The Flower Plantation (9 page)

I nibbled a corner of foie gras and toast. It tasted like something Romeo would eat, so I fed it to him under the table – even he looked at it twice.

Mother rang the brass bell for Fabrice. We sat in silence, waiting for him. Mother drank her wine.

“Pull, Arthur,” Father said, waving a shiny red cracker. I tugged hard. It gave way with a subdued bang. I put on the hat, read the joke to myself and put the small bag of tiddlywinks into the pocket of my shorts.

“Sorry I couldn't find a turkey,” said Father when Fabrice returned with a roast chicken. He made a gobble sound and flapped his arms. “Gobble, gobble, Arthur. Can you say gobble?” I felt guilty when Father encouraged me to talk with humour. I wanted to say gobble for him but couldn't. It was as though my teeth were stuck together. Father looked discouraged, and that made me feel worse. I wished Father could be more like Mother, just ask a question and let it go.

Mother picked at her chicken; Father and I wolfed it down, scraping our plates and smiling at Fabrice when he gathered them up. I wondered if Beni was also having a Christmas – and, if so, with whom. Would she wait for her
sogokuru
to return home, or were they eating without him?

By the time Fabrice had returned with the pineapple cake that Father had brought from the city, Mother had moved back to the sofa with a glass of liqueur, and she soon fell asleep.

“Never mind, Arthur,” said Father, when he saw me hover despondently between Mother and the presents under the tree. “We can open those ones later. Let's have a bit of fresh air.”

He took me to the back yard, where a shiny new bike was waiting for me. Mother must have collected it from Goma.

The rubber handlebar was warm from the sun, and the letters BMX were emblazoned on the crossbar in yellow and white. I ran my hand over the saddle and stood back for a moment, then swung my leg over the bar and wriggled onto the seat. It felt good, softer than the trike – and higher too. My toes just about grazed the ground. Father put his hand on my back and encouraged me forward.

“Let's walk Fabrice home,” he said, steering me down the path and onto the lane. I liked the idea: I could show Beni my new bike.

Off we went down the orange road – Father, Fabrice, Romeo and me. Father continued to steer, and Fabrice helped whenever I wobbled. Romeo ran alongside.

“Fabrice,” said Father. I concentrated on the road. “I was telling Arthur this morning about King Rudahigwa.”

“Eh,
Bwana
,” said Fabrice, laughing. “King of Whites!”

“But not so white in the end, right?”

“No,
Bwana
,” Fabrice tutted. “No, no, no. The King thinks
abazungu
like the Hutus too much.”

“And was he right?” Father asked, placing his hand securely on my back and pulling me straight as the bike leant to one side.

“Yes,
Bwana. Abazungu
begin to help the Hutus.”

“And the King didn't like the Whites helping the Hutus?”

“No,
Bwana
. The King want rid of
e-ve-ry Ab-a-zun-gu
so Tutsis can stay in power.”

“But it was too late, no? The Hutus had already organized new political parties.”

“Eh,
Bwana
, it is true. Soon Hutus and Tutsis were enemies.”

Going too fast I lost my footing, and a pedal clipped my ankle bone. Fabrice reached out to steady me, and I regained control.

“And then the King suddenly died,” said Father. I felt bad about that: I liked the King who drove his own car.

“Yes,” said Fabrice. “Big funeral for Rudahigwa. Everyone sawree for the King and angry at
abazungu. Abazungu
kill Rudahigwa!” Fabrice was serious, but Father laughed.

“Rudahigwa was greedy, Fabrice. He ate and drank himself to death.” Fabrice didn't respond. I wasn't sure he believed Father. I wasn't sure I believed Father. How much did one man have to eat and drink to kill himself? I wondered, correcting the position of my shaky front wheel without Father's help.

“And Rudahigwa's half-brother was chosen as the next king.”

“Eh, Kigeri the Fifth,” said Fabrice. “Very young, tall and thin.” I imagined the new king as a giraffe, with a long neck and spindly legs.

“Too young, perhaps,” said Father.

“Too young,” agreed Fabrice.

Fabrice and Father stopped their conversation when we were past the shops and looked in the direction of the bar. I noticed Sebazungu standing with a group of men drinking banana beer. I had become more confident, and when Father shouted “One – two – three” and his hand came away from my back, I decided I could do it on my own. I rode towards the shack, showing off to Sebazungu, who was watching and laughing and pointing to all his friends to look at me on my new bike. Then suddenly my front wheel hit a pothole, and though I fought hard to control it, the bike toppled and I tumbled to the ground.

A great roar of laughter echoed through the air. I lay stunned with my legs under the bike. Fabrice lifted it from me. Sebazungu came forward and held out his hand – I took it. He pulled me up, but his hand slipped and I fell back to the ground. The crowd laughed some more.

“Come on, Arthur,” said Father, helping me up and brushing me down. “We'll try again another day.”

Sebazungu handed a beer to one of the people in the jeering crowd. I had to look twice before realizing it was
Sammy, the fuel attendant's son. He looked much more grown up in the company of men than he had next to his parents in church. Beside him was Zach. Sammy slapped him on the back and said:

“Eh, Zach. Look at the
mzungu
.”

“Nice bike,” he sneered.

“Arthur,” said Father. “Come on. Let's go.”

I took the bike from Fabrice and watched him walk slowly away, carrying his bag of Christmas scraps; every eye in the crowd followed him down the orange dirt road apart from Zach and Sammy, who kept their eyes on me.

Merry Christmas, Fabrice
, I wanted to say.
Thank you
.

But the words remained buried within me.

11

Later that evening I heard the wheels of Father's car crunching down the lane. Sometimes he went out on an evening alone. I didn't know where he went or why, and I was always asleep by the time he got home. In the mornings, when I woke, he'd have left again for Kigali.

With Father gone and Mother in her room, I sat in my bedroom staring at the last remaining chrysalis. I studied it through my magnifying glass by the light of the fading bulb and the chugging sound of the generator. The chrysalis was dangling from a twig by the hook of its tail. I wondered when the metamorphosis would take place. I was desperate to see the transformation with my own eyes. My book said that it was “a very interesting event to witness, and everyone should make a point of watching it happen”. I was determined not to miss it.

I pressed the magnifying glass as close to the chrysalis as I could. I was sure it began to move, almost imperceptibly. It seemed to vibrate. I was so excited I could barely hold the glass still. I wished Beni was with me.

Slowly the chrysalis's sides began to split, showing black and orange gashes similar to lava flow. The butterfly began to emerge, little by little. Small bursts of activity revealed
more and more of its lacy, crumpled wings. As it slipped down further, there was a flare of orange and black.

Once free, the butterfly clung with its spidery legs to the remaining shell of the chrysalis. It tried to unfold its wings but failed, then tidied the remains of its cocoon. It remained attached to its old world until certain its wings would open.

I sat drawing the butterfly in my book, next to the picture of the egg, caterpillar and chrysalis. I drew its forewings striped with orange, black and tan, and then its orange hindwings, speckled with black.

I drew until I felt pins and needles in my calves. I unfolded my legs, and the butterfly fully unfolded her wings. I stood up, stretched and walked around the room, all the while watching the butterfly explore the caterpillar farm with her antennae.

Longing to show it to Beni, I took out an old jam jar from under my bed. I cupped my hands around the trembling butterfly and put it in the jar. Mother came in and stood at the window looking out over the front garden. Her cheeks were drained of colour. She came over to see what I was doing.

“What have you got there, Arthur?”

As I secured the lid, she told me in a faraway voice: “Catching them's the easy part: it's releasing them that's hard. You never know which way they're going to fly.”

I didn't understand what she meant. I wanted to tell her about how many eggs Beni and I had collected over more than a year – and how few of those eggs had hatched into
caterpillars and transformed into chrysalises – and that this was the only one that had made it to full adult stage. She must have known that releasing our butterfly wasn't hard at all – that was the easiest bit.

When Mother had returned to her bedroom, I pulled my jacket out from beneath my blanket, put it on and slipped the jar into my pocket. I opened the back door and stepped out into the dark, leaving the dogs behind and not even worrying about the mosquitoes. Joseph flashed his torch at me, and for a moment I stood in a circle of light. On seeing it was only me, he gave me the thumbs up, turned off the beam and hunkered into his sleeping bag, supping on the bottle of Primus that Mother had given him for Christmas.

I went to the log shed, collected my trike and tied it to the back of my new bike, then walked down the side of the house to the road. I rode with great care in the dark, past the closed-up shops and on towards the bar, where Sebazungu and the men were still gathered. They were huddled round a fire, drinking and smoking. It didn't smell like Father's cigarettes. They were shouting in Kinyarwanda, but spoke too quickly for me to understand. I hid in the shadows of the opposite shack and spied on them.

I recognized Simon by his big hat, Sammy and Zach, but it was too dark to make out anyone else.

Edging closer, I trod on a piece of wood that snapped beneath me. Sebazungu shot a look in my direction. I hunkered in the shadows and stood as still as possible.
He grabbed a flame torch and held it high. The other men turned quiet and stared out into the dark.

Unable to see me, Sebazungu returned to the gathering and took his place in the centre of the men, and the shouting began again. I inched away from the shack and crept through the dark down the side of the road.

When I arrived at Beni's house, there was no sign of her, just a few goats roaming about, neat rows of potatoes and the machete that shone in the moonlight. I leant the bikes against the side of the house and cupped my hands around my face, pressing my nose against the single glass pane. Beni, her
mama, data
, Fabrice and extended family – more people than I could count with the light of one candle – were huddled round the table eating a giant mound of food. They shared a fork and a spoon. It didn't look like the Christmas dinner we had eaten: it looked more like a mountain of cabbage and rice.

I tapped quietly at the window. Beni looked up. I tapped again and waved before ducking down. After a few moments she appeared from the back of the house. In the dark her eyes shone brighter than the moon.

“What you doing?” she whispered.

I showed her the butterfly in the jar. She gasped, then smiled.

“What to do?” she asked, and I pointed towards the crater, where I wanted to release it with all the other butterflies, which Father said “flew in clouds”.

Beni frowned.

“It's dark – and far,” she said.

I untied the trike and patted the seat.

After a moment's hesitation she got on and pedalled onto the road. I followed her three-wheel tracks towards the rocky road that led through the
shambas
and up to the forest.

When we passed the
shambas
, there were no children to follow us with hubcaps, jerrycans and sticks. Even the goats tethered at the side of the road paid little attention as we rode into the night.

We abandoned the bikes at the edge of the forest and entered by Beni's silvery glade. It twinkled in the moonlight like the diamonds I'd seen on tourists' hands at the hotel.

Creeping into the dense, dark forest, both of us picked our way through the twisted undergrowth and gnarly trunks. Every beat of a wing, snap of a twig or bird call made us pause to catch our breath. At last we found the gate that led to the path up the mountain. A sign hung from it that read:

DANGER
CRATER – DO NOT ENTER
.

Ignoring the warning, I opened the gate and we started to climb. I scrabbled like three-legged Monty, one hand holding the jar in my pocket at all times, and Beni followed. We clambered on, grabbing at vines and tree roots, until the path became easier. On and on we went, through towering
hagenia
trees thick with damp lichen, dense bamboo and tall stinging nettles, until we reached a high plateau covered in clover and wild primroses. Long strands of lichen hung from branches, and orchids blossomed among the trees. Dotted about were little corrugated cabins hung with Christmas lights. The moon cast a soft glow on the clearing, as if this were the home of a fairy-tale princess.

From inside one of the cabins I heard singing and big, booming laughter. It sounded a lot like Father's laugh. Outside the cabin was a bath filled with a sweet-smelling brew. Washing lines criss-crossed the plateau. They were hung with socks and hiking boots that dangled by their laces – and there, beside them, was my rucksack and pillow. It dawned on me that this might be where the witch lived. Had she stolen my things from the cave? I pointed to show Beni. I could tell from her panicked expression – raised eyebrows and furrowed brow – that she was wondering the same.

I remembered the story of the witch and the man she had shot and poisoned, and was terrified she might do the same to us. Perhaps we would die a slow, painful death in a cage, without our parents knowing where we were. Suddenly I felt foolish for leaving Mother and the plantation on my own.

“This way,” whispered Beni, and we crept round the camp boundary, tiptoeing nervously, desperate to get away. I was convinced we'd be killed if caught.

Just when I thought we'd made it, the door of the largest cabin was flown open. The witch stood in the doorway, wearing a black, loose robe. She was even taller than I remembered. Her mass of red hair seemed to burn like molten lava. She was holding a shotgun in her hands.

“What are you doing here?” she yelled when she got within range, the barrel of the gun pointing directly at us. “Who the hell are you?”

Beni tucked in behind me the way I used to hide behind Mother.

“You can't come in here, you'll frighten the gorillas!” she yelled.

I wondered why the witch would care about the gorillas she'd already snared and caged. Then she began to nod, laughed wickedly and pointed a knowing finger at me.

“You're Arthur, Albert's boy,” she said, and I nodded.

“Well, well. So you've got a girlfriend.” She laughed, and hot blood rose to my face. I moved a little to hide Beni from the witch. “Where are you headed?”

I pointed towards the crater at the top of the mountain. The witch shook her head.

“No, no – not tonight. It's too dangerous. Far too dangerous.”

I guessed she meant the path was dangerous in the dark. I wanted to tell her we'd be fine: we just wanted to release our butterfly at the crater into a butterfly rabble.

“There are soldiers and poachers, Arthur,” she said. “They wouldn't think twice about killing you or your little friend.”

You're the poacher, I thought, straining every muscle in my neck to say something. Then a sudden noise from the other side of the camp distracted the witch, and Beni whispered: “Run!”

She grabbed my rucksack and pillow from the line, threw me the pillow and took off faster than a startled impala. I chased after her. We ran through thick undergrowth alongside a deep ravine that fell to a stony creek. Suddenly everything was cold and wet and slippery, and I was terrified that the jar and butterfly would fall from my pocket into the ravine below.

On and on we ran. Down, down, down through fierce stinging nettles and thick roots and mud. Down we ran, dangerously close to the ravine, grabbing at trees as we skidded on the slimy mud path. It took half the time to slide down the mountain than it had to climb up it. We made good progress until we reached the final steep descent that led back into the forest.

Beni's foot caught in the straps of the rucksack, and she toppled head first, rolling onto the ground below.

I skidded down the path after her on my buttocks, soiling my shorts with grass and mud, the jam jar rolling about in my pocket.

Beni stared up, frightened. She clutched her knee and moaned:

“It is bad.”

I knew she wouldn't be able to walk or ride the trike home.

Seeing her lying there reminded me of the night in the forest when I was five years old. If I made it home that night, I thought, I can do the same again. I put the pillow in the rucksack, the pack on her and helped her onto my back. She was surprisingly heavy for a skinny girl.

Slowly we wound our way back through the trees. Beni barely spoke. She held on to me so tightly I had to loosen her grip to prevent her from strangling me. When we got to the silvery glade where we'd left our bikes, I felt exhausted: I was ready to crawl into bed and forget about the witch. Just a bike ride home, I told myself, as I put Beni down against a tree. I looked around for the bikes. But the bikes were gone.

“Maybe different tree?” suggested Beni, rubbing her knee.

I looked in the dark for ages.

“We took wrong path,” she said despondently, but I noticed the bike tracks were still visible in the dirt. I rubbed my foot on them to show her that we were in the right place, then followed them for a while. They led off in a different direction to the route we had taken before. It was clear that they'd been stolen.

“We must walk,” said Beni.

I knew there was no other way.

Limping down the track in the dark with me supporting Beni took a long time. Clouds covered the moon and, with
no other light to guide us, every movement and sound was terrifying: a bird hoot was like a savage war cry, the outlines of trees like warriors and the blowing grass like legions of snakes. By the time I'd taken Beni home and reached the plantation, my chest was ready to explode.

Father's car was not in the drive. In the yard Joseph was snoring loudly, his empty beer bottle lying on the floor. I was glad he didn't see me without my bike, but cross that he was sleeping when he should have been guarding Mother and the house. Only Romeo stirred when I opened the back door: he glanced up from his bed, then curled his head back into his body. Monty snored louder than Joseph.

I slipped off my shoes, crept into the lounge and through to my bedroom. My feet were so damp I could tell, even in the dark, that they were leaving prints of moisture on the red concrete floor. I stopped outside Mother's room to see if she was awake. I pressed my ear against her door and held my breath. I couldn't hear anything, so I opened it. She was lying in bed with her eye mask on, snoring louder than Monty. I closed the door and breathed out. She obviously didn't know I'd gone up the mountain – nor did Father. Relieved, I took off my rucksack, put the butterfly back into its farm and went to bed.

Lying with my head on the pillow, I couldn't decide which part of the night had been the most frightening: hiding from
the men at the bar, the encounter with the witch or having to walk back to the plantation alone after delivering Beni home. Thinking about that kept me awake for a long time, but still Father didn't return.