Running the Rift (30 page)

“I think so. I don't know if I'll ever get well.” Jean Patrick rubbed his temples. “Do you have any more of those candies?” A handful of mints landed on the blanket. Jean Patrick raised his eyebrows.

Daniel said, “I wanted her to taste urwagwa, so I bought a jug.”

“And she drank like a Rwandan?”

“With a straw. True Rwandan. Aye! She kisses nice.” Daniel snapped a pair of pants to straighten them. “She's French. Papa hates the French.”

“Your papa doesn't have to kiss her.”

Daniel stuffed a last shirt into his overfull suitcase.

“Your papa would beat you if he saw the way you packed,” Jean Patrick said.

“Is he here?” Daniel grunted, but he took out the shirt, folded it, and placed it carefully on top of his other clothes. He forced the suitcase shut.

Jean Patrick would have killed for a drink of water. “When is he coming?”

“I don't know. Did you change your mind about the ride?”

It was tempting. Bundle himself in warm clothes, lock the door, leave all his crazy thinking behind. “No. I have too much to do.”

“You never answered my question yesterday about Bea.”

Last evening's confidence had deserted him. “Bea can get a good Hutu man, a rich one. She doesn't need me.”

“And you—you're going to win the Olympics. That's nothing?”

“I have not won yet. The way I feel right now, I might never win a race again.”

The pin-striped suit landed on his bed. “Go and talk to her. Papa will give you a ride.”

Jean Patrick sat up and cradled his pulsing head in his hands. “Bea is finished. Kwa heri—good-bye.”

“I am telling you—I know what I'm talking about. Put on your fancy suit and knock on her door like the king of Rwanda.”

“Mwami also is good-bye. You Hutu finished the monarchy.” Jean Patrick crawled back beneath the blanket and closed his eyes.

I
T WAS AFTERNOON
when he awoke again. Daniel paced the small space between the beds. “Have you been walking all morning?” Jean Patrick said. “You could have traveled to Kigali by now, saved Pascal a trip.”

“I don't like when Papa is late.”

“You sound just like him now, predicting the end of the world. How do you know what late is, since you don't know when he is supposed to come?” He closed his eyes again and drifted. A rap at the door jolted him awake.

Pascal began speaking the minute he came into the room. He had blood on his raincoat and on his pants. “Don't worry,” he said. He took off his jacket and his muddy boots. “This blood isn't mine. There was an accident on the road from Kigali, and I stopped to help.”

Instinctively, Jean Patrick shivered. “Did someone die?”

“No, thank God. There was…” Pascal scowled. His hands jerked as if he were trying to pull from the air the right way to continue.

“I'm just glad it wasn't you. I was beginning to worry.” Daniel hung Pascal's jacket on the chair. “Did the police come?”

“The man wouldn't wait; you know how long it takes to fetch them. Something, maybe a boulder, hit his car. Tore off the roof and smashed the windshield. He's lucky to be alive. I offered to take him to hospital, but he refused.” Pascal lit a cigarette and exhaled a deep draft of smoke. “He was losing blood, so I bandaged him with my undershirt; it was all I had. He barely waited for that. I don't know how he will manage to drive in this rain.” He looked first at Daniel and then at Jean Patrick as if noticing them for the first time. He swept each of them into a quick embrace.

Something—he couldn't put a finger on what—made Jean Patrick mistrust Pascal's story. He was too agitated, too upset. A soldier, after all, would be used to the sight of blood.

Pascal regarded Jean Patrick. “You're burning up. Even through my shirt I can feel it.”

“Jean Patrick is sick from love,” Daniel announced. “I told him we would take him home, but he refused. I told him we would take him to his umukunzi, but he refused. What else can I do?” He made a face and put on his boots.

“We'll need to hurry to get back to Kigali before curfew, but can we take you somewhere? A doctor?” Pascal put his palm to Jean Patrick's forehead. “You're hot as a coal.”

“Go. I'll be fine.” He shooed them toward the door.

“The rest of the candies are on the desk. Don't forget my advice.” Daniel hefted his suitcase and followed his father into the rain.

M
OST OF THE
students had left for vacation. No music drifted through the walls, no loud talk interrupted his thoughts, no RTLM
stirred up his blood. Jean Patrick put on socks and pulled a sweater over his sweatshirt. Trying to concentrate was hopeless, but a ragged energy, fed by his fever, simmered. He picked up the pin-striped suit, put it down again, picked it up, and returned it to the shelf. He picked up his jacket from the floor where he must have dropped it when he came home. A scrap of green cloth protruded from the pocket. He pulled out a green bandanna and a note.

I thought you might want this. It belonged to our friend.
Suddenly, Jean Patrick recalled Isaka's taking the bandanna to wrap his foot in the forest near Cyangugu. How had Roger managed to slip note and scarf into his pocket? He hid the note inside his physics text. Then he pocketed the bandanna, put on shoes and his jacket, and stepped outside.

Only a few lights shone in the buildings. The rain had tapered into mist. It seemed pointless to remain in the dorm, sick and alone. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since he had eaten or even had a sip of water, and the cafeteria was dark. Behind his glazed eyes, the windows in Bea's house beckoned like glowing candles.

Once more he unfolded the pin-striped suit. He brushed out the creases and dressed. Over the suit he put on his tracksuit to keep him dry. Maybe Daniel was right: if he came to Bea's gate like a great king, she would reconsider. Taking a flashlight from Daniel's drawer, Jean Patrick set out. Near Cyarwa, he heard a faint bleating. He looked down to see a billy goat in step beside him. Either this journey is written, or my fever is talking, he thought. Here is Rugira, my ram, come to accompany me. And so I must be Gihanga, half of heaven and half of the earth, setting off to navigate my earthly domain.

J
EAN
P
ATRICK RESTED
his forehead against the cool metal of Bea's gate. He called again, rattled the bolt; no one came. Night drifted down. Rain had soaked his clothing. Thirty seconds, and he would leave. At twenty-eight seconds, the front door opened.

“Jean Patrick, is that you?”

Jean Patrick let the sound of Bea's voice fill him. “It is.”

“My God. You are completely insane.” She unlocked the gate and let him in.

“I am.”

Niyonzima stepped out from the doorway with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Bea? Who's there?”

“It's Jean Patrick. He walked here in the storm. He has drowned.”

“Don't keep him standing there. Bring him inside.”

“Be strong, Jean Patrick,” Bea said before locking the gate behind him.

Jean Patrick puzzled over her meaning, but the next moment he saw, pulled into the far corner of the yard, a car with the roof torn off, the windshield and windows gone. He felt his heart in his throat. Was he still in his room, wading through a fevered nightmare? Was Pascal still recounting his story of the accident, only to have it come to life in Jean Patrick's mind? The earth lurched up to meet him. If Bea had not taken his arm, he might have fallen.

“I shouldn't have come,” he said.

Niyonzima came out into the rain and took his other arm. “Nonsense. You are always welcome. Come inside—you are indeed drowned.” His shirt was spotted with blood.

At the table sat a shirtless man. He nodded to Jean Patrick, and despite his obvious pain, he smiled. His left arm was bandaged, supported by a sling; his left eye, swollen shut and purple beneath a jagged, seeping gash. Small wounds peppered his flesh. Ineza bent over him, picking out shards of glass with tweezers. Jean Patrick thought to pinch himself to see if he was awake. Could it be that here, in front of him, was the man Pascal had stopped to help?

The man extended his right hand. “Félicien Gatabazi. Sorry if I don't stand to greet you properly, but you should know I'm a big fan of yours.” He squinted like a mole suddenly come up into the light.

Gingerly, Jean Patrick took his hand. “I'm sorry. Your name is familiar to me, but I can't say how or why. Did we meet at the reception in Kigali?” The room began to spin. Sweat beaded on his skin, and Jean Patrick worried that this friend of Bea's would judge him for his slippery palm.

Bea pursed her lips. “Félicien Gatabazi is the minister of public works, and head of our Parti Social Démocrate, the party to lead Rwanda into the future.”

A sound like a mosquito's whine grew until it filled Jean Patrick's head.
His field of vision shrank, and he realized he was about to faint. If he sat, he might be all right, but a bloody shirt lay across the nearest chair. Instead he took a step toward the wall so he could lean against it. The floor opened beneath him, and he fell through.

H
E OPENED HIS
eyes, believing he was underwater and had to swim to the surface. As awareness returned, the water became a bed. He breathed in Bea's scent from the sheets. Ineza's face orbited above him and then became still.

“Good evening.” She held a cup in her hands. The steam smelled of grass and citrus. “You frightened us. The second scare of the day.”

“I'm sorry. I should have stayed at the dorm.”

“And be sick alone?” She set the cup on the nightstand and propped pillows behind his head. “You must drink.”

The tea tasted of hot pepper and lemon, sweet with honey. It soothed the burn in his throat. “When I came, I was not thinking well.”

“You were thinking with your heart, but I will keep your secret,” she said. “Are you better now? Will you stay in the world awhile?”

The lilt of Ineza's voice, her tender care, unlocked Jean Patrick. Warmth spread through his chest. “I think so. Have I been sleeping a long time?”

“Maybe an hour.”

He shifted his weight, and the cloth of someone's bulky shorts bunched between his legs. In a panic, he sat up and clutched the blanket to his chest.

“Claire is wringing the weather from your nice suit and your track clothes,” Ineza said. “When did you last eat?”

Bea's voice drifted down the hall, and he cocked his head to hear. “Not since yesterday, I think.”

“No wonder you fainted. I'll ask Bea to bring something for you.”

Jean Patrick settled back against the pillow and swallowed more of Ineza's herbs. His eyes took in the room. His picture was there on Bea's desk. Beside the photo was the pirogue he had given her, the fishermen still bent to their oars. “I would like that,” he said.

Bea brought a tray with soup and a piece of bread and margarine. “You made quite an entrance,” she said. She pulled her stool next to the bed.

Jean Patrick took a spoonful of soup. It was thick and pungent, creamy with vegetables and cassava leaves. He thought he might live. “Did you make this?”

“If I had, you would not be smiling so.”

He dunked the bread into the soup and ate it. “It was Daniel's father who helped Gatabazi on the road,” he said, gauging Bea's face for reaction. “He told us a strange story. I thought maybe he was protecting me, because of what happened to my father.”

Bea confirmed nothing, denied nothing. She rose and shut the curtains. “Finish your soup and get some rest.” Before closing the door and turning off the lights, she smiled at him. It was a faint smile, but Jean Patrick held on to it. He did as Bea asked, wiping the bowl clean with the last of the bread. From the pillow, he breathed in the air Bea had breathed and let sleep carry him.

T
HE DAY RETURNED
to Jean Patrick in fits and starts. He winced at the thought of the picture he must have made at her gate. He did not know how long he had slept. Claire had pressed his clothes—even the track pants and jacket—and hung them up to finish drying. In a flash, he saw himself tucking Isaka's bandanna into his jacket pocket. He kicked off the covers and searched; it was gone.

Ineza came in with a shirt and sweater and a pair of sweatpants. “These will have to do until your clothes dry, unless you want to wear one of my pagnes.” She set a pair of flip-flops on the rug. Everything would be far too small. “Are you well enough to eat with us?”

“I could go back to the dorm now,” he said. “I don't want to stick my head into your private matters.”

“Don't talk foolishness. You are welcome here, as our son.”

A polite silence greeted Jean Patrick when he came to the table. Bea laughed first to break the mood. “It's an improvement over your appearance at the gate,” she said. “At least you no longer resemble a chicken swimming to its death.”

Jean Patrick's fever had broken. He was happy when Ineza piled his plate high.

Gatabazi's clothes must also have been Niyonzima's, but the two men
were nearly the same size. One sleeve of his shirt hung empty, his left arm immobilized against his chest. Although Ineza cut his meat into small pieces, he struggled to get his food onto the fork. “I miss my arm and my glasses,” he said.

“The arm I can do nothing about, but if your eyesight is as bad as mine, I will lend you a pair of glasses,” Niyonzima said.

“My good friend,” Gatabazi said, “you know it is far worse.” A car drove slowly down the road, and they all sat up to listen. Gatabazi squinted his good eye in the window's direction, and Jean Patrick realized he must be quite blind.

Talk wandered here and there. At some point, Niyonzima would fold his hands and begin to speak. Then Jean Patrick could make some sense of the afternoon. Ever since he had learned of the mine that killed the schoolchildren, the events in his life seemed to tumble down a path of their own making.