Our Lady of the Nile (11 page)

The whole audience clapped as the two “explorers” finished their tale.

“But, you say there were a lot of people at the military base, do you know why?” asked Gloriosa. “And you, Immaculée, what was your father doing in Ruhengeri, with the Bakiga?”

“He went to buy potatoes,” replied Immaculée. “He’s only interested in those fat Ruhengeri potatoes, the
intofanyi
type. He’s had enough of those little ones from Gitarama or Banyanduga, they disgust him.”

Up the Virgin’s Sleeve

“Father Herménégilde is charity personified,” said Mother Superior when she introduced the chaplain and teacher of religion to visitors. “If only you knew how much time he devotes to ensuring the poor of the district are decently clothed, and that’s in addition to all his spiritual and material responsibilities and duties!” Indeed, Father Herménégilde was the Catholic Relief Services’ man in Nyaminombe. Every month, a truck from the humanitarian organization delivered fat bundles of old clothes, which the lycée hands stacked in a shed grudgingly provided by Brother Auxile for the chaplain’s charitable works. No one understood
why the CRS stamped on the tarpaulin covering the trucks made the French teachers laugh so much. Some of the garments went to Father Angelo, who redistributed them around the parish and farther afield; others were sold on to secondhand clothes dealers at the market, the proceeds then used to purchase blue and khaki material to make uniforms for children attending Nyaminombe’s primary schools. Father Herménégilde kept a few garments, dresses mainly, for his own personal good works.

Father Herménégilde solicited the help of the lycée girls to sort the clothes, aiming his request at the new tenth graders, who, at the start of the school year, were still agog at the brave new world of the lycée they were only just discovering. “Show us how kind you are,” he preached. “You who are the country’s female elite, it is your duty to labor in support of the development of the peasant masses. Help me clothe those who are naked.” The pupils felt obliged to show up at the shed door on Saturday afternoons, and few dared shirk their duty. After thanking them at length for such goodwill, Father Herménégilde chose from among the volunteers, with a predilection for Tutsi girls, and others with particularly pleasing physiques. Then there were a few old hands from previous years, who assessed the new recruits with a mixture of irony and disdain. The work entailed sorting the crumpled clothes into piles: one for kids, one for women, one for men. Nobody knew what to do with the down-lined jackets, padded coats, and caps
with earflaps. “The old folk will take those,” said Father Herménégilde. “They’re always cold.” From the pile of women’s wear he picked out the most beautiful dresses, the finest blouses, and even the odd item of lacy underwear, all for his “own good works, and to reward you with,” he promised, as encouragement to his troop of helpers.

Father Herménégilde gave out these rewards in his study, which doubled as his bedroom. Veronica was one of the first to receive such a reward, when she was in tenth grade. Father Herménégilde kept her back at the end of religion class. Once all the pupils had left, he told her: “I noticed you worked particularly hard last Saturday. That deserves a reward. Come see me tonight in my study after refectory. I’ve put something aside for you.” Veronica sensed that there was nothing good about this “reward.” The older girls would sometimes talk about it under their breath, mocking or expressing their outrage at those who’d received rewards, particularly those who went to collect one too often. There was nobody Veronica could turn to for advice, and anyway, she knew very well that being Tutsi, it would have been too reckless of her not to go and receive the “reward” Father Herménégilde had promised her.

Leaving the refectory, she tried to go upstairs to the first floor without being seen, and there, at the end of the corridor, was Father Herménégilde’s study. She felt as if she was being watched
by all the other girls, who would be bound to notice her absence at study time anyway. She knocked at the study door as discreetly as she could.

“Quick, come in,” answered a voice with a kindness that surprised her.

Father Herménégilde sat behind a great black desk, on which stood an ivory Christ on the Cross, papers scattered across it – perhaps rough drafts of his lessons or sermons, thought Veronica. Behind him, beneath photos of the President and the Pope, the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, repainted in the colors of Our Lady of the Nile, presided over bulging shelves of books and folders. To the right, a black curtain closed off an alcove, doubtless where the chaplain’s bed lay.

“I’ve asked you here,” Father Herménégilde said to her, “because you’re very deserving of a reward. I’ve observed you closely and I appreciate the way you work. Of course you’re a Tutsi, but all the same, I think you’re a beautiful … a good girl. Take a look at the armchair beside you, I’ve picked out a pretty dress for you.”

Spread out on one of the armchairs reserved for visitors was a pink dress with a lace décolleté. Veronica had no idea what to do or say, and she didn’t dare approach the chair and the dress.

“It’s for you, it’s for you, don’t be frightened,” Father Herménégilde insisted. “But first I want to make sure it fits you, that it’s
your size, so you’ll have to try it on, here, in front of me. I want to be sure it fits you properly, otherwise, I’ll fetch you another one.”

Father Herménégilde got up, came round the desk, took the dress and handed it to Veronica. She made to slip it over her uniform as Rwandan modesty requires.

“No, no, no,” said Father Herménégilde, snatching back the frock, “that’s not the way to try on such a lovely dress. I want to be sure it’s a perfect fit, and to do that you must take off your uniform, that’s how you try on a lovely dress like this.”

“But Father, Father …”

“Do as I say. What’s there to fear while you’re with me? Have you forgotten I’m a priest? A priest’s eyes know not concupiscence. It’s as if they didn’t see you. And you won’t even be fully naked … not quite … not yet. Get on with it,” he said irritably. “Don’t forget who you are. You want to stay at the lycée, don’t you? I could always … Take that uniform off, quickly.”

Veronica let her blue uniform dress slip to her feet, leaving her standing in nothing but her bra and panties under the gaze of Father Herménégilde, who seemed in no rush to hand her the “reward.” He went and sat in the armchair and contemplated her for a long while.

“Father, Father …” Veronica implored.

At last Father Herménégilde rose, came up to her, very close, gave her the pink dress, and with the pretext of zipping her up in the back, unclipped her bra.

“It’s better like that,” he murmured, “for the neckline, it’s much better.”

He stepped back a bit and then went to sit down in his chair.

“It’s a little big, of course,” he said, holding the uniform dress and the bra on his lap, “but it will do, all the same. Next time, I’ll find one that fits you perfectly. Take the dress off and put your uniform back on.”

Veronica waited for ages, arms crossed over her chest, until Father Herménégilde gave her back the blue dress and the bra.

“Back to your friends now, quickly. Don’t say anything, or show the dress, they’ll be jealous. You came for confession, that’s all you need to say. But I don’t like those cotton panties of yours. Next time, I’ll bring you some lacy ones.”

Never again was Veronica rewarded by Father Herménégilde. Frida took her place. She asked for a pair of lace panties the very first evening. The rest took place behind the black curtain.

Frida remained Father Herménégilde’s appointed favorite for a whole year, which didn’t stop the chaplain handing out “rewards” to other deserving and obliging pupils. But the next year, Frida’s ambitions lay elsewhere. She spent her holidays in Kinshasa, where her father was First Secretary at the embassy. He viewed his daughter as a prime ornament for embassy dinners and receptions. Kinshasa likes to party through the night, and Frida was
quite a hit on the dance floor. Her light skin, opulent grace, and shapely curves were just what Zairians liked, while the fact she was Rwandan added a touch of exoticism. So no one hid their surprise when it transpired that the affections of the daughter of the Rwandan Embassy’s First Secretary had fallen upon a short, older man. It’s true that Jean-Baptiste Balimba still went in for the Zairian
sapeur
look of tailored jacket, bell-bottoms, and flamboyant vest. It’s also true he was rich, and in with President Mobutu’s crowd, so they said. Frida’s father openly encouraged his daughter’s liaison, considering that it could only be good for his diplomatic career. They even held a party to celebrate their unofficial engagement while awaiting the outcome of putative wedding negotiations. Of course it was rumored that Jean-Baptiste Balimba had other wives dotted along the length of the River Zaire (formally Congo) as far as Katanga (now known as Shaba). Well might her father worry that his daughter Frida would become “yet another posting.” And a posting only lasts a certain time. To prove his sincerity, Balimba requested he be appointed Ambassador to Kigali a few months later, and got the job without too much difficulty. He declared to whoever would listen that he could have applied for far more illustrious postings, but that he wanted to be close to his fiancée, who, at her father’s insistence, really needed to finish her studies at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile.

The rumor of Frida’s engagement caused quite a sensation in Kigali, as well as at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, where
Father Herménégilde gave up pursuing Frida with his “rewards,” for obvious patriotic reasons. She, however, became insufferably arrogant toward her schoolmates, going so far as to defy Gloriosa, who, powerless, could only swallow her exasperation. But it was at the start of that third year, a few weeks after term began, that Frida unleashed a wave of awe and indignation across the lycée, and not a little envy and admiration.

One Saturday, marked by the successive showers that heralded the rainy season, a procession of four Land Rovers drove through the lycée gates and stopped outside the Bungalow. The driver of the first one rushed to open the rear door, and out climbed a small man dressed in white slacks and a safari jacket, His Excellency Ambassador Balimba. He gave an absentminded greeting to Sister Bursar, who had been placed there to welcome the illustrious visitor. Sister Bursar asked His Excellency to please excuse Mother Superior, who was extremely busy, but that if His Excellency wouldn’t mind, she would receive him after High Mass, which His Excellency would surely wish to attend.

While Sister Bursar showed the ambassador around the Bungalow, his liveried servants unloaded huge trunks and swarmed noisily throughout the villa, shifting furniture, piling up groceries and alcohol in the kitchen, unfolding canvas chairs in the living room, placing President Mobutu’s portrait on an easel, carting a large bed on a seashell frame edged with gold trim into Monsignor’s
bedroom, and piling it high with cushions of every shape and color. One of the men rigged up an enormous transistor radio out on the terrace, which immediately began to blast out a deafening throb of rumba live from Kinshasa.

“Frida’s not here, my fiancée,” said the ambassador. “Quick, go fetch her.”

In her panic, Sister Bursar quite forgot to knock, as she burst into Mother Superior’s study, where the latter was in conversation with Father Herménégilde and Sister Gertrude.

“Mother! Reverend Mother! If only you knew what … if you could hear that music … loose women’s music … at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile! Mother! If you could see what’s happening at the Bungalow! The Congolese ambassador, he’s creating havoc, he’s moved Monsignor’s bed and put a crib of lust in its stead! A den of depravity! And he wants Frida brought to him! Mon Dieu!”

“Calm down, good Sister, calm down. Believe me, I disapprove of this as much as you do, but some things are beyond us, some things we must accept. Let us hope this misdeed will bring a greater good deed …”

“Listen, dear Sister,” Father Herménégilde interrupted, “as Mother Superior says, it’s for the country’s good that we must suffer the disorder brought by His Excellency, the Zairian Ambassador. I myself counseled our Mother Superior at the start of the year to accede to His Excellency’s requests. Indeed, she received
a letter from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs along these lines. You must understand that we have agreed to this for Rwanda, this little country you’re so fond of, that you love as much as your homeland, perhaps a little more so. When I was a seminary student, I read a book about the Jews, a secret book written by the Jews themselves, I don’t know who brought it to light. The Jews wrote that they wanted to conquer the world, that they had a secret government pulling the strings of every other government, that they had insiders across the board. Well, I’m telling you, the Tutsi are like the Jews. Some missionaries, like old Father Pintard, even say that the Tutsi are really Jews, that it’s in the Bible. They may not want to conquer the world, but they do want to seize this whole region. I know they plan a great Hamite empire, and that their leaders meet in secret, like the Jews. Their refugees are everywhere, in Europe, in America. They’re hatching every possible plot against our social revolution. Naturally, we’ve chased them out of Rwanda, and those who’ve stayed, their accomplices, we’re keeping an eye on them, but one day we’ll maybe have to get rid of them, too, starting with those who infect our schools and our university. Our poor Rwanda is surrounded by all her enemies: in Burundi, the Tutsi are in power and they’re massacring our brothers; in Tanzania, it’s the communists; in Uganda, the Bahima, their cousins. Thankfully, we have our great neighbor to support us, our Bantu brother …”

“Please, no politics, dear Father, no politics,” said Mother
Superior. “Let’s simply try to avoid a scandal and keep our innocent girls away.”

“But they’re engaged, Frida and the ambassador,” said Father Herménégilde. “We can say they’re here to prepare their marriage, I’m the lycée chaplain … Sister Gertrude, go and tell Frida her fiancé is waiting for her. I’ll go see them this evening and bring Frida back for refectory.”