Running the Rift (7 page)

“He's Tutsi, too,” a student in the front row said, pointing at Jean Marie.

Rotten Tooth pulled Jean Marie to his feet. “Did you eat your tongue?” He shook Jean Marie until he cried.

Father Paul turned the page of his book and adjusted his glasses on his nose.

Albert jumped from his perch and confronted Jean Patrick. The reek of his breath made Jean Patrick recoil. “You're that runner guy.” He jabbed his thumb into Jean Patrick's chest.

Jean Patrick smiled. “That's me.”

His heart thudded against his ribs, and blood surged into his legs as if he were at the start line, waiting for the bang of the blocks. Albert slapped him and then brought a boot down on his foot. The pain, immediate and sharp, brought flashes of light to Jean Patrick's eyes. His knee buckled, and he collapsed against the bench.

Daniel put his arm around Jean Patrick. “He's crazy from lack of sleep, this one. Everyone knows he's Hutu. His father was préfet des maîtres here, and he helps the whole class with homework. Eh? Am I right?” No one contradicted his word.

Albert seized Daniel by the shoulders. “Are you icyitso?” He sucked his teeth. “Stupid boy, don't you know the Ten Commandments?”

Jean Patrick held his breath. Since December, when the Hutu Ten Commandments were first published in
Kangura,
the new Hutu newspaper, they had been broadcast on the radio, quoted in the streets, tacked up on walls.
Any Hutu man who acquires a Tutsi wife, a Tutsi secretary, a Tutsi business partner, is icyitso—a traitor. All Tutsi are inferior and must be kept out of schools and important positions
.
The Hutu male should be united in solidarity against his common enemy, the Tutsi
.
All Hutu must spread this doctrine wherever they go. Any Hutu who persecutes his brother for spreading and teaching this ideology shall be deemed icyitso
.

“You should know your enemies,” Albert said. He pushed Daniel hard against Jean Patrick, jumped onto the desk, and walked from one end to the other, listing precariously. In front of each of the five students sharing the desk, he stopped and stared. Jean Patrick gave him a mental push so he would lose his balance and fall, crack his head on the floor.

“Let me tell you the news from Radio Rwanda,” Albert shouted. “The
RPF have attacked Ruhengeri and slaughtered hundreds of innocent Hutu. Now Hutu Power wants vengeance.”

He jumped down and waved his arms toward his friends, who then dragged the Tutsi and Daniel into the aisle. Some Hutu students sprang up, ready for action, railing against all Tutsi. Frantically, Jean Patrick looked around for someone to come to their side, but no one did. Father Paul remained seated at his desk, calmly reading.

Bodies pressed in. A book thumped against Jean Patrick's back, hard enough to knock the wind from him. Fists hit his head, but his attention was on protecting his legs and feet. The pain in his foot made even standing difficult, and shifting his weight brought a rush of dizziness. Albert grabbed him by the sweater and twisted until the collar squeezed his throat and he struggled to breathe. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daniel lifted like a sack of sorghum.

At that moment, Uwimana burst into the room, two policemen behind him. Suddenly, Jean Patrick was back at his old house on a December afternoon, hearing these same two policemen tell him that his papa had died.

“Let those boys go!” Uwimana shouted.

The stranglehold eased, but Albert still held on. His lips brushed Jean Patrick's ear, and Jean Patrick smelled the rank, hot breath, sharp with urwagwa. “Don't forget me, because I'm going to kill you,” Albert whispered. “That's a promise.”

“This is still my school,” Uwimana said. “Your justice isn't welcome while I'm in charge. All of you, get out.”

The boys circled Uwimana. The policemen moved toward them, hands on their sticks.

“Beware, icyitso,” Albert said, pointing at Uwimana. “Hutu Power memories are long.” They backed out the door, and the policemen followed. On the way out, one of the policemen nodded to Jean Patrick and gave him a hidden thumbs-up.

Father Paul cleared his throat and peered out from behind his book as Uwimana approached his desk. Uwimana removed his glasses, cleaned them, and put them back on, speaking to Father Paul in a voice too low for Jean Patrick to hear.

“What could I do?” Father Paul said loudly. “They were so many. And drunk. I could smell urwagwa from here.”

“Class is canceled,” Uwimana said. “All Tutsi and anyone else who is hurt, stay behind.”

Jean Patrick pressed against Daniel. “Help me walk. I have to fix my foot so I can run.” While Uwimana tended to Noel's bloody nose, Jean Patrick leaned on Daniel and limped out.

“They could have really hurt you for defending me,” Jean Patrick said. He pulled off his shoe, and the wave of pain made him sweat. “Daniel, check my foot, eh? I'm afraid to look.”

“Aye! So swollen!” Daniel said.

“Let's get some tape. I have to race.”

Daniel clucked his tongue. “Hutu Power tries to kill you, and all you think about is running.”

“Hutu Power.” Jean Patrick spit into the grass. “They're just troublemakers. I don't want to think about them anymore.”

“If you want to survive, you better think about them. Let's find Coach.” Daniel stood and offered Jean Patrick a hand.

Thick gray-black clouds descended over the forest, blocking the sun. Jean Patrick inhaled an oily smell. He sniffed again, and the stench hit him: not clouds but smoke darkened the sky. Houses were burning in the hills. Columns of smoke rose in all directions. Students and staff came running from the buildings.

“What's happening?” someone asked.

“They're smoking out Inyenzi one by one,” another student replied, laughing.

Jean Patrick lunged at the student and swung wildly. A blast from a horn froze him.

“Get in,” Uwimana shouted. The truck's smashed headlight glared like a punched eye. Noel sat beside him, head tilted back, a bloody cloth held to his nose. Somber-faced Tutsi students squeezed together in the bed of the truck. “Isaka says you're hurt.”

Jean Patrick shook his head, but Daniel spoke up. “Yes, Headmaster, he is.”

“Sit inside, then. Angelique will see to you. All Tutsi are coming to my house for the night. I'm not taking any chances.”

“Headmaster, I need to get home right away.” Jean Patrick gestured toward the hills. Panic gripped his chest. “Can you ask the burgomaster to come another day?”

“Ah, Jean Patrick. Don't worry about the burgomaster now. Track is canceled. Everything's canceled. Cyangugu has gone mad.”

I
N THE MORNING
, Uwimana drove Jean Patrick to Gashirabwoba. With his long legs, it was impossible to get comfortable on the seat. “No need for X-ray; they're both broken,” Angelique had said when she splinted his toes. “Probably a bone or two in the foot as well, but I'm afraid there's nothing we can do but bandage it and give you crutches.”

The smoke of burning houses was gone, replaced by the haze of cook fires. Roads and hillsides bustled with morning traffic. At a small spring in the rocks, children filled jerricans with water. A young boy walked down the road balancing two filled cans nearly as big as he was. Jean Patrick almost wondered if yesterday had been a bad dream.

The truck backfired and strained on the hill. Jean Patrick searched the landscape. Beyond the welcome sign for Gashirabwoba, he saw the first charred ruin. In the valley below, in the eucalyptus grove where meetings were held, he counted a second, a third. His heart contracted. As the truck lumbered forward, his eyes did not leave the spot where Uncle's compound should soon have come into view.

His attention was so singularly focused that he didn't see Uncle and Mathilde until Uwimana slowed and called out. Although he was relieved to see them, he knew something was not right. Uncle was dressed for town, with his jacket and wide-brimmed hat, when he should long since have left to tend his fishing lines. Mathilde should have been in school.

Mathilde was already talking loudly as she hopped into the truck. “Jean Patrick! You're safe! Ko Mana—we were so worried.” She flung her arms around his neck.

“Me, too. I hardly slept all night, worrying. Is everyone OK at home?”

“Thanks to God,” Uncle said.

“And the house?”

“Untouched. But what about you? We heard there was trouble at Gihundwe. We were on our way to check.”

Mathilde squealed and touched Jean Patrick's bandaged foot.

“Tsst! What happened? They beat you?”

“It's not bad,” Jean Patrick said, shifting his weight. The movement made him wince.

Uncle whistled. “Who did this?”

“Just some boys from town. I'm all right.”

Mathilde pointed to a dark purple bruise on her arm. “Me, too. Some girls in my class said it was my fault the rebels attacked. They called me Inyenzi. I don't care; it didn't hurt too much.” She touched her lips to Jean Patrick's ear. “I pushed them down when Madame wasn't watching.”

“Good girl,” Jean Patrick whispered back. He plucked a piece of grass from her hair. “What's this?”

“We're all dirty from sleeping in the forest,” Mathilde said. She rubbed her scalp, and flecks of leaves and grass fell onto her blouse.

“We saw the smoke,” Emmanuel said, “and I sent everyone into the bush. Then I sat all night in the chair with my machete. I wasn't going to leave our safety up to chance.”

At the bottom of the trail, Uwimana got the crutches from the bed of the truck. They were heavy wooden things with thickly padded armrests and handles, a few sizes too small. Jean Patrick limped stubbornly up the slope before Uncle had a chance to help him. Aunt Esther, Clemence, and Jacqueline ran to embrace him. Zachary and the twins came out behind them. Clémentine still had dirt on her face; Clarisse had one flip-flop on and one in her hand. The familiar chatter of family hummed around Jean Patrick. He couldn't remember another time when he had been so glad to hear it. He kept expecting his mother to come and greet him, but when he reached the house and looked inside, he still had not seen her.

“Where's Mama?” he asked, apprehension returning.

“She went to work. None of us wanted her to go, but what could we do?” Auntie said. “Uwimana, come eat with us. So late, and we are just now sitting down.”

“I would love nothing more, but I have a school full of hotheads to attend to. I told Jean Patrick to stay home and rest.”

With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Jean Patrick recalled his missed race. “The burgomaster! What will happen now?”

“He won't run away. Not when he can hear the jingle of gold coins in his pocket,” Uwimana said.

“N
OW YOU SEE
I'm right,” Uncle told Jean Patrick after breakfast. “Habyarimana is no change. Buhoro, buhoro, little by little, the Hutu will pick us off until we have all disappeared.”

“Papa taught me to believe in Habyarimana,” Jean Patrick said without conviction. “Those RPF shouldn't stir up trouble.”

“Listen to you! Like Radio Rwanda. Habyarimana is no different than Kayibanda, the first murderer to lead this country. If you ask me, nothing has changed since the Hutu rose up against the mwami and drove him out. That's when they started killing us, and they haven't stopped. The RPF are
our
people. Their families did not leave by choice; they fled for their lives. They're not
stirring up trouble,
Jean Patrick. They just want to come home.”

The familiar discomfort stirred in Jean Patrick's chest. Who was right, Uncle or Papa? The question tired him more every day. He struggled to his feet and put on Papa's felt hat. It was only now, after the start of the war, after the insults and name-calling had started, that he began to understand that a felt hat and a herder's staff branded a man as Tutsi, a keeper of cattle, despised by the Hutu tenders of the fields.

“I'm going to look for Mama.” Jean Patrick took his crutches and closed the door on Uncle's protests.

J
EAN
P
ATRICK FOUND
her on the road above the lake, a basin of fruit on her head. He waved, and she hurried toward him.

“Mana yanjye—what happened to you?”

“Hutu Power broke my foot. I'll be OK.”

“I can see it hurts—let's rest a minute.” They sat together on a log and shared a mango.

Jean Patrick looked out at the lake, its rippled surface. “Why did you never tell us about your parents?”

Mama's eyes shone with the same coppery flecks as Mathilde's. “Your father thought the troubles were over for the Tutsi when Habyarimana seized power. Habyarimana promised the Tutsi equality. He said there would be no more killing, and we believed him. The past was the past, Papa said—why frighten the children?”

“And what do you think?”

“Papa loved you so much. He just wanted to protect you.”

They sat and watched the fishermen, tiny flakes of pepper floating in the soup of the lake. A peaceful silence took over Jean Patrick's mind. He was worn out from thinking, tipping the balance back and forth, one side winning and then the other. The tumult was too much.

Mama refastened her scarf and placed the ingata on her head. Even this small thing made of twigs to cushion a load was a crown when she wore it. “Are you ready to go, my son?”

“Yes. I think I can walk now.”

She balanced the basin on top of the ingata, and they started up the slope. A breeze chased purple clouds across the sky, a hint of rain swelling their bellies.

“What about Papa's parents? Did the Hutu kill them, too?”

“
The Hutu.
You sound like your uncle now. Not every muhutu is a killer. Your grandmother died of cancer. Grief killed your grandfather two months after.”