Thirst for Justice

by David R. Boyd

  Henri scowled but held out his hands, palms down. They were rock steady.

  “All right.” Michael pulled up a chair on the far side of the operating table and held Anna’s hand. Her grip was tentative at first and then fierce.

  As Michael suspected, Anna had a severe concussion and there was evidence of sexual assault. With her consent, Henri took swabs and photographs, collected hairs and fingernail scrapings. Jean-Claude made sure the samples were properly packaged, labeled, and sealed in an evidence collection kit.

  When the police arrived, Michael took them to the house, where they sat in the living room while he recounted the attack. They took notes but explained that their jurisdiction was limited to the city of Goma itself. They assured Michael that they would pass his information along to the federal police. It was frustrating, but there was no use in blaming them.

  Michael returned to the surgery. Henri had done everything he could, but because of the concussion could not prescribe Anna a sedative. She lay on her side staring into space. Jean-Claude had put Laurent’s body in the morgue.

  “I’ll stay with Anna,” Jean-Claude volunteered. “You both need to get some sleep for tomorrow.”

  “What the ’ell ’appened out there?” Henri asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Michael replied curtly. Henri nodded, and the two men walked in silence back to the house.

  Michael walked into his bedroom and lay down, fully clothed, on his bed. As soon as he closed his eyes, the replay of the night’s events took over. While some aid workers occasionally used drugs or alcohol to numb themselves into a state where sleep was possible, Michael had a different addiction. He’d convinced IMAF to transport his old Cervélo racing bicycle and wind-trainer to Goma. The wind-trainer converted the Cervélo into a stationary bike. Giving up on sleep, he slipped into a pair of threadbare spandex shorts, inserted his ear buds, picked a playlist, checked his musty cycling shoes for scorpions, slipped the shoes on, and swung his leg over the seat. He clicked his shoes into the pedals and was soon pedaling about thirty kilometers per hour. He tried to visualize the training route he had done hundreds of times back home. North from Seattle, across the flatlands, into the foothills, and then up and down the highways that cut through the North Cascades. The mountain roads were narrow, but the scenery was breathtaking, traffic was scarce, and the air tasted alpine fresh.

  The sweat began to run, welling out of his pores. In its exodus, some of the frustration, and fear began to leave him. His legs pumped and whenever thoughts of Anna or Laurent intruded, he put the hammer down, pedaling furiously. The combination of fatigue and throbbing punk music temporarily banished the demons. Cycling was his daily salvation, cleansing his mind, body, and spirit. It was an act of obsession and meditation. After an hour on the bike, Michael dismounted, toweling the sweat from his face. It reminded him of the Mai Mai general, and he shuddered. He changed T-shirts and went to the kitchen for a bottle of water before crawling again into bed. He lay there, conscious but almost comatose, until dawn arrived.

  Without changing or washing up, Michael trudged into the kitchen.

  “’ello, Doc Mac. I am so sorry,” came the greeting of Mbake Sivha, the compound’s cook. She was an imposing woman, always swathed in bolts of bright material and a matching scarf in her hair Today she wore red, green, and yellow stripes, the national colors of the Congo. With her vibrant clothes, her huge smile, and her fabulous cooking, she was a boon to the often exhausted and sometimes discouraged medical staff.

  “Bonjour, Mbake,” Michael replied in a monotone.

  She wrapped him in a hug, but stepped back moments later. “Doc Mac, I t’ink you still have the blood on you.” She swept her fingers across her right cheek.

  Michael put his fingers to his cheek. Something had hardened on his skin. He flaked a piece off and looked at it. Definitely blood. He collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and put his hands over his face.

  Mbake wiped her hands on a tea towel and, not knowing what else to do, ladled a giant portion of hot cereal into a tin bowl. It sat untouched in front of Michael as he began to cry.

  As he calmed down, Michael started to explain the previous night’s disastrous events to Mbake. “It was my fault! I should have just given him the money right away.”

  “No. You did not know what would happen. There was nothing you could do.”

  A phone jangled on the kitchen table. They both looked at it, fearing bad news.

  Mbake picked it up. “Bonjour.” She listened briefly. “Oui, un moment. Michael?” Mbake held out the phone. “It’s Henri.”

  Michael looked at the phone before taking it, worried about Anna and also suddenly remembering Étienne.

  “Michael here.”

  “Michel, mon ami, je veux dire . . .”

  “English, Henri, tell me in English.” There was a pause. “Is it Anna?”

  “No, she is doing well. A strong woman, our colleague. I wanted to tell you—the boy, Étienne. ’e is doing very well. Stronger. No fever. ’ungry.”

  “Good.” Michael struggled to respond with the appropriate enthusiasm. The boy would not yet join the hordes of dead African children whose ghosts already haunted his nights. Michael took a deep breath and then said, “Thank you, Henri. That’s really great news. Merci.”

  Mbake hugged him and stepped back. “Go see Étienne, Michael.”

  “Thank you, Mbake. I’m so sorry, about everything.”

  Étienne was recovering nicely. Kids, he thought. Such remarkable powers of recuperation if given half a chance. Étienne was smiling and looked like he’d already gained five pounds. Henri had changed the dressing on his arm and there was no sign of infection. But this small victory was overshadowed by last night’s losses. He walked over to see Anna and was relieved to see that she was finally asleep.

  As Michael was leaving the rehab tent he ran into Jean-Claude.

  “I’ve been in touch with HQ.”

  “Why?”

  “You know the drill. When something like this happens, we have to file an incident report. It’s a sure thing that they’re going to send you home early.”

  “What? No! There’s still so much to do. You need me.”

  “It’s routine, Michael. When our people are victims of violence or other major traumas, they get pulled out. IMAF has to protect its people, and itself. Anna’s going home too.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as she’s medically cleared to travel.”

  “And me?

  “As soon as I can get you on a flight.”

  Michael was stunned. He was supposed to work in Goma for another three weeks. On autopilot, he brushed his teeth and took his anti-malaria medication. Although it was mid-morning he went back to bed, lying under the mosquito netting, trying not to think about Laurent and Anna. He needed to call Maria but wasn’t ready. He wondered for the umpteenth time what he was doing in Africa, eight thousand miles from his wife, home, and friends. How could he return to a normal life in Seattle after everything he’d experienced here?

  Insects hummed and lizards darted, the walls moving with life. The air was heavy and warm. From the moment he had first stepped down the shaky steps of the single-prop plane, two things had struck Michael. The piercing clarity of the light, and the intensity of the smells. The pong of nervous sweat and the odor of decay were pervasive, unpleasant, foreboding, and would be stuck in Michael’s nostrils until he left. Occasionally there was relief—the aroma of a roasting goat or chicken, or a bush exploding with fragrant blossoms. But the stench of decomposition—living things on their inevitable trajectory toward death—was ubiquitous.

  He put on his headphones, choosing Rostropovich playing Elgar’s cello concerto. Eventually the music lulled him to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, it was not a peaceful experience. He tossed and turned, thrashing the mosquito net. Drenched in sweat, he awoke wit
h a start, pushed the light button on his watch, and saw that it was 3:47 p.m. He had somehow slept through his alarm and the hottest part of the day. He reached for his water bottle on the floor beside him, acutely aware, even in the haze of his grief and guilt, of the luxury of having a secure supply of clean water.

  Michael wanted to talk to Maria. He wanted to call Dominic, his best friend. He longed to hear the voices of the people who meant the most to him. But for now, he had patients waiting, children who needed his help. Michael pulled on his running shoes, yanked the elastic laces tight, and ran toward the surgical tent. Time for another shift, and another, until it was time to go home.

  Chapter 4

  Michael flew to Seattle from Goma via Entebbe, Addis Ababa, and Frankfurt, finally touching down at Sea-Tac Airport. Less than forty-eight hours earlier he’d been living in the midst of a humanitarian crisis, in a city of abject poverty, in a nation embroiled in a perpetual civil war. And it was only a few days since the vicious Mai Mai attack. He was returning to a middle-class neighborhood in a cosmopolitan city in the world’s wealthiest nation. Instead of worrying about violence, hunger, and disease like Goma residents, folks in Seattle were worried about whether the Seahawks would make the playoffs, whether the Mariners should trade their ace pitcher, the twists and turns of the latest Netflix hit series, and the yo-yoing price of gasoline.

  Maria met Michael at the airport. She was short but not petite, with long black hair and smooth tawny skin. Her big brown eyes were magnified by a stylish pair of bright red glasses. Tears welled as she saw how haggard he looked. He smiled and opened his arms to hug her, but she could see that the familiar sparkle in his eyes was missing.

  Maria burrowed into his embrace. He lifted her off the ground and they held each other tight, breathing each other in. She stood on her tiptoes and gently pulled his head down so she could give him a long, soft kiss on the lips.

  “Hey, you’re supposed to be happy to see me! What’s with the waterworks?”

  Maria looked up at him, shaking her head. “I am happy. I missed you terribly! These are tears of happiness that you’re back safely.”

  “Well, it’s great to be home.”

  “But how are you? You look so . . .” she searched for a kind way to put it “. . . thin! And why won’t you tell me why you came home early? What happened?”

  “It was crazy. The time went so fast. It seems like I just left yesterday but also as though I’ve been gone for years. But last week—” Unconsciously he rubbed the right side of his face where he’d been spattered with Laurent’s blood. “I’ll tell you all about it. I promise. But let’s get out of here.”

  “Yes of course, let’s go home.” Maria took Michael by the hand and led him toward the exit.

  They spent the evening together, overcoming the awkwardness of almost three months apart. For one night, at least, they implicitly agreed not to discuss the storm clouds that hung over them. Michael’s obvious trauma. Seven years of frustrated efforts to become parents. Their window of opportunity was closing. Michael was forty-two and Maria thirty-nine. Neither had mentioned the subject of children while Michael had been in Africa, but they would have to face it soon.

  When they went to bed, naked, their lips and hands roamed freely, finding and caressing each other’s sweet spots. Neither spoke as Michael rolled on top and Maria guided him inside her. She placed her hands on his hips, setting the pace as they moved together. For a few precious minutes, all of their trials and troubles were a million miles away. Michael closed his eyes only to see an image of Anna’s battered body, lying prone on the dusty road. His erection deflated, and he rolled back onto his side of the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to make eye contact. He wanted to scream.

  “It’s okay. We’re just out of practice.” Maria stroked the side of his face, but he turned away from her. She frowned but put her arm around him anyway. “Good night, my love.”

  “Good night, Maria,” Michael managed to say, his throat constricted with grief.

  He woke early from a fractured sleep in which he had cried out several times, waking Maria each time. The birds were welcoming the new day, although it would be another hour before the sun poked over the treetops and shone into the bedroom window. There was a slight whiff of salt in the air, meaning the breeze was blowing onshore.

  Maria was still asleep, her rhythmic breathing music to Michael’s ears. He listened for a while, then carefully untangled his arms and legs and sat up. Through the French doors he could see the small garden, surrounded by wild blackberries and towering cedar trees. Finches, chickadees, and nuthatches jockeyed for position at the bird feeder. Michael marveled again at how far he’d come, how fast, and how different were the two worlds. The transition back to his old life in Seattle would be challenging. He was struggling with what to say, what to share.

  Maria stirred, and draped her arm across his waist. “Buenos días,” she murmured.

  “You mean good afternoon.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. You’re going to be late for class,” Michael warned.

  “No. It’s Saturday.”

  “Nice try. It’s Wednesday. But if you want to skip school, I could give you a doctor’s note.”

  Maria stayed in bed until the last possible moment, then dashed off to teach her international law class at the University of Washington. Michael wandered around the house, struck by the relative luxury they lived in. To reboot he called Dom, his best friend, campaigner for the National Wildlife Federation and fellow endurance sports enthusiast.

  “Hey, Dom, it’s Michael.”

  “Hiya, stranger! I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Maria told me you were coming home early.”

  “Well, here I am, sitting at home with an Americano and a blackberry scone. Not my usual breakfast in Africa, I can assure you.”

  “Welcome home to the land of soy milk and organic honey. How was your trip?”

  “It was a trip all right—gut-wrenching, heartbreaking, unbelievable, insane. They say Africa gets in your blood—not just the malaria and the dysentery—but the magic of the place. How are you doing?”

  “Same old same old, you know. Saving the planet isn’t getting any easier. The environmental crisis seems to worsen week by week, and too many Americans think climate change is a hoax invented by the Chinese so they can sell solar panels. It’s just about enough to make a guy move to Canada!”

  “You’re still a fountain of good news. Win any races while I was gone?”

  “Nope. Gettin’ old. Hey, listen, I’ve got a conference call coming up in about five minutes. Can I call you back this afternoon?”

  “Sure. I was hoping we could go for a run sometime this week. We can catch up better in person.”

  * * *

  Over a supper of Mexican lasagna and green salad, Michael and Maria talked about friends, family, and the dismal state of American politics, but the conversation was stilted, awkward. Michael couldn’t bring himself to describe the events that led to his early return. After dinner, Maria embraced Michael from behind as he stood at the sink washing dishes. She nuzzled the nape of his neck with the soft skin of her cheek.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Maria had noticed him rubbing the right side of his face during dinner, an odd new habit he’d brought back from Africa.

  “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  She gently turned him around, examining his bloodshot eyes, the circles underneath so dark it looked like he had two black eyes. She gave him her skeptical look. “You’ve got to talk to me.”

  Knowing she wouldn’t relent, Michael raised his dripping hands in surrender. “It’s a long story. Let’s finish that wine while I fill you in.”

  Maria poured the last of the cabernet sauvignon into two mugs and took them out onto the deck. There was a new moon, and despite the lights of the city, the Big Dipper and
other constellations glowed faintly. She had spent many evenings out here while Michael was in Africa, making wishes on the first star she saw. Maria swore she wouldn’t have been as lonely while he was away if they had a child. But after three miscarriages and one stillborn baby, she wasn’t sure she could cope with trying again. Still, she had desperately wanted to become a mother, and so her anguish continued.

  “Sure is beautiful here,” Michael said as he joined Maria on the swinging loveseat, rubbing lotion into his dishpan hands.

  “You have to tell me your story now,” said Maria. “No more small talk. I know something terrible must have happened for you to come home early.”

  Michael hesitated. He didn’t know where to begin. He loathed the thought of talking about what had happened to Laurent and Anna. Maria slipped an arm around her husband and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here—back home. I’m supposed to be a medical professional. I’m trained to cope with trauma and death. But I really wasn’t prepared for the Congo. The endless, senseless violence. The horrific regularity of sexual assault. The astronomical child mortality rate. I felt so helpless seeing children die from illnesses that could easily be prevented by access to clean water or treated for about fifty cents’ worth of medicine.” Michael’s voice was cracking now. “I watched so many kids die under my care. Too many! I failed them. We all failed them.”

  “But that’s simply not true. What about all the lives you saved or improved? You must have made a difference, Michael. A huge, positive difference. I’m sure that you helped so many people while you were there. Organizations like IMAF win the Nobel Peace Prize for a reason, and it’s because of people like you.”

  Michael placed his hands over his face, as though he could block reality, and then let his hands fall to his sides. “Maybe you’re right. But our little victories are dwarfed by the losses. They seem insignificant. And it’s so bizarre to return to this other world, where people have so much wealth and so little compassion. There’s so much food in the grocery store, drinking water is used to flush toilets, there’s an epidemic of obesity, and our back alleys have fewer potholes than their highways.” He hesitated. “Sorry, I’m ranting.”