Old Lovers Don't Die (11 page)
“Is it the black pussy or just that it’s difficult to get them this young anywhere else, when you are so fat and old?”
Raoul did not blink, nor did he reply to Kariba’s question. It was the same question every time and they both knew the answer; he was fat and old and addicted to child sex. The only reason that Kariba repeatedly asked was that it was a rare chance to claim some kind of warped moral superiority. It was the same every time the exchange of girls took place; Kariba would sit and stare at him, and Raoul would stare back at him. Raoul knew there was no moral high ground for either of them to claim; Kariba’s depraved treatment of woman and abuse of children ensured that. Raoul endured the stare, accepting that it was part of the price he paid for the young girls that Kariba supplied. However, he had determined not to look away once Kariba started staring at him; he could never accept that his deviancy was worse than Kariba’s depravity. Looking away would have suggested that to Kariba. He would never give him that satisfaction. Besides he was convinced that most of the men in the world were deviant in some way. Some admitted it but most did not and claimed piety. He knew that 50% of the world’s men did pornography while the other hypocritical 50% did not admit it. Moreover, Raoul looked after the girls Kariba gave to him and did not mutilate them the way Kariba did with those he raped. Once the girls reached twenty years of age, he usually gave them to his good friends as house cleaners. To his way of thinking, if there was anyone, it was Kariba who was on the fast track to hell, not him. He retained his basic decency, which had long disappeared from Kariba’s activities. A light knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and broke the staring deadlock as it usually did.
“Entre,” he called.
The door opened and two young, tall, black African women glided into the room. Dressed in long flowing white gowns, they looked virginal. Kariba spoke to them in Swahili for a few minutes after which they smiled at Raoul. They were perfect, Raoul thought, young and elegant and in twenty-four hours, he would have them both in Damascus. The youngest first, he thought. Putting up with Kariba’s increasingly erratic and wild behaviour suddenly seemed of little consequence; they were both beautiful.
“They will be at the plane tomorrow when the package arrives, but until then, look and touch but nothing else,” Kariba said pushing back from the table.
The flight to Kigali had had taken about seven hours; it was nowhere near as interesting or as comfortable as the flight in business class with Petrea. Christian had caught up with his downloaded emails, although Petrea kept intruding on his thoughts.
“Au revoir; don’t forget to call me,” she had said as they waved goodbye at Heathrow.
Given their respective circumstances, Christian thought realistically that it was unlikely they would meet again - unless fate intervened. However, he had never really believed in outcomes controlled by some strange force or God. Fate, like gambling, had no predictability when it came to outcomes, which is not what he preferred. Medicine taught that if you had enough knowledge, you could predict disease outcomes with reasonable certainty. He felt much more comfortable with predictability; it made the world easier to relate to, although it did not explain all phenomena in the universe.
He had often thought about the concept of a supreme being while studying medicine. Evolution by itself did not seem to provide a complete answer. The probability of a finely tuned machine such as the human body evolving with all its intricate systems, mathematically at least was improbable. He remembered specifically marvelling at the permeability in the kidney, the amazing ability that it has to secrete and reabsorb micro molecules. Other than the mathematical improbability, such were the fine tolerances at which it operated. It appeared far too sophisticated to have evolved from a primal soup. Evolution suggested chance but science argued against both chance and fate when it came to the human body.
The only problem with the alternative to evolution, the concept of a God with infinite wisdom, is that he had not been able to be convinced that there was any scientific proof of that as an alternative. The thought of a supreme being in charge of a celestial supercomputer somewhere in space was intriguing, but with no proof it was an unconvincing theory. Not that considerable effort had gone into trying to convince him that there was evidence. Eleanor, a happy clappy Christian friend in his fifth year medical group and Shamash, a Muslim friend in the same group, had both tried at various times. Eleanor had suggested the way to know God was for Christian to disconnect his brain and think with his heart. She had suggested he sit quietly alone with the Bible open, and ask God to come unto his life and show Christian that he was real. Then, according to Eleanor at least, he would develop faith, the other ingredient necessary to understanding how God worked. Despite her impassioned plea, he could not get his mind around the concept of disconnecting his brain and thinking with his heart.
He remembered a quote from Dr. Christian Barnard, who did the world’s first heart transplant, “the heart is only a pump”; he did not mention, he could recall, anything about it being a brain as well. Moreover, if anyone should have known, Christian would have thought it would have been Dr. Barnard. Shamash, in his quiet understated way, had been a little bit more convincing when he suggested that the laws of science, logic, and common sense suggested that life did not spring from non-life. That was more Christian’s line of argument in that at least it involved the word science. Shamash followed that point with the point that if the universe exploded into existence, who had caused the explosion? Since science could not explain it as a scientific phenomenon. That vaguely interested Christian for a short time, partly because the question had no answer.
He had not closed his mind entirely to the prospect of a God; however, when he had taken Eleanor’s advice, nothing really had happened. Sitting alone with her Bible open in front of him, all that had happened was that he had imagined some fanciful romantic mischievous god orchestrating interesting meetings to overcome heavenly boredom. The imagery of that taking place on some cloud amused him for a few seconds but there was no blinding revelation. When he had told Eleanor the following day, she had just shrugged her shoulders disbelievingly and taken her Bible back. It was, he thought, going to be intriguing with his level of disbelief, to be going to a country like Rwanda where 95% of the population, not only admitted to a Christian belief, but enthusiastically practised it.
Christian finished his emails and to stop the recurring thoughts of Petrea, read again the National Geographic article on the Rwandan genocide. He knew that much had been written about the French involvement in the genocide and the lack of support from the United Nations. Nearly everything he had previously read suggested that the world, and in particular the United Nations, had failed Rwanda in its hour of need. President Clinton had stated that one of the great stains on his administration was the inertia concerning Rwanda, a statement that underscored the fact that the genocide with the right leadership may never have happened.
The origins of the conflict went back to 1000 BC when there was an influx of Bantu-speaking Sudanic and Cushitic peoples into Rwanda. Approximately 1500 years later, these groups had merged into a single society, and within that single society were two major groups, the Tutsis and the Hutus. The Tutsis with their Sudanic origins were tall and with more aquiline features. Hutus were physically shorter with broader features. In the late 1800s, the Germans colonized Rwanda, but then following the First World War and the Treaty of Versailles, Rwanda was traded to the Belgians. The Belgians gave the taller Tutsi favoured status, creating an artificial ruling class, with which they would exclusively deal. However, that created deep divisions and enmity, which finally erupted in 1993 into genocide with nearly 1,000,000 killed in a bloodletting, which shocked the world.
“We will be landing in twenty minutes. Please ensure your seats are upright and all electronic equipment is switched off,” the hostess said in English, before repeating her request in French.
Christian switched off his computer and put his seat back in the upright position. The six and a half hours had gone quickly and caused him to momentarily wonder whether he was really prepared for what lay ahead in the most densely populated country in Africa. Once the plane landed, he would be in a place, often referred to as deepest, darkest Africa. His exact presence would be largely unknown. No friends to call and ask for advice in an emergency, he would find out how good his medical training had been. He finished putting away his laptop and his friends, Australia, and his golden retriever suddenly felt as though they were a lifetime away. Those thoughts were unexpectedly replaced by thoughts of his father arriving in Kigali so many years ago. Would there be any trace of his father to find, he wondered, as he clipped the buckle of the seatbelt.
He could feel the plane started to descend and he looked left out through his window. In the distance, he could see Kigali airport appearing as though perched on the top of a hill. At either end of the runway, there was a downward slope, which slowed you down either when you landed, or allowed you to gather speed as the plane took off. At both ends, there were thousands of earthen shacks. As the plane further descended, it was possible to see a little more detail, roofs, and chimneys, of each of the mud brick houses. Layers of wood smoke, which appeared to wander languidly and unconcernedly between the dwellings, denied him a better view. The pervasive smoke gave the false impression of a huge soft mattress, which you could safely land on. On most days, he could imagine the smoke haze could also be a landing hazard, which would be good reason for the airport to be on a hill in a relative smoke-free zone; someone clearly understood the energy needs of Africa when it had been created.
The smoke haze reminded him of the first time he flew into Johannesburg airport. Smoke, morphean in its insouciance hanging indulgently above poor shantytowns, seemed unaware of its endemic health hazard; its fire was used for warmth, cooking, and light. Carbon emissions were not a tradeable item, but a signature of survival in Africa. Most were unaware that it poisoned the atmosphere and the lungs of those who inhaled it. Wood fires provided not only a link to the past but way of surviving in the present without the regular supply of electricity. There was little alternative in Africa, and Christian knew that there was some electricity in Rwanda, but from all accounts it was not reliable.
“Thank you for flying with Brussels Air and please remember to take all your belongings off the plane,” the hostess said once the plane had come to complete stop outside the terminal building.
Christian watched through his window as the stairs were rushed across the tarmac and adjusted next to the plane’s front door. Three African men in dark blue uniforms secured the steps against the side of the plane. After a tap at the window, the hostess struggled a little with the lever but finally opened the door. With the door fully open, the woody smell of Africa drifted in to the plane. Warm, unfiltered air with rough lashings of wood smoke surrounded Christian and instantly brought back more memories of South Africa ten years ago.
“Watch your head,” said the hostess.
Christian ducked beneath the front door of the plane. Momentarily pausing at the top of the stairs, he watched the sun starting to set and in the distance, the lights of Kigali beginning to twinkle. As the number of lights increased, Christian noticed a darkness creeping up on the mountains surrounding the city. Without the bright ambient light of most major cities, there was a greater blackness to the arriving Kigali night. The darkness pushing its way stentorially up the surrounding mountains, nonchalantly covering the verdant green forest with a black blanket as it advanced. As he watched, the darkness reached all but the peaks of the four highest mountains until summits only remained, silhouetted by the setting sun. Four large black shining bald heads protruding in the evening sky, the wood smoke encircling each like the wispy grey hair of an old man.
Walking slowly across the tarmac, Christian inhaled the woody smell and enjoyed the warm African night. Midges and mosquitoes, visible in the light from the terminal building, circled him as he walked, a reminder that malaria was always stalking. As he stood in line and waited for his visa to be processed, strangely he could sense no lingering genocide animosity. In a country which had known so much killing and death, everyone seemed to be genuinely happy.
“Welcome to Rwanda,” the customs officer said, handing Christian his passport and visa.
He took his passport, putting it in his neck pouch before walking down the stairs from immigration, wondering where he would get a taxi to take him to the Gorilla Lodge Hotel. At the bottom of the stairs, he spotted a large semicircle made out of orange coloured rope. Beyond the rope barrier, young Rwandan men waved various signs for the different hotels in Kigali. The scrum of people exiting the customs hall made it difficult to approach them. Christian noticed a sign with Dr. Chris in big letters as he headed towards the exit. He ignored it initially, not thinking it was his name as it had no surname. Without fully understanding why as he walked through the exit, he glanced back at the person holding the sign, and saw he had a Gorilla Lodge Hotel T-shirt on. He decided to go back and ask directions.
“Excuse me. You wouldn’t happen to be able to take me to the Gorilla Lodge Hotel, would you?” Christian said to the smiling Rwandan face holding the sign.
“Are you Dr. Chris?”
“Well I am a doctor, Dr. Christian de Villiers.”
“Well, welcome to Rwanda, Dr Chris. I am Willy Twiragu. When the superintendent from Garanyi hospital asked us to meet you, we weren’t sure how to spell your name.”
The large perfect smile returned, but Christian could also detect a genuine kindness of spirit. There was warmth to Willy’s greeting which he had not noticed in South Africa. He wondered briefly whether that was peculiar to Willy or whether he would find it more widely reflected in Rwandans. Willy was quite tall with aquiline features and Christian thought that he must therefore be a Tutsi.
The trip from the airport to the Gorilla Lodge Hotel, Willy said, would only take about fifteen minutes. He quickly picked up one of Christian’s bags and indicated that he follow him. They walked out through the airport front entrance, Willy glancing around intermittently, to make sure that Christian was following.
At the bottom of several flights of steps was an old cream and red Ford panel van. On one side of the van was painted a giant silverback gorilla, arms extending over most of the van and down onto the bonnet. The gorilla’s huge white teeth gleamed in the reflection of the airport light. Unfortunately, nothing else, other than the painted gorilla, had been updated on the van. Pieces of wire precariously held the exterior mirrors on the mudguards in place. The usefulness of the side mirrors on the door was questionable as they pointed to the road. The mudguard also had a large piece missing on the top where the aerial had been attached. Through the rusty hole, the size of a fist, the tyre was clearly visible. Christian noted from what he could see that it was smooth - without any tread. The gorilla, on closer examination, had been recently repainted, the edges of the painted-over gorilla still visible, which created a new gorilla that up close appeared two-dimensional and slightly out of focus.
“That’s how big they really are,” said Willy as he watched Christian examine the gorilla on the side of the van.
“Up to 260 kg, I hear.”
“You must go and see them, Dr. Chris, while you are here.”
Christian wondered whether he would have time once he was working full time at the hospital, but knew that it was something he also would love to do. Willy put his bags into the back of the van and then he slid open the side door for Christian to get in. Willy told him to be careful where he sat. Looking down, Christian could see why; there were holes in the floor of the van through which he could see the road. As he made a decision to step only on the firm runner, he wondered where it was safe to put his feet down at all. He glanced up to see Willy looking at him examining the floor.
