Running the Rift (15 page)

“Ah, Jean Patrick, still enjoying your favorites?” The old baker opened the case with fingers like gnarled mahogany root. White flour coated his face, his arms and hands.

“And you still remember.” Jean Patrick placed his coins on the glass counter. “The chocolate ones.”

“How many do you need?”

“Five is what I can pay for, I think.”

The baker put seven biscuits in a paper sack. He was still waving when Jean Patrick shut the door and set the little bell tinkling. He leapt down the stairs. Two boys from Gihundwe stepped out from a pathway at the back of the shop, and he hailed them before passing between them into the narrow lane. “I guess I'm not the only disobedient student,” he called over his shoulder. He sensed them close at his back.

Too late, he realized the connection to his unease, and he quickened his pace. A guy emerged from the gate at the far end of the alley, blocking his only exit. His red and yellow boubou was familiar. When he approached, Jean Patrick saw the zigzag scar across his face.

“Do you remember our last meeting at Gihundwe?” Albert grabbed his foot and hopped. The Gihundwe boys snickered. “I told you I'd be back.”

“We hear you've switched sides. Got tired of being Inyenzi?” one asked. Jean Patrick recognized him from the sixth form. The other one, he thought, was a year or two younger.

The older boy pushed him against Albert. A stale, penetrating odor invaded Jean Patrick's nostrils. Quietly he collected his energy into a coiled spring. “What are you talking about?” He stepped sideways so he could watch both Albert and the students.

“Uri umuhutu cyangwa umututsi?” The three formed a tightening circle around him.

“I'm Nkuba Jean Patrick. I haven't changed.”

“Mbwira! Answer the question. Are you Hutu or Tutsi?” Albert slapped Jean Patrick's cheek. “These guys heard you have a Hutu card. Maybe if you're Hutu we'll let you pass.”

“Or maybe we won't, since your family is on the list in
Kangura.
” The older student drew his finger across his throat.

“I don't know that list. I don't read
Kangura.
” He shifted his balance. Like breaking out of a pack, he told himself. Find the clearing. He coiled the spring as tight as it would go.

“It says your brother Roger's RPF. It says your family's ibyitso.” Albert reached into his pocket. “Everyone but you is mentioned by name.”

“How would you know?” Jean Patrick asked. “I bet you can't even read.” He was bargaining for time, praying an opening would reveal itself.

“We can read,” the younger student said. “Here's what else was in
Kangura: Know that anyone whose neck you do not cut is the one that will cut your neck.
”

Jean Patrick heard the click before he saw the blade. Albert had dropped into a crouch, the knife loosely balanced in his hand. He lunged, and the coiled spring at Jean Patrick's center unleashed. He sliced the space between them as a diver slices the water. The blade grazed his arm, and the sack of biscuits tumbled to the ground. He burst through the rotten gate, splitting the wood from its hinges.

As he surged up the hill, blood trickling down his arm, he knew he must apologize to Uncle because his own name was not on the list. He would also have to apologize to the children because he had no sweets to give.

T
HE MUZUNGU WAS SITTING
at one of the tables set up for guests outside l'Hôtel du Lac Kivu. He had placed rocks all along the edge. Jean Patrick and Uncle Emmanuel watched him as they checked their tilapia lines beneath the sluice gate. The muzungu inspected the rocks with a small eyeglass he held in his hand, then wrote in a notebook. In the center of the table, an omelet and a basket of bread remained ignored, and the sight of the food made Jean Patrick hungry. His tea and slice of pineapple had long ago been burned up.

“Bonjour,” the man called out. Jean Patrick had just jumped over the side of the canoe and was about to dive under. He looked around, expecting to find a white man behind him, the person for whom this greeting was meant.

“Bonjour,” the muzungu said again. He waved in Jean Patrick's direction. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Bien sûr.” Jean Patrick slumped in the water to hide his naked chest and ragged shorts.

The man leaned over the railing. “Can I ask you something?” A blue cap embossed with a red
B
shaded his eyes. A wild thickness of red hair, gathered in a long tail, tumbled down his back. “I was told to stay out of the water, but here you are swimming. Is it safe?” His French was ill pronounced and clumsy. “I'd love to jump in; I didn't expect Rwanda to be this hot.”

“It's safe for us, but I don't know for muzungu.” Jean Patrick had never seen a white person swim.

“Excuse me?”

Jean Patrick thought he must have been rude or said something wrong. He looked at Uncle, and Uncle shrugged.

“I'm sorry,” the man said. “I didn't understand you.”

The sun glared, a spotlight on Jean Patrick's face. “I said I don't know for muzungu.” He pronounced each word slowly.

“Ah!” The man waved wildly. “Muzungu! Bonjour! Hello!”

Uncle watched. “Be careful,” he said. “This muzungu might be crazy.”

The instant the man flashed his broad smile, Jean Patrick understood. “You think
muzungu
means hello?” He choked back a laugh.

“That's not right? Wherever I go, people run and wave and call, ‘Muzungu!' I just assumed they were greeting me.” He scratched his ear. “So what are they saying?”

“It means a white person. We don't see many, so it's an exciting event.” The man chuckled in a friendly way, and Jean Patrick smiled back. “Usually, muzungu brings money.”

“Faranga.” The man held out his cupped palms. “It didn't take me long to learn that.” He leaned farther over the railing, and Jean Patrick wondered if he was going to jump in, clothes and all. “I'm Jonathan McKenzie. May I ask your name?”

“Nkuba Jean Patrick. People call me Jean Patrick.”

“Nice to meet you, Jean Patrick. In America, we like things short. We'd call you J. P.” He held out his hand.

Jean Patrick waded over. An American! No wonder his manners were strange. He reached up and touched the extended fingers. “Enchanté.”

“And this is your brother?”

“Do I look so young?” Uncle Emmanuel laughed, obviously pleased. “I'm his uncle, more like his papa.”

“What are you fishing for?”

Uncle Emmanuel held up a large tilapia. “These we fish for in daytime. At night we fish for sambaza—sardines—when they come to the surface looking for flies. The big ones we eat; the small ones we use for bait. Sometimes, if we're lucky, we catch a capitaine fish like this.” He spread his arms wide.

Usually, Uncle's animation was reserved for politics or the motorboat he still swore he would soon—very soon—be able to buy. Jean Patrick watched Jonathan, sure he would find Emmanuel's talk foolish, but the man paid close attention, nodding his head as if listening to an important lecture. A waiter approached and pointed to the abandoned food.

“Excuse me,” Jean Patrick said. “I think the waiter wants to know if you've finished.”

“Oh my God, I completely forgot. My breakfast must be ice cold.” Jonathan whirled around. “Sorry. I'm coming. Could you please bring more coffee?” And then to Jean Patrick and Emmanuel: “Thank you for talking to me. I've enjoyed it.” He jogged back to his plate.

Jean Patrick thought about the strange muzungu as they paddled to the fish market. He thought about him when they pulled the pirogue ashore by the docks to scrub the bilge. He decided to go for a long, easy run and loop by l'Hôtel du Lac Kivu. Maybe the muzungu would still be there. When Jean Patrick left for university and trained full-time with Coach, the pleasure of casual runs would exist in memory alone.

J
ONATHAN HAD MOVED
to the hotel bar by the time Jean Patrick jogged onto the grass. He waved, and Jonathan beckoned him over. A Primus and a book shared space with the rocks.

“J. P! I went for a swim! Come sit down. Can I buy you a beer? Are you old enough?” He marked his place in the book and closed it.

Jean Patrick pointed at his shorts. “They'll run me off for begging.” He peered at the book title, something in English about Mount Nyiragongo. “What are you reading?”

“It's about an expedition to explore the inside of the volcano. A crazy French geologist named Tazieff. Have you been?” Jean Patrick almost laughed aloud at the thought of visiting a volcano, but decided against it.

“Sit down. I won't let them chase you away.” Jonathan patted a chair. “I'd love to go there, but it's threatening eruption. How inconvenient. But I do have these samples from the slopes.” He chose a particularly shiny one covered with white speckles. “If I'm right, it's quite rare.” Jean Patrick held the rock close to his face and squinted. “Here. Use this.” Jonathan gave him the lens.

A tiny world opened up, speckles and dark turning into landscapes with rainbow colors and strange shapes. “You're a geologist?” He remembered the pictures in his schoolbook, the earth sliced like a layered cake.

Jonathan beamed. “Yes, I am. In the U.S., most people don't know
what that is.” He turned the rock. “This is nepheline—rare in itself—but I think there are two even rarer minerals here: leucite and melilite. You only find the combination on Nyiragongo.”

Once more, Jean Patrick peered through the lens. “It looks like it comes from the sea.”

The expression on Jonathan's face made Jean Patrick feel as if he were under a microscope, being examined. “Are you a student at the university?” Jonathan asked.

A waiter set down a saucer of peanuts and glared at Jean Patrick. “Are you making trouble for the muzungu?”

Jonathan flashed a friendly smile. “Is there a problem?” The waiter backed away. “Sorry, J. P. You were saying?”

“I've just finished secondary school. In two weeks, I start university in Butare. Are you here on vacation?”

“Yes and no. Actually, I'll be teaching geology at your university. I came a month early to travel.” Jonathan scooped peanuts into his mouth. “These are hot,” he said as his face flushed crimson. “By the way, I'll be teaching in French. Do you think I could practice on you?”

“I'd like that. Maybe you could teach me English.”

The bar was getting crowded. Someone cranked the radio full blast. It was tuned to the new station, RTLM. In the strident tone typical of its anti-Tutsi broadcasts, the DJ shouted,
Hutu, listen up! This is Radio-Télévision Libre des Mille Collines, FM 106.
He spun a Congolese tune. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean Patrick caught the waiter with his hand on the volume, watching him.

Jonathan tapped Jean Patrick's arm. “Why don't you have dinner with me? We could have our first lesson tonight.”

“I don't think it's possible. My family is expecting me home.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“D'accord.” They shook hands on the deal, and Jonathan returned to his rocks and his book. Jean Patrick sprinted toward the road. He wanted to get away before the waiter had a chance to catch him on the lawn.

J
EAN
P
ATRICK ARRIVED
at the hotel in polished shoes and freshly pressed pants. Jonathan sat near the bar, studying a menu with complete
concentration. He had on sandals and rumpled khaki shorts, an untucked shirt with large, bold flowers. Was this how they dressed in America?

“Come help me order,” Jonathan said. “All I know is
brochettes et chips.
”

At the next table, a group of businessmen from Zaire shouted and joked in their choppy dialect. They molded balls of ugali with their fingers and scooped up fish and sauce. Men in loud dashikis strutted beside the pool table, fingers blue with chalk, Primus bottles in hand. Above them, fans whirred and hummed.

The restaurant was just a concrete porch with a metal roof and a waist-high brick wall. From beyond the lawn, the Rusizi River murmured. Cicadas sang a high-pitched chorus. The generator's hum competed with a football game on TV.

A waiter brought two beers, opened them, and poured. “No worries. I could order for us,” Jean Patrick said. He chose brochettes and chips, grilled fish, bananas and peas with rice. As an afterthought, he called the waiter back and asked for ugali.

Silverware appeared, bottles of water. The waiter set the food on the table, and Jean Patrick cut two portions of ugali, spooning one onto Jonathan's plate.

“Now you will truly be Rwandan. This is ugali, made from cassava flour.” Jean Patrick shaped a ball with his fingers. “You do like this.” He surrounded a piece of fish and pulled it from the bone, then popped fish and ugali into his mouth. The waiters watched from behind the bar.

“Comme ça?” Jonathan copied him. With the first taste, his nose wrinkled. “Needs a little help. It reminds me of Play-Doh, the paste I played with when I was a kid. I ate enough of that to do for a lifetime.” Before Jean Patrick could stop him, he picked up a bottle of pilipili and doused his food.

“Mana yanjye. Do you know what that is?” It was probably impolite to laugh, but Jean Patrick couldn't help it.

Jonathan grinned. “I love hot peppers.” He smashed the pepper-stained ugali with a fork, put a piece of fish inside, and attempted to eat it with his fingers. Pilipili and sauce ran down his arm. Tears welled in his eyes. The waiters nudged each other and fired off a rapid burst of Kinyarwanda. “What are they saying?”

“They say you're one crazy muzungu.”

Jonathan nodded. “They're right.”

In the corner, the nightly news came on TV. More treaty violations by the RPF, more government victories, more vigilant measures required against the Inkotanyi. The scene switched to Habyarimana at a government rally.