Baking Cakes in Kigali (26 page)

Satisfied, Catherine and Sophie had contributed generously.

“Leocadie
did
bring me a Coke when she heard that I was in bed feeling nauseous the other day,” Catherine had conceded.

“And Modeste
does
keep Captain Calixte away from the apartment,” Sophie had added.

Then Angel had called upon several of the families she knew who lived in the houses lining the dirt road on which the compound—and Leocadie’s shop—stood. Starting at the
far end and working her way back towards the compound, she had avoided the homes where she did not know the people; those she would tackle during the day rather than in the gathering darkness of evening when people might be suspicious of somebody they did not know asking for money. She would also wait a few days before approaching them so that news of her collection for the wedding could have time to reach them from the neighbours who knew Angel and had already contributed. Of course, some of the people she knew had been out that evening, and she would have to remember who they were so that she could call on them another time. But her memory was not very reliable these days; she would make a note of their names in her diary as soon as she got home.

As she went from house to house in the street, she thought about what Catherine and Sophie had said about bride-price. She had never felt that Pius had
bought
her—or her womb, or her labour—in any way. He had merely approached her parents in the traditional, respectful way to ask for her hand in marriage; and he had compensated them for the expenses that they had incurred in raising her. But she did have a cousin in Bukoba who had not been able to conceive, and the girl’s husband had returned her to Angel’s uncle and demanded the return of the cows that he had paid. Angel could see that that had been no different from buying a radio that does not work and then taking it back to the shop for a refund.

The Tungarazas’ own children had been both traditional and modern when it came to bride-price. Pius had handed over the cash equivalent of a reasonably-sized herd to the parents of their daughter-in-law, Evelina. Vinas, on the other hand, had said she could not be bothered with anything like that; she was happy enough to be marrying a man she loved, whose family had already invested everything they had in helping him to qualify as a teacher-trainer, and whose father was in any case already late. Angel and Pius had been satisfied
enough with both of these arrangements—and although they had never discussed it, Angel felt that they would be glad if their three grandsons grew up to be more modern; they could certainly not afford high sums to be negotiated for the wives of three more boys.

As she had emerged from the yard next door to the Mukherjees with yet another contribution tucked into her envelope, she had met two men ambling towards her in what would now be total darkness were it not for a small sliver of moon. They wore long white Indian shirts over trousers and sandals, and their smiles glowed whitely as they greeted her.

“Mrs Tungaraza, hello!”

“Hello, Mr Mukherjee, Dr Manavendra. Have you been for your evening walk?”

“Yes indeed,” said Mr Mukherjee. “But we do not normally see you out walking in the evenings. Are you alone? Is Tungaraza not with you?”

“I’m alone, Mr Mukherjee, but I’m on my way home to my husband. I usually see you walking in the evenings with your wives. Where are they this evening?”

“Ebola!” declared Dr Manavendra. “Our wives won’t leave the house until the scare is over.”

“But that’s in Uganda,” said Angel, “far from here. And yesterday in
New Vision
it said that nobody had died from it there for twelve days now.”

“Yes, it’s nearly over in Uganda,” said Mr Mukherjee with a laugh. “Soon the hysteria in our house will be over, too. At least I managed to insist that the boys should go back to school. By the way, Mrs Tungaraza, the cake you made for my cousin-brother was excellent.”

“Excellent,” agreed Dr Manavendra.

“I’m so happy that you liked it.” Angel’s own smile gleamed in the moonlight. “I’m happy, too, that I met you here on the road this evening so that I don’t need to disturb you at home.

I’m collecting dowry contributions for Leocadie, who works here in the shop. She wants to get married but she has no family to help her. I’m acting as her mother for the negotiations and the wedding.”

“Oh, very good,” said Mr Mukherjee, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers.

“Yes, yes,” said Dr Manavendra, mirroring his colleague.

Angel held out the envelope with the mouth of it open so that the two men could place their contributions directly inside it.

“Thank you very much. It’s very difficult for people who have nothing and no family, especially when those around them are earning dollars.”

“Very difficult,” agreed Mr Mukherjee, closing his wallet and replacing it firmly in his back pocket. “But, Mrs Tungaraza, you must go home now. It’s not safe for a lady to be out on her own at night; there’s always a possibility that eve-teasing can occur.”

“Always a possibility,” agreed Dr Manavendra. “Let us escort you home.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine, really.”

“No, we insist. Come along.”

The two men walked with Angel past Leocadie’s shop and past the big green Dumpster that was already filled to overflowing again with the neighbourhood’s rubbish.

“
Oof
, this is smelling very badly,” said Mr Mukherjee.

“Very badly,” agreed Dr Manavendra.

“On Thursday or Friday last week I saw them removing that Dumpster up the hill, that one just near the kiosk for international phone calls,” said Angel. “So maybe they’ll get to this one this week.”

“We hope,” said Dr Manavendra.

“Yes, we hope,” echoed Mr Mukherjee. “There’s nowhere for us to put our rubbish without making mess.”

They left Angel within a few feet of the entrance to her building, when Patrice and Kalisa had greeted her and it was clear that she was safe, and turned back towards the home that their families shared.

Despite the cool night air, Angel’s head was feeling very hot, so instead of going inside immediately, she sat herself down on one of the large rocks that lined the walkway to the entrance and fanned her face with the envelope of money, careful to hold it closed so that she did not shower banknotes out into the night as she did so.

The compound’s owner had recently made an attempt at beautifying the front of the building with a few shrubs and some plants in enormous clay containers. Just next to the entrance was a large bush of a plant that flowered only at night, small white blossoms with a very strong perfume. The plant exhaled its perfume as Angel sat on the rock beside it, and her fanning brought its scent right to her nostrils.

Immediately—almost violently—the smell brought back a flood of memories: Vinas phoning to say she was too busy to come to Dar with the children for the school holidays, she would send them alone on the plane; Vinas phoning to check that they had arrived safely, to hear Pius’s and Angel’s assurances that no, her two were not too much for them on top of Joseph’s three who already lived with them; Vinas’s friend phoning in a panic to tell them about the headache that no number of pain-killers would take away, about using her key because Vinas had not answered her knock, about rushing her to Mount Meru Hospital where the doctors had shaken their heads and told her to summon the family urgently; finding Vinas already cold in the morgue when they arrived; gathering the children’s things to take back with them to Dar; sitting on the edge of Vinas’s bed, trying to imagine the intensity of the pain that had pushed so many tablets out of the empty bubble-packs on her bedside table; needing fresh air, going
out into Vinas’s night-time garden, sitting under just such a night-blooming bush, gulping in the same perfume, sobbing because God had not felt it enough to take only their son.

“
Madame? Vous êtes malade?”
Patrice stood before her, peering into her face with concern.

“
Non, non, Patrice, ça va. Merci.”
Angel reached into her brassiere for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes and her hot face. Then she added,
“Hakuna matata. Asante.”

She gave a reassuring smile and Patrice retreated. Really, she must pull herself together. All of that was well over a year ago now, and dwelling on it was not going to bring her daughter back. It was not helpful to be sad when she needed to be strong. There were five children—
five!
—in her care now, and that was where her attention should be.

And she had a wedding to organise. Leocadie and Modeste were going to have a perfect day: nobody was going to weep because their cake was unprofessional. There was so much to do! It was time to make a start on the residents of the compound whom she did not know well, and that was going to be a challenge.

And so it was that she found herself sitting in the Canadian’s one-bedroom apartment, watching him enjoy one of the cupcakes that she had brought with her to sweeten her request. He was a tall man, somewhere in his late thirties, with very short brown hair and rimless spectacles. Angel noticed a gold band on his wedding finger.

“I’m not even going to be here for this wedding,” he said, his mouth still full, “so it’s hardly my responsibility to help pay for it. I’m only here on a short-term consultancy.”

“What exactly is it that you are consulting about, Dave?”

“I’m helping the government to prepare its interim poverty-reduction strategy paper for the IMF.”

“
Eh
, that is very interesting. Do you have some good ideas for reducing poverty here?”

He laughed and shook his head. “That’s not my job. I just have to make sure these guys write the paper the way they’re supposed to write it.
Their
job is content,
my
job is form—although I’m finding myself having to assist with the sections on frontloading priority actions and mechanisms for channelling donor resources to priority programmes.”

Angel thought for a moment. “Is that a way of talking about how to give money where it’s most needed?”

His smile was condescending. “In a way.”

“And tell me, does it ever happen that a donor gives money for one thing only to find that the money is used for something else instead?”

“All the time. It’s expected—or, at least, it’s not unexpected.”

“It’s expected? Then why does the IMF give the money if it expects that it will not be used for the right thing?”

“Ah, but the IMF doesn’t
give
money. It
lends
money. Ultimately all that matters is that it gets the money back, with interest. If the country doesn’t use it the way it said it would, or if it uses it the right way but the project turns out to be a failure, that’s not our concern; it’s not our responsibility.”

“I see.”

“So anyway, Angel, I’m meeting some people for dinner tonight at
Aux Caprices du Palais
, and I need to get showered and dressed. This wedding you’re organising doesn’t concern me, so I don’t think it’s right to expect me to contribute. Rwandans are always holding their hands out asking for money.” He stood up.

Angel remained seated. She spoke without looking up at him. “Yes, there are many beggars here. It’s unfortunate that their poverty has not yet been reduced so that they can stop doing that. Those beggars are very inconvenient for visitors, especially for visitors who can afford to eat their dinner at
the most expensive restaurant in the city. But those who have jobs are not begging, and this is a marriage of two people with jobs. The job of a security guard for this compound is very important. If something bad happens here, it’s the security guards who will protect us. For example, if somebody steals money from us, it’s the security guards who will stop that thief in the street outside and prevent that thief from running away with our money. They are the ones who will make sure that we will get our money back. They are the ones who will solve our problem for us before the police become involved and before there is any embarrassment to our families.”

The Canadian stared hard at Angel. Then he threw his head back and laughed out loud, clapping his hands together.

“Bravo, Angel! You really are good! You know, I don’t give a damn about all this reconciliation crap you spouted about this wedding, and I don’t feel I owe anybody anything, certainly not the money that I work damn hard for. But I do admire your tactics, I really do.” He turned and went into his bedroom. Angel watched him go to the wardrobe and take out a box. He removed a banknote and then replaced the box in the wardrobe and came back into the living room. Angel stood up.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got change for a hundred-dollar bill?”

“Of course not,” said Angel, taking the note and tucking it into her brassiere.

“Of course not,” echoed the Canadian.

“Thank you, Dave. I hope you enjoy your dinner at
Caprices.”
Angel put her hand out. Reluctantly, the Canadian shook it.

As she walked down the stairs Angel put that same hand over her breast and felt the shape of the money in her brassiere. She had not put it with the rest of the money in her envelope
because it was not going to go towards the wedding. She was going to give it to Jeanne d’Arc, one Rwandan to whom the Canadian most certainly
did
owe his money.

Of course, she had asked for the money for one thing and was going to use it for something else. But that was not unexpected.

Still, it was undoubtedly a lie. Silently, she offered up another prayer for forgiveness.