Baking Cakes in Kigali (14 page)

A collective
eh!
echoed around the small salon as the women looked from one to another with wonder on their faces.

“That is a very fine trick,” said Angel. “I wish I had known about it before. But let me tell you another trick that I have discovered. I have found a group of women at a centre in Biryogo who are learning how to sew. You can go to them and they’ll measure you correctly and they’ll sew your dress carefully, and all the time their work is being supervised by their teacher, so it’s good. Okay, they’re not yet experts like the tailors; they cannot yet make a dress from a picture. But if you take them a dress that you already have, they can copy it and make it in a different colour or a different fabric, and they can even make some small additions or changes like adding some frills or making the sleeves wider than they are on the original dress.”

“How are their prices?” asked Noëlla, who was now styling Angel’s hair delicately with a wide-toothed comb so as not to destroy the shape of the curls.

“
Eh
, they’re much cheaper than a tailor,” assured Angel. “They’ve made my dress for tonight’s reception and it fits perfectly. I’m going to look very beautiful amongst all those smart ladies.”

Of course, when Mrs Margaret Wanyika complimented Angel’s dress that evening—as a hostess must—Angel was not going to tell her that it had been made by women who not only prostituted themselves, but might or might not be infected. If she were to do so, she was sure that Mrs Wanyika’s hair would turn white immediately, and an emergency appointment would have to be made at the expensive salon in the Mille Collines hotel. She did not share this thought with the women in this salon, though; Mrs Wanyika was, after all, her customer.

When Noëlla walked Angel out of the salon and stood with her in the morning sun for a brief chat before her next client arrived, Angel took the opportunity to ask her about Agathe. Noëlla confirmed that Agathe had never been to school.

“Do you think she’d like to learn to read?” asked Angel.

“Of course she would! She’s often said that it’s embarrassing for her when her children come home from school and they want to show her what they’ve written that day. But she cannot go to school herself at her age, and anyway she needs to be at work: she has to feed and educate her children.”

“Do you give her time off for a break every day? Maybe to eat her lunch?”

“Of course I do.”

“Now what if I told you that she could go to school to learn to read during that time every day?”

“What?” Noëlla looked sceptical. “Where? How would she pay for it?”

“The school is free and the teacher knows French. Agathe would learn to read in French. It would be nearby, in my compound. She would just have to walk two streets along and then two streets down and she would be there.”

“Agathe!” called Noëlla loudly, her voice filled with excitement.

A FEW
moments later, Angel was on her way back two streets along and two streets down. She was just passing a half-built house that had never been completed because the people who had planned to live there had not survived, when Ken Akimoto’s vehicle slowed beside her.

“Hello, Auntie!” called Bosco.
“Eh!
What are you doing walking in the street with such a beautiful hairstyle? A lady with such a hairstyle must travel in a car with a driver.”

Angel laughed. “Hello, Bosco! Are you offering me a lift?”

“Yes, Auntie. I’m on my way to your compound but I can take you anywhere.”

“Thank you, Bosco, I’m on my way home.” Angel opened the door and struggled to climb up into the Pajero without splitting the long skirt that was already straining over her expanding hips. Really, these big vehicles with their high seats were not designed with ladies in mind; it was almost impossible for a lady to remain elegant as she got in. How did the big women in government manage? She must remember to ask Catherine if the Minister she worked with had any tips on how to get in and out of a big vehicle with dignity while wearing a skirt. It was an important thing to know how to do, especially if a television camera might be watching you—or a photographer from
Muraho!
magazine. Angel thought she might also use the opportunity of tonight’s embassy function to observe ladies’ techniques; there were bound to be many big vehicles there. Fortunately the children always thought it
a great honour to be the one chosen to sit up in the front of the Tungarazas’ red microbus, and Angel was happy to sit on one of the seats in the back part that could be entered via a more manageable step.

“I’ve been shopping at the market for Mr Akimoto,” explained Bosco, noticing Angel glancing at the big cardboard box of vegetables in the back as they set off towards the compound. “He’s having guests for dinner again this weekend.”

“I know. I’ll be making a cake for him again. But tell me, Bosco, how is Perfect?”

“
Eh
, Auntie, she’s a very, very nice baby! She’s quiet and still, not like Leocadie’s baby.
Eh
, that Beckham can cry! And he’s always hungry or else he’s wriggling around and moaning about something. When Perfect cries, you can be sure it’s not for nothing.”

“That’s the difference between boys and girls, Bosco. But remember that Perfect is still very small. Maybe when she’s bigger she’ll become more like Beckham.”

“No, Auntie, don’t tell me that! I used to think I wanted lots of babies, then I met Beckham and I thought uh-uh, babies are not a good idea. But then Perfect came, and she’s very, very good, and I can see how much Florence loves to be her mother, so I thought again that babies were a very, very good idea. You’re confusing me now, Auntie.”

Angel laughed. “I think you’re confusing yourself, Bosco. You haven’t even met the lady yet who will help you to get all these babies.”

Bosco pulled the Pajero to a stop outside the compound and turned to look at Angel with a big happy smile on his face.

“Bosco?”

Bosco continued to beam.

“Eh, Bosco!
Have
you met the girl who is going to become your wife? Tell me!”

Bosco looked shyly down at his left trouser leg, where a speck of dirt needed attention. “I have met a very, very nice girl, Auntie.”

“Then you must come in and drink tea with me and tell me all about her!”

“I can’t come now, Auntie. I still have to unpack Mr Akimoto’s vegetables in his apartment and take his crate of empties to Leocadie for sodas for his party, and then I must fetch him from his meeting.”

“Then tell me quickly now, Bosco. Who is this girl that you’ve met?”

“Do you remember that when I came to fetch the cake for Perfect’s christening, I gave a lift to Odile?”

“
Eh!
Odile! You’re in love with Odile! I was just telling the ladies in the salon about the place where she works.”

Bosco laughed. “No, Auntie, it’s not Odile that I love. When I took her to her house I met her brother Emmanuel and his very, very beautiful wife.”

Angel felt her heart sinking. “Bosco, please tell me that you have not fallen in love with Emmanuel’s wife.”

“No, Auntie!” Bosco tried to look annoyed but he was too busy smiling. “Emmanuel’s very, very beautiful wife has a young sister who is also very, very beautiful. That sister has a friend called Alice. Alice is the one that I love.”

Angel shook Bosco’s hand.
“Eh
, Bosco, I am too happy! You must bring Alice to meet me soon.”

“Yes, Auntie. But I think Modeste is waiting for you. He is with a man. Perhaps he is a customer.”

The young man with Modeste was indeed a customer. Arriving at the compound, he had asked Modeste in which apartment he might find the
Madame
of the cakes, and Modeste had reported that Angel was out but would probably be back soon. She had not waited for a
pikipiki-taxi
at this corner, and she had not gone along the unsurfaced road to where she could
catch a minibus-taxi; she had gone up the hill on foot, so she had not gone far. The man had decided to wait. Now he sat opposite Angel in her apartment, dressed in a suit and tie and looking extremely handsome and smart. There was something familiar about him, but Angel could not place him.

“
Madame
, allow me to present myself to you,” he said in English. “I am Kayibanda Dieudonné.”

The local formality of stating a name backwards with the first name last had initially confused Angel, but she was accustomed to it now. She still found it too uncomfortable, though, to introduce herself to anyone as Tungaraza Angel.

“And I am Angel Tungaraza, but you must please call me Angel. May I call you Dieudonné?”

“Of course,
Madame.”

“Not
Madame.
Angel.”

“Forgive me.” The young man flashed a smile that made him look even more handsome. “Angel.”

“Do I know you, Dieudonné? There is something about your face that makes me think that we have spoken before.”

“We have never spoken,
Mad …
Angel. Not you and I. But I have spoken to Dr Tungaraza when you have been with him. I’m a teller at BCDR.”

“Eh! Of course!” declared Angel, suddenly able to place her guest. Her husband’s salary was supposed to be paid into his account at the
Banque Commerciale du Rwanda
at each month-end, but for one or another reason payment of expatriate salaries—in U.S. dollars—was invariably delayed. It was only Dieudonné who could explain the situation clearly in English to Pius’s colleagues from India. Many of the Indians would not deal with any other teller.

“Your English is very good, Dieudonné. I know that your president wants everyone to speak French and English equally now, but that is new; most Rwandans are still learning English,
but you’ve already progressed very far in the language. That tells me that you’ve spent much time outside your country.” “You are right, Angel.”

“Then I’ll make tea for us and you can tell me your story while we drink it. Here is my photo album of cakes for you to look at.”

Angel made two mugs of sweet, spicy tea and brought them into the living room on a tray along with two small plates, each holding a slice of pale green cake with chocolate icing. She handed tea and cake to her guest and then settled down opposite him. Dieudonné cut a mouthful from his slice of cake with the side of his teaspoon and tasted it with obvious enjoyment.

“Mm, delicious!” he declared. “But this is not my first time to taste your delicious cake. In fact, I’ve found a picture of the very cake that I’ve tasted before.” He indicated a photograph on the page at which Angel’s album lay open on the coffee table.

“Oh, that one I made for Françoise, for one of the parties that was held at her restaurant.”

“I was at that very party, and in fact I was the one who arranged it. My house is in the same street as Françoise’s, so I know her place. When I asked if some few of us from the bank could celebrate a colleague’s promotion there, she told me that she could get a cake for us. Never before had I heard of eating cake after chicken and tilapia, but Françoise told me it is modern. She said that a cake can say anything that a person wants. This is the very cake that I asked for.” Dieudonné tapped the picture with a slim finger. “In fact, the colleague who was promoted was too, too happy when Françoise brought the cake to the table.
Eh!”

As Dieudonné spoke he made large gestures with his hands and arms. This was not the usual Rwandan manner, which
was calmer and more controlled; perhaps there was no space for big gestures in a very tiny country that had to accommodate eight million people. No, Dieudonné moved his body more like Vincenzo, Amina’s husband who was half Italian. Angel watched him as he took a sip of his tea.

“
Eh!”
he declared, and took another sip. “I haven’t drunk tea like this since I was in Tanzania!”

“You were in my country?”

“I looked for my family there for almost four years.”

“They were lost?” asked Angel. “Did you find them?”

“They were not there.” Dieudonné took another mouthful of cake.

“You know, Dieudonné, I think you should tell me your story right from where it begins. I’m sure it’s interesting and I don’t want to become confused by starting to hear the story in the middle.”

Dieudonné smiled. “In fact, I could have told you my story last week, and I would still be in the middle of my story and I would not yet know the end.
Eh
, last week I didn’t even know that the end of my story was going to come this week. But this week I’m able to tell you my story right up to the end.” As he spoke, his bold gestures emphasised his words.

“Okay, Dieudonné, let us leave the end until the end. Start at the beginning, please.”

“Then I must start in Butare, because that is where I was born. My father was a professor there at the National University of Rwanda. I was still a small boy when Tutsis were chased from the university.” He paused, interrupting his story. “Forgive me, Angel, we do not talk of Tutsis and Hutus anymore; we are all
Banyarwanda
now. But I must use those words to talk about the past because in the past we were not yet
Banyarwanda.”

“I understand,” assured Angel. “You can speak freely with
me, Dieudonné, because you are my customer and I am a professional somebody. We are confidential here.”

“Thank you, Angel.” Dieudonné cleared his throat and swallowed some more tea. “My father was killed and we fled with our mother into Burundi, but only for a short time because then we fled again, this time to Congo, more specifically the town of Uvira.
Eh!
There were many refugees there, and there was a lot of confusion. I became separated from my family and I found myself being transported south to Lubumbashi with some other small boys. We were schooled there by nuns. I was a good student, so the Sisters arranged for me to go for secondary schooling with some Fathers at a mission school across the border, in the north of Zambia. One of the Fathers there became like a father to me.”

“Let me guess, Dieudonné. Was that Father from Italy?”

Dieudonné looked startled. “Eh! How did you know that?”

Angel laughed. “The way you make gestures with your arms reminds me of someone I know who has Italian blood from his father.”