Baking Cakes in Kigali (17 page)

Then Angel tried to think about the marriage of Modeste and Leocadie that would happen soon. That was definitely on the green part of the cake. Modeste was alone because everybody else in his family had been killed. Leocadie was also alone. Her father had been late for a number of years; her mother was in prison in Cyangugu accused of being a
génocidaire
, and her two brothers had fled into DRC with others who were also thought to be
génocidaires.
Perhaps it was even possible that members of Leocadie’s family had personally killed members of Modeste’s family; there was still so much confusion, and there were still so many accused whose cases had not yet even been scheduled for trial, that it was not yet possible to piece together the story of every individual death. So for two such people to find love together was definitely green: they were true
Banyarwanda.
But was the red circle inside that green the history of their families? Or was that so big that it was the entire red half of the cake?
Eh!
She must not think about it too much because it might give her a headache and she could not go to anyone so late at night
to ask for a tablet. Perhaps Ken Akimoto’s symbol was only useful for thinking about things that were small and simple. Perhaps there were some things that were just too big and too complicated. Politics, for example. And history. Perhaps those were things that were not about balance.

She thought instead about how pleased she was that so many people had praised the aeroplane cake that she had made for Zahara. When people praised her cakes she felt very happy indeed—and very professional. She put down the magazine and eased herself down to a horizontal position, careful not to wake Pius, and tried to discern the words of the song from Ken’s party: …
did you think I’d crumble; did you think I’d lay down and die?…

A short while later she recognised more words, in a man’s voice this time: …
knock, knock, knocking on Heaven’s door…

Eventually she heard the sounds of Ken’s party spilling out into the street and dissolving into shouted goodbyes and the slamming of car doors.

Finally she slipped into sleep.

But not for long.

In the early hours of Sunday morning, she was dragged from her sleep by sounds of screaming and shouting in the street outside the compound. She sat up and reached for her glasses from their usual night-time spot, on the floor under the bed where she would not tread on them by mistake. Pius was already at the window, looking out from between the curtains.

The screaming outside began to be echoed from inside as the children in the next bedroom awoke in fear. Angel rushed into their room, switching on the overhead light and speaking as calmly as she could.

“It’s all right, children. That noise is all outside; there’s nothing bad in here.”

Daniel and Moses were crying; Benedict was torn between
being a child and joining in, and being brave as the oldest boy. Faith was still too sleepy to react, and Grace was peeping between the curtains to see what was happening in the street. Titi sat bolt upright in her bed and stared at Angel with very big eyes.

“Auntie, has the war come again?”

“No, Titi, everything’s fine. Come, children, come away from the window. Let’s all move into the living room. Come, bring your blankets. Let’s not catch cold.”

Angel switched on the neon overhead light in the living room and ushered everyone in. Grace soothed Moses, and Titi rallied sufficiently to comfort Daniel. When Angel was sure that all of them were going to be okay, she went back into her bedroom and joined Pius at the window.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s all Kinyarwanda and French, so I can’t follow exactly,” said Pius. “It seems there’s a problem between Jeanne d’Arc and that
Mzungu.”

Angel peered into the darkness. While there were some streetlights on the tarred road that went past the side of their compound, the dirt road onto which the building fronted was not lit. Angel saw that Patrice and Kalisa, the night security guards, were trying to interpose themselves between Jeanne d’Arc and a young man whose shirtless torso glowed palely in the darkness as he gesticulated wildly. Angel recognised him.

“That’s the Canadian from the top floor.”

“Who is he? Have I met him?”

“No, he’s new. I don’t know his name. He’s come for just a short time, as a Consultant.”

“It looks like he wants to hit Jeanne d’Arc. His words sound very angry.”

Angel thought about all the times that she had watched
Oprah
in Amina’s flat without sound. Now she read the situation outside her window in the same way.

“Look, Jeanne d’Arc is very upset. I’m sure it’s about money. Perhaps the Canadian is refusing to pay her and she’s demanding the amount that was agreed. But how will anybody hear anything if she cries like that?”

Pius opened the wardrobe and took his cell-phone out of his jacket pocket. “Should I phone the police?”

“The police? But they’ll arrest Jeanne d’Arc because she’s a prostitute!”

“No, they’ll arrest the Canadian because he’s a
Mzungu!
They won’t believe a foreigner over a Rwandan.”

“But they’ll have to take both of them to the police station because everybody is looking now. That
Mzungu
can easily pay them dollars to go free, but Jeanne d’Arc will have to pay them in another way. That will be very unfair. It’s best if Kalisa and Patrice can sort out the problem without the police.”

“You’re right.”

“I’m going to make hot milk for the children. Shall I make some for you, too?”

“Yes, thank you. Call me when it’s ready; I’ll keep an eye on things until then.”

Angel went back into the living room, where six pairs of sleepy eyes looked at her in fright and confusion.

“It’s nothing,” she assured them all. “It’s only two people having an argument and forgetting that others are trying to sleep. They’ll grow tired soon and then we can sleep again. Titi, come and help me in the kitchen. We’ll all drink some hot milk and honey and then we’ll feel much better.”

In the kitchen, Titi whispered, “It’s not the war, Auntie?”

“No, Titi, it’s not the war. We’re safe.”

Relieved, Titi filled the kettle with water and set it to boil on the oven-top while Angel spooned Nido milk powder into each mug. Then Angel opened a large plastic jar that had once held Toss washing powder, and from it scooped a teaspoon of thick, sweet honey into each mug. The honey came from
the honey cooperative in the road behind
La Baguette
, the Belgian bakery where many
Wazungu
liked to sit and have tea and pastries, and where the cakes—many people had assured her—were very expensive and not nearly as nice as Angel’s. She liked going to the honey cooperative, where you could take your own container and fill it from a tap at the base of an enormous bucket of honey. Daniel and Moses particularly enjoyed working the tap and watching the thick, shiny liquid folding into the bottle. Buying from there was a way of supporting the women who farmed bees as a way of earning a living. Okay, the bees could sting those women. But still, it was safer than Jeanne d’Arc’s way of earning a living.

By the time the water had boiled and the sweet milk had been made, Pius had joined the children in the living room.

“It’s all over now,” he told them, “and the police didn’t need to be called. Everyone’s gone home. Let’s drink our milk and go back to sleep.”

But the broken night of sleep left everyone drowsy, and later that morning—much to her embarrassment—Angel found herself sitting in a pew at Saint Kizito’s suddenly aware that she had slept through most of the sermon. In the afternoon, Pius, Titi and the children all took a nap, and Angel settled herself on the sofa, with her feet up on the coffee table, to read Jenna’s
O
magazine. She had not got very far when Sophie came to visit. Angel made tea for them and they took it down to a shady corner of the compound’s yard where they sat on
kangas
spread out on the ground.

“Did you hear all the noise in the night?” asked Angel.

“No,” said Sophie. “Catherine and I slept in Byumba last night; the volunteers there were having a party. We just got back a while ago. But Linda told us about it. We met her on the stairs.”

“
Eh
, you’re lucky you weren’t here; you wouldn’t have slept well last night.”

Sophie laughed. “Do you think I slept well in a sleeping-bag on the floor with nine other people in the same room?”

Angel shook her head. “What did Linda say? Does she know what it was about?”

“Mm, she spoke to Dave this morning, so she got the inside story.”

“Dave is the Canadian?”

“Mm. Apparently he agreed a price with Jeanne d’Arc, and afterwards he took the money out of a box in his cupboard and counted out the money that they had agreed, and he paid her.”

“Oh, I was thinking that maybe he didn’t pay her.”

“No, he did pay her. But wait, that’s not the end of the story. Then Dave goes to the loo, and when he comes out again his cupboard is open, the box is open and all his money’s gone—and so is Jeanne d’Arc.”

“
Eh?
She took his money?”

“All of it—nearly two thousand dollars. So he runs to the window and sees Jeanne d’Arc coming out of the building and he shouts for Kalisa and Patrice to stop her. Then he pulls on his trousers and runs down to the street to get his money back.”

“
Eh!”

“Apparently Jeanne d’Arc denied taking his money. She told the guards that the only money she had was the money he’d given her for sex. Dave threatened to call the police, but of course he would never have done that; he wouldn’t exactly have been seen in a good light himself. But anyway, she believed the threat and it frightened her, so eventually he managed to get all of his money back.”

“All of it? Including the money for the sex?”

“And some other money that was hers! And apparently he’s feeling very full of himself today, bragging about getting free sex and how a sex worker tried to … well, excuse
my language, Angel, but he’s bragging that she tried to screw him and he screwed her instead. Apparently he thinks that’s hilarious.”

“Eh, this Canadian is not a nice man. How can he cheat Jeanne d’Arc like that?”

“He was stupid. He opened that box of money in front of her and she saw him putting it back in the cupboard. That was throwing temptation in her face.”

“Exactly. Okay, he doesn’t know Jeanne d’Arc. But surely he knows that somebody who is doing that job is not a rich somebody. If he was showing her a box of dollars then he was asking her to take it. Now he hasn’t even paid her for her work.”

“And it’s not like she can take him to court to get her money.”

Angel shook her head and said, “Uh-uh.” Then she took a sip of tea, swallowed it, and said, “Uh-uh-uh,” shaking her head again.

“And he thinks it’s a big laugh,” said Sophie.

“But,
eh!
What is he doing with two thousand dollars in his apartment? Who is he consulting for?”

“The IMF—the International Monetary Fund.”

“The IMF? He’s working for the IMF and he doesn’t want to give a poor somebody the money that he promised to give? Even after that poor somebody did what was agreed? Uh-uh-uh. He can afford to pay Jeanne d’Arc a hundred times that money and instead he’s made her an even poorer somebody while he puts all the money in his own pocket and laughs at her with his friends.”

At that point the sound of a door opening on to a balcony made them both look up at the building. The Egyptian appeared in the small space next to the enormous satellite dish that occupied most of his balcony, yawned and stretched.

Sophie spun round on the
kanga
so that her back was to
the building and whispered, “Oh, please, please don’t let him see me!”

Taken by surprise, Angel instinctively cast her eyes downwards to avoid any interaction with the man. “What’s wrong?” she whispered to Sophie.

“Is he still there? Can you see?”

Angel made a show of glancing towards the side entrance to the yard, swinging her eyes in a casual upwards arc along the way. In the split second that her eyes took in the Egyptian’s balcony, she saw that only the satellite dish remained there.

“He’s gone back in,” she whispered, “but the door’s still open. What’s going on?”

Keeping her voice low, Sophie said, “I’m just too embarrassed to greet him. God knows how I’ll behave if I meet him on the stairs or end up at a dinner party with him.”

Angel was very confused. “Why? What has he done to you?”

“Oh, it’s an embarrassing story, Angel. Actually, I don’t know whether to laugh or be angry.”

“Then you must tell me the story,” insisted Angel. “Maybe I can help you to decide.”

Sophie smiled. “Well, yesterday morning, around noon, I was getting ready for our trip up to Byumba in the afternoon, and waiting for Catherine to come back from the Ministry, when his maid came knocking on my door.”

“Eugenia.”

“Eugenia? Oh, I didn’t know her name, but I recognised her as Omar’s maid.”

“Omar? That’s his name?”

“Mm. Anyway, she said that her boss had sent her to me … to ask for some condoms!”

“Eh?
Condoms?”

“Can you believe it?”

“
Eh!”

“I mean, I hardly know Omar! We’ve just greeted each other on the stairs and that’s all. If we were friends, then maybe he could ask me that, or even if maybe we’d had a discussion once and I’d told him I was teaching the girls at school about HIV and AIDS and using condoms.
Maybe.”

“
Eh!
For a man to ask a girl for condoms is not a polite thing. Uh-uh. More especially when you’re not even his friend.”

“Mm! So I was really shocked and all sorts of things went through my head. I thought maybe he fancied me and was trying to see if I was available. Because you know, there are men who think that if a woman has condoms it means she’s available for sex with anyone.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that. One of my customers told me of a case in South Africa where a man was going to rape somebody and she was afraid of getting AIDS from him so she told him that
she
had AIDS and she made him wear a condom. She gave him that condom herself. Then the judge decided that that man had not raped her because she had given him that condom; it meant that she had consented.”