Running the Rift (19 page)

“Is this your land?”

“I'm only the guard.” The old man chuckled. “Aye-yay-yay! In all the years I've lived, I have never seen a human come up a hill like that.” He drew a deep draft from his pipe. “Will you take tea?”

“Next time, Grandfather.” Jean Patrick shook the guard's hand.

How pleasant it would be to linger and drink some tea, he thought as he ran back down. He jogged toward the checkpoint, taking deep breaths to calm the thudding of his heart.

“I
REMEMBER YOU
from yesterday,” the soldier at the checkpoint said, jostling Jean Patrick's elbow. He popped a piece of gum into his mouth. “Your coach says you're our next Olympic hero.” He inspected Jean Patrick's papers and thumped him on the back. “Run with a cheetah's legs,” he said.

“I will do my best, muzehe.”

J
EAN
P
ATRICK MUST
have missed a turn. Now he started up an unfamiliar path, stopping beside a tree to get his bearings. The tree's strange geometry had caught his attention, three equal trunks split from a single base. At the top of the road a blue metal roof crowned a long ocher building. A series of smaller trails snaked through slopes dotted with well-groomed homes.

One hill is as good as another, he thought. He tied his jacket around his waist and began his intervals. Passersby turned their heads, children chased after him, goats scurried out of his way. Jean Patrick did high steps and butt kicks, forcing the cadence until he tasted tin on his tongue. Light streamed through the eucalyptus, melted into a luminous haze. By his third interval, he had to grit his teeth and half close his eyes to reach the end. In his wake, a chorus of dogs sounded an alarm. The goal was in sight when a gate opened directly in his path and startled him from his meditative state.

“Quickly! Come inside.” A hand pulled him into the yard. The gate closed with a screech behind him. “Are you hurt?” The lilt of the woman's voice remained in the air like the first chord of a song. She locked the gate
and slipped the key ring onto her wrist. The world jolted into focus, and an involuntary shudder passed through him. She looked as surprised as he, her eyes bright and round like a startled bushbuck.

“Did someone hurt you?” she asked again. “Come in the house. No one will search for you here.” Her disheveled hair fell to her shoulders. Her clothing hung slightly askew, as if she had hastily thrown on her pagne and the shawl that draped nearly to her feet.

“I don't understand.” Jean Patrick felt suddenly naked. “I thought
you
needed help.” He fumbled with his jacket. “I thought maybe your husband—maybe something bad happened.”

The woman hid her mouth with her hand. A sound between a sneeze and a laugh escaped. “Mana yanjye, you thought
that
? And here
I
thought someone was chasing
you.
”

“No, madam.”

“You looked like you were in terrible pain.”

“No, madam. I was running.”

“Because you wanted to? A jogger? Ko Mana!” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Beneath her shawl she wore a pagne patterned with orange suns and pink-ringed planets. Gold zigzags of lightning streaked across the fabric.

“A
runner,
” Jean Patrick corrected. “I'm
training.
” Outside the gate, a crowd of children chattered. He could see the bottoms of their dirty legs, their broken flip-flops.

“You have a fan club,” the woman said. “I heard the dogs, and when I saw you, I assumed some thugs were on your heels.” She gathered her shawl around her. “It wouldn't have been the first time.”

“And what if I had been a thief?” Jean Patrick said, stepping close. “What if you invited me into your home and I robbed you?”

She motioned toward the children who dashed back and forth against the gate. “You wouldn't have gotten far. My neighbors are very tough; they would have caught you and dragged you back.”

Jean Patrick couldn't guess her age. At first he had thought her twenty-four or twenty-five, but in the sunlight, her features took on a schoolgirl look. Behind her, he glimpsed a garden and a yard thick with fruit trees.
A heady perfume of flowers came from her skin. He did not want to leave. He could have rested beside her and watched her pagne ripple about her feet until the waxed suns crossed the cloth sky.

Inside the house, dishes clattered and a radio clicked on. A woman's voice called out, “Bea, where are you?” A door banged. Two children, a girl and a boy, exploded through the opening, skin shiny with Vaseline. Bea opened her shawl and enfolded them like a bird taking her chicks beneath a wing. Jean Patrick's heart sank.

“I'm just coming,” she called. She took the keys from her wrist and unlocked the gate. “Well, be safe, then,” she said to Jean Patrick. She pushed the gate open, exposing a well-muscled calf. The little boy perched on her feet and rode her steps.

What could Jean Patrick do but thank her and walk into the morning through the space the children made for him? Bea. Beatrice. The blessed one.

He readjusted his jacket and jogged toward the next hill. It was useless. The girl called Bea had knocked the wind out of him. For the first time since a calf cramp had felled him on the day Rutembeza became his coach, Jean Patrick gave up. All the way back, her face remained in front of him. He could have placed a palm on her high cheekbones, felt her sun-warm skin, the color of strong tea, traced the almond slant of her eyes with a finger.

Coach's front door opened before Jean Patrick could knock. “We're safe,” Jolie whispered. “Muzehe doesn't know.” She pointed to his muddy Nikes. He removed them to give to her. “What happened? Tief chase you through the swamps?”

“No, Grandmother. I ran through the reeds myself.”

She chortled. “Give me your dirty things, and I'll wash them.”

It was only when he removed his track pants and found the directions in his pocket that he remembered Jonathan. He looked at the map. Bumps rose on his arms: a three-trunked tree, an ocher building with a blue metal roof. Most likely, Jonathan could throw a stone from his rooftop and have it land in Bea's yard.

W
ITH THE PHONE
cord as his tether, Coach circled between bookcase and window and spoke loudly into the receiver. Jean Patrick lingered in the hallway, ears cocked to pick up the conversation, but as soon as Coach noticed him, he stopped and snapped his fingers. “Go and eat,” he said, turning his back. Still trying to overhear, Jean Patrick went into the dining room and took a finger banana from a bowl on the table.

Coach strode in a little while later and pulled out a chair. “How was your workout?” he asked, drumming his fingers on the tablecloth.

“Good. I felt strong.”

Jolie brought omelets sprinkled with onions and tiny red peppers. Coach put two pieces of bread on Jean Patrick's plate and pushed the tub of margarine toward him. “Eat. You need to build muscle.” He watched Jean Patrick closely, fingers still tapping out a beat.

Jean Patrick's stomach shouted for food. He could have tipped the plate and shoveled the eggs into his mouth. Instead he cut slowly, dividing them into bites of equal size. Sooner or later, Coach would reveal what occupied his mind.

After Jean Patrick cleaned his plate and set down his knife and fork, Coach's fingers paused on the tabletop. He regarded Jean Patrick with a pleased, amused expression. “You are racing in Kigali next month,” he said. “You haven't run an A-standard time in a while; do you think you can do it by then? It's important.”

A switch flipped open in Jean Patrick's body, a current of excitement flowing through him. “I can run sub–one forty-five fifty in two weeks. I know it.”

Coach slapped his palm on the table. “That's the spirit!” His mouth curved into a half smile. “Your Burundi friends will be there.”

“Gilbert and Ndizeye? Those two that beat me?”

“The very same.”

“I wasn't sure they could still race.”

“Why? Because our Burundi brothers shook off the Tutsi yoke and elected a Hutu president?” The veins in Coach's temples pulsed. “Of course they can race. Burundi has a democracy now. Like Rwanda. The majority voted, and the majority chose Ndadaye. He is not like the Tutsi oppressors who have governed Burundi since independence. He will allow
Tutsi to be free.” He took a breath as if he would continue his tirade, but instead he began drumming again.

Jean Patrick poured tea, stirred in sugar and milk. Bea's perfume reached his nostrils.

“This event,” Coach said, “is a special occasion to celebrate the implementation of the peace process. Many Westerners will be there.” His eyes penetrated Jean Patrick's. “World Championships are in Sweden next year. An A-standard time would qualify you. I want people to know who you are—important people in the international community. So you need to stay sharp. If you go and fall on your face, it will not be good for my reputation or your Olympic chances.”

Blood rushed to Jean Patrick's head. “World Championships?” A long, low whistle escaped him. “No worry. I can do it.”

Coach aimed his spoon at Jean Patrick's head. “You have to learn to run smart, so I want you racing with your competition as much as possible. Remember—you represent Rwanda by the grace of the National Olympic Committee and the Rwanda Athletics Federation. It is they who, according to their pleasure, verify your registration for the Olympics. Or not.”

“Coach, that can't happen. I can run against anyone.”

The spoon clinked against the edge of Coach's cup. “After the race, there's going to be a reception at the American Embassy. TV and radio reporters will be there. President Habyarimana will greet you.”

Jean Patrick regarded Habyarimana's picture, just visible over Coach's shoulder. Bars of shadow from the half-open shutters turned him into a prisoner looking out from a cell.

“The president knows who I am?”

“Indeed he does.”

“Can Daniel come to the reception?”

“Of course. His father will be there with the Presidential Guard.” Coach traced circles with his spoon. “How about inviting your American friend, the geography professor?”

Ge
ology,
Jean Patrick corrected in his head. “That would be great!”

Coach swept crumbs from the tablecloth into his palm and disposed of them on his plate. “I'm going to arrange for you to take his class. It would
be nice to have a Westerner who knows you and can tell your success story to his people.”

“Did you say the race would be on TV?”

“I did. Your family can watch the entire day; in fact, the whole town can watch.”

With a twinge of guilt, Jean Patrick realized he had not given a thought to his family. His mind was too much taken up by a woman with a pagne of planets and suns and the scent of sweet tea on her skin.

O
N THE FIRST DAY OF CLASSES
, Jean Patrick felt lucky and brave. On his way out the door, Jolie gave him a conspiratorial nod and pointed to his bare feet. “No fancy shoes?”

“No, Grandmother. Not today.”

He warmed up with an easy jog. He waved at the guards at the Officers' School, and they waved back. He did strides, butt kicks, and pickups down the main road, then a steady pace to the arboretum. Finches trilled from the trees, showed off metallic flashes of feathers.

“Mwaramutse!” the soldiers at the Cyarwa checkpoint called. “How's the Olympics going?”

“Olympics are going well.” On this morning, when he felt so bold, he could have looked them in the eye and said, My name is Nkuba Jean Patrick, and someday you will know it.

He passed the three-trunked tree. From the directions in his pocket, he found Jonathan's house, hidden behind a brick wall. He had been right: a straight shot down to Bea's garden. In the thick growth he spotted a place where he could see into her yard. A woman was hanging laundry, and Bea's pagne with its field of stars beckoned to him from the line. The boy and girl that Bea had taken into her shawl chased each other between the clothes. Fascinated, he watched until his muscles stiffened and the children darted back to the house.

When he stood to stretch, a group of scruffy children surrounded him. “Watch us!” they chirruped, pulling on his T-shirt and dashing up the slope with screwed-up faces, arms and legs flailing.

“Do I look so strange?”

“Like someone from the moon,” they screamed, and they wheeled down the lane.

Jean Patrick had picked a rock from between his toes and was about to follow when he saw a man in Bea's yard. He walked stiffly along the path, stopping by a mango tree. Light limned his hair with silver. He reached to pick a fruit. Even from this distance, Jean Patrick saw that the act filled him with pleasure. Bea came out and stood beside him, and he put an arm around her waist. Together, they walked to the house. The man held the mango high, like a prize. He may as well have reached into Jean Patrick's chest and plucked his heart.

“T
HIS IS
N
KUBA
Jean Patrick,” Coach said to the guard at the university's main gate. “He's a student here. He runs for me—my star. Treat him well.”

The guard held out a wrinkled hand to Jean Patrick. “Yes—I remember from last year. Such a pleasure to see you.” He tipped his cap. “Welcome back, muzehe,” he said.

Jean Patrick looked toward the eucalyptus grove that framed the track, his familiar world. As soon as his feet touched the packed red dirt, he could forget this woman called Bea.

Coach parked. “Your dorm is there.” He pointed to the long rows of dormitories below. From the paths came the
scritch-scratch
song of women sweeping, punctuated by the commotion of the students' shouts and calls.

Jean Patrick touched the door handle. “Well, I guess I should go.” He glanced at his suitcase in the backseat. Coach had repaired the lock and hinges. “Where's your office?” He let the car door swing open. “In case I need you.”