Shattered (21 page)

“A story?”

“Yes. Would you like to hear it?”

I nodded my head.

“There was this man and he was walking along the beach …”

Twenty

“I HAVE TO GO
… right now,” I said.

“Now? But I thought we could stay and visit some more,” Berta said.

“Yes, that would be most enjoyable,” Eduardo agreed. “There is a little gathering in the courtyard behind the church.”

“It is for Eduardo, for the orphanage, to raise funds.” “And to visit with many people I have known for so long. Please join us. You could have a typical meal from our homeland.”

“I'd really like to stay, but I can't. I have to get going.” I turned to Berta. “You can stay, Berta. I can get there by myself.”

“Get where?” she asked. She sounded anxious and concerned.

“To the park.”

She took a deep breath. “I will drive you.”

“You've done enough. I have to do this on my own.” I turned to Eduardo. I reached out my hand and shook his. “Thank you, sir, for what you did for Berta, for all those people. And thank you for the story.”

He held on to my hand and looked directly at me … no, it was like he was looking
inside
of me.

“I can see it in your eyes. You really do have something you have to do … I can see it … I can
feel
it,” he said.

I felt uneasy, almost embarrassed, but somehow reassured.

Two women rushed over and barged into the conversation. Eduardo let go of my hand. He threw a burst of words at them, and the two women suddenly looked sheepish and went away as quickly as they had come.

I looked at Berta for explanation.

“They told Eduardo he had to come right away, that it wasn't right for the guest of honour not to be there at the meal,” she said.

“And I told them I was in the middle of an important conversation and that I would hit them both on the backside with my cane if they didn't leave me alone!” he said sternly, but his eyes were twinkling.

I burst out laughing.

“One of the few benefits of growing as old as I have is that I can say what I want,” he said. “Eon, I don't know where you are going or what you are needing to do, but I know you will do your best. Go … and may God go with you.”

“Thanks.”

“Eon, let me drive, let me help you,” Berta said.

“I can do it on my own,” I replied.

“I know you can, but is it not better to do it with help?” she asked.

“We all need help,” Eduardo said. “Even those that do the helping.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'd appreciate a ride.”

BERTA HAD GIVEN ME
a big hug, kisses on both cheeks, and then another hug, this one so long that I didn't think she was going to let go. Part of me didn't want her to let go. She drove away, leaving me on the sidewalk in front of the park.

I walked along the sidewalk, around the edge of the park, eyeing it as I walked. The park was alive with activity. There were parents out strolling with their kids and pushing carriages. The playground was filled with swinging, screaming, laughing children. The sound of birds could be heard above the noise of the traffic.

It was a bright, beautiful, sunny morning. So much different from the first time I'd walked through this park. Trees were in bloom, the grass was becoming a newer, truer shade of green, and flowers had pushed their way through the soil. New life. New beginnings. I knew why I'd come here. I knew what I wanted to say—what I needed to say. I just didn't know if I could make the words come out right, and even if I could it might not make any difference anyway. All I really knew was that if I didn't try, I'd regret it my entire life. Maybe I was doing this as much for myself as I was for him.

I started moving quickly. I wanted to get there before my nerve ran out. I jogged along the path and onto the dirt trail. I wished I was in my running shoes and sweats instead of a suit. Even more I wished that the suit had a metal bar up the sleeve. I dodged around the rocks and dipped under the overhanging branches. I slowed down and then stopped completely just before passing the last bushes that ringed the clearing. It was strange how this little line of bushes and trees divided two worlds. On
one side, no more than fifty metres away, were parents and children playing, oblivious to what was just past this division. Maybe they wanted to be oblivious. That was something I could never be again. I took a deep breath and stepped through the divide.

I jogged along the path and immediately saw Jacques, sitting in what I'd come to think of as his canvas chair. He saw me and waved. Obviously he was awake—and probably sober—or at least had sobered up enough from whatever he'd drunk last night.

“Good morning!” he called out.

“Almost afternoon.”

“No watch.” He motioned for me to sit down and I did. “Glad you came back. Afraid I'd chased you away with some of the things I said. That alcohol makes me like that sometimes.” He paused. “I shouldn't drink so much.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess that was what you were trying to say to me.” “Trying to.” I bit my tongue. There was no point in rubbing that part in. I needed to say some other things.

“You know I wasn't trying to hit you with that bottle,” he said.

“It came pretty close.”

“Closer than I meant, I've got to admit. I just didn't have the words to say what I was trying to say … my head was all foggy and it just sort of happened.”

“That's okay,” I said.

“I was just trying to explain things,” he said, “make a point.” We sat in silence for a few moments.

“You're dressed pretty fancy this morning,” Jacques finally said.

“Just came back from church.”

“Been a long time since I've been to church. Glad you came here afterwards to see me. I wanted to talk to you, to explain things, before I left.”

“Left? Where are you going?”

“The West Coast. Ever been out there?”

“No, but I hear it's really nice. There's only one problem,” I said. “No matter where you go, there'll you be.”

“What?” Jacques asked.

“No matter where you go, no matter how far you run, you can't run away from yourself.”

“Nobody's running,” Jacques said. “Just time for a new place. Weather's better out there.”

“Weather is better for living outside,” I agreed. “But you're still running. The way you ran away from Rwanda.”

“I never ran in Rwanda … never!” he yelled as he leapt to his feet.

I gripped the arms of my chair to stop myself from jumping up and running away myself. I had to be calm. I didn't come here to get him angry at me. I took a deep breath before going on.

“I didn't say you ran in Rwanda. You didn't start running until you left Rwanda. After you got back home you started running and you never stopped.”

He didn't answer. He just turned away.

“I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I know what it was like for you,” I said. “Nobody could know who wasn't there, living it with you, seeing what you saw. I know that.”
He turned around. “If you know that, you should know that I will never be able to forget those scenes, those faces, those people that I failed. Their blood is on my hands,” he said, holding them out. “And they will never be clean again.”

“You tried your best.”

“Tried and failed.”

“Tried and failed to save everybody, but you did save some … right?”

“Not some,” he said defiantly. “Thousands … many thousands. We transported thousands to safety, allowed others to escape, provided sanctuary. We couldn't stop the death machine, but we got in its way, we slowed it down.” His whole body shuddered and then he slumped back into his chair.

“I know what you're trying to do, Ian. And I thank you … I really do. When I came back from Rwanda I tried to put it all away. I was trained as a soldier. Soldiers see things. They are trained to be strong, not to cry, not to let their feelings overwhelm them.” He shook his head. “I tried to put it all behind me. I came back, I tried to get on with life, tried to be a good soldier … maybe even a better soldier to make up for what I hadn't been able to do.” He shook his head again slowly. “I couldn't do it. I couldn't get rid of the memories. That psychiatrist called it post-traumatic stress disorder. I call it not being able to be a soldier any more. They put me out to pasture, gave me a medical discharge. I tried, but I just couldn't forget.”

“It would be impossible to forget. What you have to do is
remember
.”
He looked up at me with an expression of confusion. “To remember that you were just one human being trying to do his best. To remember that you
did
make a difference, that you
did
save lives. That you saved those lives by putting your own life at risk.”

“I would have given up my life in a second. You know, there were men we had to send home because they stopped caring for their own safety completely. It was like they had seen so much that they didn't care if they were alive or dead any more.”

“Is that what you're doing right now?” I asked. “Sacrificing your life to make up for the people you didn't save?”

“What?”

“Are you trying to give up your own life? Is that why you live like this?”

“You don't understand.”

“I understand that you're not a hypocrite. I understand that you're not a coward. You're a man of honour. What I don't understand is that if every life is important then why isn't your life important?”

“My life is over.”

“Only if you let it. Can I tell you a story?” I asked. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. This wasn't what he'd expected, but like me, he couldn't resist hearing. “If you want to tell me a story, then I'll hear it. I've got no appointments that are pressing me.”

I cleared my throat. “There's this man and he's walking along the beach, along a deserted section of the ocean. And as he rounds this point he sees in front of him an unbelievable scene. There on the beach, spread out
across the sand, are starfish, thousands and thousands, maybe millions of starfish. They extend along the beach as far as the eye can see. The man stands there, stunned, hardly able to believe this scene before him. He wondered what caused this to happen, this massive tragedy. All of these starfish, up on the beach, out of the water, slowly dying.”

I took a deep breath. “And as he's watching his eye is caught by the sight of motion farther along the beach. It's a person. Carefully he threads his way between the starfish, walking toward this other person. As he gets closer he realizes that it's a young boy. He can't be more than ten or eleven years old. As he walks he watches the boy. At first he doesn't know what the boy is doing, but then he realizes what he's seeing. The little boy is picking up starfish, one at a time, plucking them off the beach and tossing them back into the water.

“The man calls out to the boy. The boy waves back but continues to toss in starfish. The man talks to the boy about this scene that surrounds them, about the mysterious forces of nature. The boy keeps working. Taking another starfish and then another and throwing them back into the sea.

“‘You know, son, what you're doing is very nice,' the man says, ‘but look around. There are millions and millions of these starfish. What you're doing, it doesn't make a difference.'

“The boy picks up another starfish, tosses it into the water and then turns to the man. ‘It made a difference for that one.' He picks up another starfish. ‘And that one.'And picks up another starfish. ‘And that one.'”
I looked up at Jacques. He was staring off into the distance. Silent, solemn, no expression betraying what was going on inside his head.

“Nobody is asking you to forget,” I said. “I'm asking you to remember those that you saved and to honour those you couldn't save. Giving up your life honours nobody, saves nobody. By living like this you're saying that life isn't precious. It
is
precious. Every life … including yours. Don't let Rwanda—don't let
evil
—claim one more victim. Don't let yourself be another casualty of Rwanda.”

Jacques didn't answer. He sat there, silently, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“Pretty smart for a kid, aren't you?”

“I listen to smart people. I'm just hoping one smart person will listen to me.”

“Been a long time since anybody called me smart.”

“Maybe it's been a while since you did anything that was that smart. Maybe this is the time.”

“Do you know how hard it is to pull yourself up from the bottom?” he asked.

“I don't know. I hope I'll never need to know. What I do know is that I believe in you. I believe that you're strong enough to make it back.”

“I'm not that strong … not any more,” he said. “Nobody can make it on their own. I'm offering my help.” I reached out my hand. “Come on, let's go and talk to Mac.”

“Right now?” “Right now.”
He reached up and took my hand and I helped him to his feet.

“There's one other thing,” I said. “Your father was wrong.”

“My father? Wrong about what?”

“You said to me that he once told you that nobody ever thanks a soldier.” I paused. “I want to thank you … for what you tried to do and what you did do. Thank you.”

Twenty-One

“YOU ALMOST FINISHED
out there?” Mac yelled as he poked his head out of the kitchen.

“Almost,” I said as I continued to sweep.

“I swear you're getting slower and slower.”

“You want more speed, you pay me more money.” “You're already getting paid twice as much as you're worth!” he taunted me.

“With that sort of attitude you're lucky I don't just quit!”