Tonight, I will reveal the identity of some of them and give a brief synopsis of their lives.” He shuffles the papers importantly and then begins his delivery.

His information, the PIO claims, comes straight from investigators who have been poring over notes in Father Christopher’s files, discovered in his university office two days ago.

X suffers a second shock because Jamal comes immediately to her mind and his closeness is almost palpable. She is remembering him coming to her apartment, acting oddly, only a few days ago.

“Why are you acting so strangely, Jamal?” she had asked him, her brow furrowing.

“I have something to show you,” Jamal answered, looking about him as if there might be others in the room.

X laughed out loud. “You are acting silly, Jamal. You are not in some American film. We are alone, obviously!”

He shrugged nervously and gave an embarrassed smile that faded too quickly. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a large but not very thick black book and held it indecisively, still glancing about nervously.

“What is that?” X asked, approaching him curiously and reaching for the volume.

Jamal jerked it up, out of her reach, his nostrils flaring and his eyes wild. X became suddenly frightened.

“What
is
that?” she asked again, almost in a whisper. “What have you got there and where did you get it?”

“Sit on the couch,” Jamal said, jerking his head in its direction. X wanted to bristle, to assert her rights as a woman, but something warned her to be compliant. She went dutifully to the couch and sat. Jamal came to sit beside her.

“This is Father Christopher’s journal,” he said flatly.

X frowned deeply. “How do you come to have this thing, Jamal?” she asked warily.

He looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening, with a mixture of fierce pride and apology. “I stole it.”

Her eyes grew large with alarm. “Jamal! Then you must take it back!”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I have to take it back, and I will – but not before you see what he has written here.” And he opened the book to a place that was marked with a piece of torn paper.

Her head was shaking by its own volition and she looked at Jamal with confusion, pleading, “Please, Jamal! You know this is not right!”

But Jamal had been firm, almost cold, when he responded. “Just sit still and hear what I will read you.” And so, she had.

“‘The Dean has asked me to compile some notes on the members of the Kultur Klub,’” Jamal began reading, in the accented English and soft baritone that X loved so much. “‘I assume his interest is personal, although I can see that the success of the Klub could be a political feather in his cap, as well. I will begin by assembling what little I know about the various members.’

“Do you see. Father Christopher has been spying on us,” Jamal said, his eyes flicking fiercely in her direction.

“Oh, I don’t think...” X began. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said softly, “Go on.”

“‘Hansi first came to my attention in 1994, when Sister Elizabeth went to work in Rwanda, immediately after the massacre at Gikondo. From the assassination of Juvénal Habyarimana on 6 April through mid-July, at least 500,000 people were killed. Sister Elizabeth left her mission in Uganda immediately upon hearing of the commencement of hostilities and narrowly escaped death herself, as violence between the Tutsis and the Hutus swept the country.’”

X took advantage of Jamal’s presence, an increasing rarity as the training had intensified, and snuggled closer to him on the pretext of reading along with him.

“‘Sister Elizabeth’s reports were almost not to be believed, so vast and horrible did the cataclysm of death seem to be. She talked of heaps of bodies lying bloated in the hot sun; of men, women and children maimed horribly, most often by machete. The disruption of communities was disastrous, as well. People fled, often without even the basic necessities of food and water or clothing and bedding, creating a huge humanitarian crisis.

“‘She was working, one day, in a Tutsi refugee camp, trying to organize things – to get latrine pits dug, cooking fires going, shelters rigged. Suddenly, a band of Hutu militia charged into the camp, machetes swinging. People ran screaming in all directions. Sister herself was saved when someone reached a hand down from the branches of a tree and pulled her up to be hidden in the leaves. From that vantage point, she watched, terrified, as the soldiers sliced and hacked for more than two hours.

“‘Finally, exhausted with their labors, they began to hobble their victims by slicing their Achilles tendons so that they could not run. Then, the soldiers took their leisure for an hour or more, rummaging the camp for food, resting in the rude shelters and rinsing blood from their bodies in the river. When they were sufficiently rested, they followed the blood trails of their crawling victims and finished them off.

“‘At last, when it seemed the militia had no one left to kill and was about to depart, a little boy of about three or four came to hide behind the tree where Sister Elizabeth was perched with her benefactor. A soldier spied him, came running and, with one swoop of his machete, cut off the boy’s hand. Screaming, the boy collapsed against the trunk of the tree, holding his wrist from which blood squirted. And he cowered there, awaiting the killing blow.

“‘Just as the soldier was about to strike again, however, he was himself struck from behind. A tree branch landed solidly on his head and he went down. It was the boy’s mother, apparently, who then threw down her weapon and ran with arms out to rescue her son.

“‘But it was not to be. Two more soldiers, witnessing the scene, ran over. Meanwhile, the first soldier had recovered his senses and was pushing himself up from the ground. In concert, the three of them reached for the mother just as she was about to snatch up her child. They threw her violently to the ground and one was about to decapitate her with his machete when another of the three had an idea – they should rape her instead.

“‘Sister Elizabeth watched in horror. All she could see from her vantage point were the woman’s lower legs and feet, which first beat the ground in frantic struggle but, as first one man, then the next, and finally the third brutally mounted her, subsided and then went limp – whether in a faint or in death Sister could not tell.

“‘All the while, she had a clear look at the boy who still leaned against the tree trunk, holding his severed wrist tightly, his face blank with shock. He witnessed the violence meted out to his mother without uttering a sound.

“‘When it was over at last and the militia had departed, Sister Elizabeth came down from the tree. She saw instantly why the mother lay so still. Her throat had been cut. And still, the little boy leaned against the tree trunk, as if turned to stone.

“‘Sister Elizabeth herself was in profound shock. Her only thought, just like the Tutsi refugees, was to flee – and this she did, but not without reaching out for the little boy. Tying a crude tourniquet around his wrist and sweeping him up in her arms, she fled. After two days of walking, she was able to hitch a ride to the capitol and from there, a plane back to Uganda.

“‘There, she got medical attention for the boy and then placement in an orphanage run by Dominican sisters. Then, she requested refuge in a Dominican mother-house in Belgium, was accepted and departed Africa, still in deep psychological shock. In Bruges, she took vows of silence and is, as far as I know, still living a silent, contemplative life. I sincerely hope that she finds it healing.

“‘The boy, who when he was finally able to speak, called himself Hansi, took a long time to heal psychologically, even while his severed wrist quickly mended. His teacher at the orphanage, whose last name was given to him – for he could not remember his own, if ever he had known it – reported that he was very bright but too quiet in class, only responding when spoken to and then as briefly as possible.

“‘Nevertheless, he passed the next years excelling in academics. So when it was time for his college education, his teacher helped him get a scholarship to this American university and it was here that I met him, at last, and encouraged him to become a participant in the Kultur Klub.

“‘According to his professors, he is doing well in his classes. However, I have discovered that he lacks completely a religious life or even an obvious personal philosophy, and also cares nothing for politics; nor is he the least bit interested in sports, societal issues, or even girls. He seems to dwell in an inner space that is devoid of anchors, therefore, as if his roots, having been severed so early, never again were able to penetrate into the soil of human culture.’”

Jamal glanced briefly at X and, satisfied that she was fully engrossed in his reading, continued.

At the reading of Jamal’s name, X drew her breath in sharply. “Oh, Jamal! It is
you!
” Then she gasped again because it suddenly occurred to her that, if Jamal were in this journal, her story might be in it, as well.

Jamal gave her a knowing look and continued:

“‘I first met Jamal a year and a half ago, at the very first gathering of the Kultur Klub. I was struck instantly by his appearance, for he is tall for an Egyptian, yet has those wide, dark, dreaming eyes and delicate features that characterize some of his people, like a male Nefertiti. The Imam whispered to me that he is a Christian and with a smile, hissed, ‘He’s in your camp, my friend, yours to attend to.’

“‘So I introduced myself to Jamal and began to elicit his story, for one thing was sure: he would have one. All the members of the Kultur Klub do, as the Imam and I have chosen them precisely for this reason. Each is an orphan and the survivor of some horrific human cataclysm, and some are heirs to conflicts in which they are the born and sworn enemy of other members of the Klub. The Imam and I feel that if we can get these disparate people to know one another and to hear one another’s stories, it will break through the walls of hatred and prejudice and there will be a possibility for healing to occur, both individually and culturally.

“‘Jamal’s family has lived from time out of mind in the southeastern area of Egypt, far from the capital in Cairo and thus, far from access to power. In recent years, the government has been relocating people into their area, causing land disputes with the Faleh family and with the Bedouins, now no longer nomadic, who are their neighbors. Even though the Falehs are Coptic Christians, they get along well with the Bedouins. And so, both groups were outraged in one another’s behalf when the government usurped their lands for outsiders.

“‘Jamal explained to me that the Copts are the oldest and largest Christian community in the Middle East. They call themselves the Church of St. Mark and claim descent from that apostle, who brought the church to Alexandria during the reign of the emperor Claudius. For centuries, Copts were the majority in Egypt until, in 641 during the advent of Islam, most were forcibly converted or became Muslims to avoid the heavy taxes imposed upon them.

“‘Presently, he said, the Copts are discriminated against because of the rise of Muslim fundamentalism. There is, for example, an official ban on the building of new Coptic churches and even on the repair of old ones, without express presidential permission.