Running the Rift (33 page)

“D
ADI AND
I are going back to Kigali tomorrow,” Bea said. She spoke in a low voice, in Kinyarwanda. “Habyarimana is swearing in the new government
again.
Or so he says. Why don't you come with us?” They were stopped at the parking lot near Jean Patrick's dorm.

He paused with one foot on the ground, the other in the car, his eyes on the slight rise and fall of her collarbone. “I would be glad to. Maybe my presence will bring good luck.”

“That's right,” Bea said, a touch of bitterness in her voice. “I had forgotten you were one of the president's friends.”

Jean Patrick leaned back into the car's warmth and touched his hand to Bea's cheek. “Amahoro,” he said to her. Peace. He switched to French. “Jonathan and Susanne, thank you for a wonderful celebration. Susanne, may your stay here be productive and peaceful.”

Bea called through the open window. “We'll pick you up at eight.”

Jean Patrick stood and watched the headlights slash the eucalyptus. He watched and listened until the
clack-clack
of the bad suspension melted into the night song.

Traffic jammed the road into Kigali, cars jostling for every centimeter of space. The excitement of a holiday sizzled in the air. In every direction, UNAMIR tanks and trucks lumbered, the blue helmeted troops looking out over the crowds.

“You see?” Jean Patrick said. “There are plenty of soldiers to protect us if anything goes wrong.” Bea gave him a vexed stare but said nothing.

Niyonzima parked beside a small market at the edge of town and jumped from the car. “Let's walk from here. I want to see what's brewing.” The sway and limp, reminders of his days in prison, did not slow him down.

“Mana yanjye, Dadi, are you trying for the Olympics, too?” Bea pulled her father's sleeve to slow him down.

From high on the hill came a commotion like a rowdy group of football fans. Jean Patrick was about to laugh when the din of whistles, chants, and shouts drew nearer, louder, and he heard the danger in it. The throng poured onto the road ahead of them, sweeping passersby into its turbulent flow. At its edge, the Interahamwe turned up the flame. They swung machetes and clubs, struck the ground with spears. Some dragged their machetes across the pavement to leave a trail of sparks in their wake.

“Now you see what I meant.” Bea had to shout to be heard above the fray.

“Yes, I do.” Fear set every cell in Jean Patrick's body on high alert.

“We have arrived at the Rwandan National Assembly. Did you know the RPF is headquartered there now?”

Jean Patrick followed her finger. He had expected something fancy for the parliament building, but the CND was just a group of run-down green buildings. Against all odds, he hoped Roger was somewhere on a balcony and could see him and—if necessary—protect him.

Bea pulled Jean Patrick and Niyonzima close. “This is even worse than last time.”

Shouts coalesced into a deafening roar. Fury was a live wire at the crowd's center, explosion as close as a match against a fuse. A group of delegates tried to push through. The mob tore at their clothes, kicking and shoving them down. “They'll kill them,” Jean Patrick yelled. “Why don't the soldiers
do
something?”

Outrage overwhelmed terror in Bea's eyes. “That, Jean Patrick, is a very good question.”

The crowd engulfed them. Niyonzima gripped Bea and Jean Patrick. “Arm in arm,” he shouted. “Do not let go.”

More cars pulled up with opposition party placards. The moment the delegates emerged, they were swarmed, like storm winds whipping the sea into frenzy. Whistles screeched. Bottles crashed at their feet. One smashed into a UNAMIR tank, spraying a soldier with glass.

Jean Patrick searched the faces of the Rwandan Army soldiers in case Pascal was among them. He didn't realize the mistake of letting down his guard until he heard, “There's one—let's get him.” He was ripped from Niyonzima's grasp, Niyonzima's and Bea's outstretched hands disappearing as he was pushed to the ground. Then only legs and feet, kicking and stepping. Arms reaching down and hitting. His favorite jacket, the one with the Rwandan flag, torn from his body. He rolled into a ball to protect himself. Pain, sudden and searing, tore through his shoulder. He heard Bea scream his name as if from a great distance.

Memory called up the vision of the truck tire as it careened down the hill.
If you remain calm, your mind will tell your body what to do,
Coach had said. Amid the press of legs and feet, the smallest clearing opened. Like a tiny miracle he saw them, Bea and Niyonzima, rushing toward him. He struggled to his feet and pushed through the fray to reach them.

Niyonzima grabbed him. “Are you OK?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. We've seen enough. I think we can safely say, no new government today—let's get out of here.”

“Wait—they thieved my jacket!” Jean Patrick stepped back toward the mob.

“Are you completely insane? Leave it!” Bea shouted. They were walking quickly now, almost running down the hill, away from the CND. The mob had disappeared behind them; the air felt cleaner, fresher. Bea looked at Jean Patrick and out of nowhere began to laugh. “No one but you,” she said, “would think of a jacket at such a time.” And then, as if the timbre of her voice had opened a crack in the air, nervous laughter bubbled to the surface in all of them, and none of them could stop.

“B
EFORE WE GO
,” Niyonzima said, “I want to buy some batteries for the radio. They are cheaper here than in Butare.” They were standing by the car, watching the colorful stream into and out of the market entrance. A hawker grilled meat over a charcoal fire, and the smell and sizzle awoke Jean Patrick's hunger. He had not eaten in the morning, and his few coins had vanished with his jacket.

“Aren't you ashamed to be seen with me?” Jean Patrick showed off his dirt-stained shirt. His shoulder throbbed, and he wondered if it had been bruised.

“Never,” Bea said. “Your war wounds make us even prouder.” She pushed through the gate and into the expanse of stalls and garish umbrellas. Niyonzima and Jean Patrick followed.

They stopped to look at a display of guns laid out like fruit or appliances at a hawker's table. “Can you believe this?” Niyonzima picked up an AK-47 and held it in the air.

The blast came out of nowhere and knocked them to the ground. A thick, choking dust rained down on them, and a sulfurous stench filled Jean Patrick's nose, burned his throat and lungs. He raised his head and realized he could hear nothing except a loud ringing in his ears. Bea and Niyonzima sprawled beside him. They were all covered with dust and debris.

Out of the cloud came two men, running full tilt. One clutched a TV; the other, a large radio still in its box. They looked like TV actors, pistols and grenades at their belts. Behind them ran another man, his arm and shirt bloodied. His mouth was open, and he was obviously screaming, but Jean Patrick still couldn't hear. All around them, market goers picked themselves up, brushed themselves off, and went back to the business of shopping as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“I
HAD HEARD
about these things, but in my wildest dreams I couldn't have imagined such a scene,” Niyonzima said.

They had left Kigali behind. The brown waters of the Nyabarongo ponded in thickets of papyrus close beside the road. Jean Patrick looked out over the landscape and drew comfort from the quiet. “They set off a grenade to steal things?”

Bea drove while Niyonzima wrote notes in his little book. A white powdery dust still clung to their skin and speckled their hair. “Why not?” Niyonzima said. “All those weapons there for the taking. Available and cheap.” He leaned over and turned on the radio. “Let's see if there is any news about events at the CND.”

They didn't have to wait long.
At the last minute, something came up,
the announcer said.
Habyarimana did not attend, and the delegates were not sworn in.

“This will go on forever,” Niyonzima said, “until finally Habyarimana and his henchmen ignite the fuse they have so carefully readied.”

Bea snorted. Jean Patrick had neither the strength nor the conviction to contradict them.

Niyonzima went back to writing but soon looked up again and waved his pen in the air like a conductor leading an orchestra. “In telling this story, it is difficult to find the balance between comic absurdity and outrage.” He struck through a phrase, wrote another. “And to report in a way that will not get me jailed.” He struck a second phrase. “Or worse.”

Jean Patrick let fatigue wash over him. He didn't want to think about the morning, about how such violence affected the country's future. Instead he brought back his early workout, the cool mist on his face, the first bluish light, the slap of his Nikes on the road. He had managed to shake off the headache from the previous night's beer and press through. His times were getting better, his kick sharper, his effort more focused.

On Monday, classes would resume. Coach would be back to push him. Even the truck tire: Jean Patrick welcomed it. Surely then the balance of life would tip back toward equilibrium. He closed his eyes and sank into a welcome sleep. When he opened them again, the sign that welcomed travelers to Butare greeted him. “We're home already,” he said.

Niyonzima sighed and sank back against the seat. “At last. Our little island of peace and sanity.” He pocketed pen and notebook.

At that moment, the sun broke free from the clouds and sprinkled Niyonzima's hair with a silver brilliance. Jean Patrick found in this sign a quivering hint of promise. He snatched the promise, gathered it up into his fist.

J
ONATHAN HAD INVITED
Jean Patrick and Bea for dinner that night, but Bea did not want to go. She sat on the floor while Ineza combed and braided her hair. “If you stay at home and sink into misery, you are letting those criminals win,” Ineza said. She dipped her fingers into the jar of pomade, releasing its coconut scent. Every so often, she had to tease out a tiny splinter or a scrap of debris that had survived the hair washing.

Bea whimpered, “Mama, are you trying to torture me into agreeing?”

“I am, daughter, I am.”

“Ow!” Bea grabbed her mother's hand and held it. “You have succeeded; I will go.”

Jean Patrick was relieved. He looked forward to discussing the day with Jonathan, to get an outsider's point of view. From Niyonzima's office came the steady
tap-tap
of typewriter keys as Niyonzima wrested from the chaos a story with meaning and purpose. Jean Patrick had been to the dorm to shower. He had collected his books so he could study. After what had happened, he didn't want to be alone. He tried to concentrate on his physics.
A natural process will always go in the direction that causes entropy to increase.
Jean Patrick put down the book and looked out at the garden. Would disorder accelerate until no law remained? His father had believed that all things had a mathematical expression. In the small, square plot, Claire and her daughter harvested beans, a brightly colored basket on the ground between them. The little girl laughed and held a bean in her hair like a bow. No, Jean Patrick thought, not entropy but momentum:
A body in motion remains in motion.
He glanced at Bea, head resting against her mother's knee, hair transformed into a crown of braids. We will keep moving forward as we have always done, as surely we will continue to do in the future.

A
T
J
ONATHAN'S HOUSE
, Jonathan and Susanne were slow-dancing across the floor. A sweet, jazzy song melted around them.

“J. P.! Bea! Come dance!” Jonathan welcomed them inside.

“Yes,” Susanne said. “Dance, dance!”

Jean Patrick took Bea's hands and pulled her close. “Like this?” He twirled her around. Quickly his shoulder reminded him he had been roughed up.

Amos came from the cookhouse with a platter of spaghetti, and Bea laughed. “Nkuba, you are saved by dinner.”

Susanne cheered. “Pasta. Just like home.”

Jean Patrick thought he wouldn't be hungry. The mob's ugly mood still jangled his nerves, and a sulfurous tang lingered in his mouth. But now that food was on the table, his appetite perked up, and he heaped spaghetti onto his plate. Jonathan poured wine. They toasted and drank, dug into their food.

“Beer-a-joshee-cyanee!” Susanne said. “Did I say that right?”

Bea leveled a vexed look at Jean Patrick. Susanne leaned her head on Jonathan's shoulder. Like two pieces of a puzzle, Jean Patrick thought.

“How was the ceremony?” Jonathan asked. “We missed the news.” He grinned. Susanne turned red.

“Postponed again,” Bea said. She held her glass to the light. Sparks danced in the wine, and when she drank, she swallowed them. “Susanne, tell us about your first day in Butare.”