Baking Cakes in Kigali (31 page)

“
Eh
, Jeanne d’Arc.
Eh!”
Tears welled in Angel’s eyes, too, now.

“Auntie?”

Angel delved into her brassiere for a tissue.
“Eh
, I’m sorry, Jeanne d’Arc.” She took off her glasses, put them in her lap and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s only that I wasn’t a good mother to my own daughter.”

Jeanne d’Arc took Angel’s hand that was not busy with the tissue and held it tight. “No, Auntie, I don’t believe that. You were a good mother to her.”

Angel’s sigh was deep as she shook her head. “No, Jeanne
d’Arc. A good mother does not let her daughter marry a man who is going to disappoint her, to hurt her.”

Still holding Angel’s hand, Jeanne d’Arc sipped at her tea. “Was she in love with him, Auntie?”

“
Eh!
Very much!”

“Girls have told me that to be in love is a very nice thing, a happy thing. Did you not want her to be happy, Auntie?” “Well, yes, of course I did.”

“Then I think you were a good mother, because you let her be happy, even if you were not. Now, say you didn’t let her marry him, then you would be happy but she would be unhappy. Does a good mother not put her daughter’s happiness before her own?”

Angel managed a smile despite her tears. “That is true, Jeanne d’Arc. But somehow things were never the same between us after her wedding. She was far from us in Arusha, meanwhile we were in Dar es Salaam. But there was another kind of distance between us, too. We spoke often on the phone, and always she told me that everything was okay, but later I found out that it wasn’t. She had another baby some time after Faith and Daniel, but he was weak, Jeanne d’Arc. Late within some few months.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie.”

“
Eh!
That was a bad year for all of us, because my son was shot by robbers at his house.”

“Eh!
I’m sorry, Auntie.”

“And then my daughter’s husband left her, and she didn’t tell me. It was only by mistake that I heard it from her helper.” Angel clicked the tip of her tongue against the back of her teeth.

“You’re confusing me now, Auntie. First you told me that you were a bad mother. Now I think you’re telling me that she was a bad daughter. Now I’m not sure who it is that Auntie feels she needs to forgive.”

“Now
you’re
confusing
me
, Jeanne d’Arc!”

The girl placed her mug of tea on the ground so that the hand that was not holding Angel’s could help her to make her point. “What you have told me is this, Auntie. You think you made a mistake because you let her marry a man who was not good. But that man made her happy for some time. And, Auntie, what we know here, in this country, is that our lives can be short. If we have the chance to be happy, we must take it. Even if it is a short happiness, we are glad to have it. Now your daughter, when she was no longer happy, she kept it secret. Why, Auntie? Because she loved you. She didn’t want you to be more unhappy, you were already unhappy because of your son.”

“Eh, Jeanne d’Arc!” Angel squeezed the girl’s hand, remembering Thérèse’s words about a lie holding truth in its heart. “Part of my head is telling me that you’re right, meanwhile the other part is still confused. That is something that I will think about later. But there’s also another secret that she didn’t tell me, a secret that I haven’t yet told myself …” The same hundred frogs that had leapt, startled, into a still pond at the centre in Biryogo were now in a panic in her stomach, thrashing about desperately. Perhaps the sweetness of her tea would calm them. She put down her wet tissue, picked up her mug and drained it.

“Auntie, in Kinyarwanda we say that a hoe cannot be damaged by a stone that is exposed. I think it means that the truth will hurt us only if it remains hidden.”

“That is a good saying, Jeanne d’Arc, and I’m going to tell you the truth now, because I feel it is time for me to tell it. I will be hearing it for the first time myself as I tell it to you. It is what I’ve come to suspect, and now, right now at this minute, I’m accepting that it’s true.” Feeling one of the frogs trying to scramble up from her stomach into her mouth where it
would prevent her from speaking, she swallowed hard. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke rapidly as she exhaled, anxious to say it, to hear it. “My daughter was sick, Jeanne d’Arc. She found out that she was positive when her baby was sick. That’s why their marriage broke up—because AIDS came to their house.” She had no more breath to exhale.

Jeanne d’Arc finished her tea, waiting quietly as Angel gulped in air and swallowed hard.

“But that is just a small secret. It’s not something that I’ll be ashamed to tell others, now that I’ve told myself, even though many of us are still not comfortable to talk about that disease. To catch such a disease does not make a person a sinner. A foolish somebody, yes. A careless somebody, yes. An unfortunate somebody, yes. But a sinner? No.”

Jeanne d’Arc nodded her head to every yes, and shook it to the no.

“That disease is just a small pebble, Jeanne d’Arc, it is not the stone that will break the hoe. You know, I’m going to stop being angry at Vinas for lying to me, because I’ve been lying to myself. I’ve told myself stories about stress, about blood pressure, about headaches. But the hoe has sliced straight through those stories now. I have another story, I have it ready to tell, but I know now that the hoe will not even notice it. That story is that it was an accident that Vinas took so many pain-killers, that she was confused by her headache, that she failed to count.” The frogs stopped moving, stunned. Nothing could stop Angel now. “Jeanne d’Arc, the stone that I need to dig up, the truth that I need to expose is this. My daughter wanted to die. She took those pills to suicide herself.”

When Angel stopped speaking, she was surprised to notice that she was no longer crying; she realised that she had in fact stopped crying as soon as she had decided to tell the truth. She felt empty of emotion, the way that Françoise had seemed
when she had told her own story. Telling it had shifted something in her. Putting her glasses back on, she looked at Jeanne d’Arc and saw that there were tears in her eyes.

“Eh, Jeanne d’Arc! I didn’t mean to upset you. How can you weep for my story when your own is so much worse than mine?”

Jeanne d’Arc let go of Angel’s hand, removed a length of pink toilet paper from her handbag and blew her nose delicately. Then she breathed in deeply before saying, “Auntie, I’m weeping for
you
, not for your story, because the pain of loss is heavy in your heart.”

“There is a heavier weight than loss in my heart, Jeanne d’Arc. Everybody knows that suicide is a sin, that it sends a soul to Hell.
Eh
, it’s very hard for me to know that Vinas is there.”

“Yes.” Jeanne d’Arc was silent for a few moments before she continued. “But I think that Vinas chose to do what she did in order to save others, Auntie. When she suicided herself, did she not save her parents from the pain of watching her suffer? Did she not save her children from the pain of watching her die? I think that when a person dies to save others, Hell is not the place for her soul. I think the Bible tells us that such a soul belongs in Heaven.”

Angel looked at Jeanne d’Arc. How could someone so young be so wise? “That is true, Jeanne d’Arc. After all, Jesus died to save others. Do you think that God—”

Angel’s question was interrupted by a thumping sound and a loud
eh!
echoing in the stairwell, and then Prosper came tumbling out into the yard, landing spread-eagled in the dust.

“
Merde!”
he shouted, standing up and dusting himself down.

“Prosper?” said Angel. “Are you okay?”

Prosper observed Angel and Jeanne d’Arc through eyes that
were very red. “I’m fine,
Madame.
I just fell over something on the stairs on my way down. Modeste and Gaspard must take better care with the cleaning.” He swayed slightly on his feet.
“Madame
, I could not help overhearing before I fell that you were talking to this girl about God and Jesus. That is very good. The Bible tells us much about the sin of prostitution.”

“Yes,” said Angel. “It tells us that Jesus forgave prostitutes and allowed them to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“
Eh, Madame!
I hope that you have not been forgiving this sinner!”

“Actually, Prosper,” said Angel, smiling now, “she is the one who has been forgiving a sinner.”

“
Eh!”
Prosper shook his head and moved unsteadily towards the door of his office. “You ladies are very confused. I myself will find some verses in the Bible for you to read.”

They watched him struggle with the key and then enter his office, and they waited for him to emerge with his Bible. But he did not come. Then, softly at first but growing louder, came the sound of snoring.

Angel and Jeanne d’Arc looked at each other and began to giggle.

THAT
evening, as Titi and Angel were busy preparing the family’s supper in the kitchen, Pius settled down in the living room to read the copy of
New Vision
that Dr Binaisa had passed on to him. The Ebola scare was well over now, and the boys were with the Mukherjee boys down the road, playing under the watchful eye of Miremba. In their bedroom, the girls and Safiya were styling one another’s hair.

Pius was half-way through reading about new allegations concerning the smuggling of diamonds and metallic ore out of DRC, when his concentration was broken by a knock at the door.

“Karibu!”
he called, but nobody came in. Putting his newspaper down on the coffee table and grumbling to himself, he got up and went to open the door. Standing there were two young men who were clearly not from this part of Africa.

“Good evening, sir,” said the one who was wearing smart, grey suit-trousers, a white shirt and a tie. “I hope we’re not disturbing you. We’re looking for a Mrs Angel.”

“Oh, Angel is my wife,” said Pius, assuming that these must be customers for Angel’s cakes. “Please come in. Angel!” he called. “You have visitors.”

Angel came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Hello,” she said with a smile.

“Hello, Angel,” answered the young man in the tie. “Omar upstairs sent us to talk to you. I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time?”

“Not at all,” Angel lied. Emotionally drained after her talk with Jeanne d’Arc, she was in no mood at all for business, but as a businesswoman she was obliged to remain professional at all times.

“I’m Welcome Mabizela, and this is my friend Elvis Khumalo.”

Angel shook hands with them and introduced them to Pius, who shook hands with them, too.

“Please come and sit,” said Angel, and the four of them sat down around the coffee table. “I think that Mabizela and Khumalo are South African names?”

“
Ja,”
said Welcome with a smile, “we’re from Johannesburg. I’ve come up here to facilitate workshops on reconciliation, based on my experience working with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa.”

“
Eh!”
said Pius, sitting forward with interest. “I’m sure you have many interesting stories to tell.”

“Don’t say that to him, Pius, he’ll never shut up.
Eish
,
he’ll be telling his stories all night!” Elvis shook his head and laughed.

Angel looked at Elvis, who was dressed far less conservatively than his friend in a smart red T-shirt and tight black denim jeans. Short extensions hung loosely around his head.

“And what is it that
you
do, Elvis?” she asked.

“I’m a journalist, mostly freelance, always looking for a story I can sell.” The smile that he flashed was brilliant white. “In fact that’s why Omar suggested we come and see you. He said you’re organising a wedding, and I want to find out more about it. Maybe it’s worth a story.”

“Angel,” said Pius, “I want Welcome to tell me his stories about South Africa, and Elvis wants to talk to you about the wedding. Why don’t we invite our visitors to join us for supper?”

“Of course,” said Angel, clapping her hands together. “Please say you’ll eat with us.”

“Oh, we can’t impose on you like that …” began Welcome.

“Nonsense!” declared Angel. “There’s plenty of food for everyone. Really, we insist that you stay.”

Elvis glanced at Welcome before saying, “In that case, we can’t refuse. Thank you, Angel, we’d love to.”

Angel went into the kitchen to redirect the dinner preparations to satisfy two more mouths. Both of their guests were thin—but healthy young men usually had big appetites whatever size they were. The chicken pieces that were roasting in the oven would have to be removed from the bone when they were cooked, and chopped into smaller pieces. She would make a stew of peas and carrots in peanut sauce, and add the chicken to that. The rice that was already cooking was not going to be enough, and it was too late to add to it—but it could finish cooking and the family would eat it tomorrow.

Instead, she would make a big pot of
ugali
to have with the chicken stew.

As she and Titi busied themselves in the kitchen, Angel listened to snatches of conversation from the living room. Pius was questioning Welcome on the significance of the distinction between what South Africa called
“truth
and reconciliation” and what Rwanda called
“unity
and reconciliation.” Could truth not make reconciliation impossible? he was asking. Was unity a possibility in the absence of truth? Angel was glad that there was someone else in their house tonight who could field her husband’s questions; it was not a debate in which she herself felt confident of any answers.

When the
ugali
was just a few minutes from being ready, Angel and Titi emerged from the kitchen, and Titi was introduced to the guests before being sent to fetch the boys from the Mukherjees’.

“Take the flashlight, Titi,” said Pius. “There’s no moon tonight and the street is dark.”

Angel accompanied Safiya upstairs so that she could have a quick word with the girl’s mother.

“Amina, we have unexpected guests for supper, and you know that we have very little space. Can I send the girls up here with their plates of food?”