Sometimes the Darkness

by Will Campbell

  (Translation from French)

  April 27th

  My Dearest Sophie:

  First, I hope you and Michael are well and happy. Second, I must apologize for the stain at the top of this page. It has been hot (always) for the past two weeks, more so than is usual. The bugs are horrible, worse than I have seen since I have been here. A beetle crawled onto the paper and I hit it even before I could think of what I was doing. I apologize for the stain, but I did not want to waste paper. This country teaches one not to waste anything (as if your grandmother had not taught me that many, many years ago).

  Tell Michael that Mr Martin, the American pilot, arrived over eleven weeks ago and has been very busy since he arrived. After his first flight to Ethiopia, he has been flying several times a week, moving patients and doctors back and forth between our mission and elsewhere, mostly Kenya, then bringing supplies from Nairobi. Sometimes, he flies to Khartoum and Port Sudan. He said that the customs people in Port Sudan are especially fond of him. When he mentions this, he smiles an odd smile. He is a quiet man and at first, he seemed overwhelmed, but once he started flying, he changed. Then there is Sister Marie Claire; she and Mr Martin have become the talk of the mission. They are an odd pair. Antagonistic is the word I’m looking for, but that is not right either. There is a tension, yes, but it is not a bad tension; perhaps more a teasing. I do not know how to describe it. I think they are good for each other, even though they seem not to be when I watch them. She hits him, which is a good sign. The odd thing is that she has stopped hitting anyone else.

  Sophie was surprised by this news. She knew of Sister Marie Claire.

  The conflict here has increased of late. There is now gunfire in the distance, is now coming more often and often nearby. We have had two people killed here in the past four months. One, a young girl from the Darfur region, was a favorite of Sister Marie Claire. The good sister was devastated, both heartbroken and furious at the same time. It was Mr Martin who calmed her anger and since then, since he began flying, he has become more of a leader here every day. Now, the good sister turns to him for advice before the doctors or even me. He has a way of calming her, as I have said. She has been good for him. She teaches him of Sudan and its people and of the conflict, the nature of the conflict. It is hard to understand, hard especially for an American, I believe. When you have not experienced war, not seen this kind of cruelty and disrespect for life, it is hard to know how to respond to it. Even for us who have been here for some time, even we have not learned to understand why it is so cruel. The treatment of the children and the conditions they experience every day of their short lives, this is what pierces our hearts the most. The loss of hope and expectations is the worse. Seeing eyes that are empty of everything but fear is so tragic.

  A problem is developing and it is causing me some amount of anxiety. The American pilot and one of the Slovakian doctors have begun asking why the church does not take a more active role in discussions with the governments of America and the European countries to intercede on behalf of the people of Sudan. These questions come now almost daily, on the evenings we can gather together, during and after the meals, when we have time to talk. Now the questions of why the church and the other nations refuse to help more than they do always dominate the talk. I tried to explain the role the church and others have played in seeking peace, but my explanations were met with more questions and apparent disappointment. I continue to explain, but I’m afraid Mr Martin and the doctors are looking for answers I cannot give. While she does not participate in these discussions, I’m also afraid that perhaps Sister Marie Claire sows the seeds of impatience in the pilot when they talk alone, but I do not know this for certain.

  I should let you know that I may be returning to France in six months, perhaps less. The church has decided that I have been in Sudan long enough. I am afraid I am not disappointed. Our work here is important, but so difficult and frustrating. I miss you and our family. I miss France. Please write when you can. All my love to you both.

  Jean-Robert

  16

  Looking like an old stove on wheels, each corner dipping up and down in counter motions, the dull white Land Cruiser moved down the track between Rumbek and the mission, following the sea swell ruts, small waves of African dirt, a land boat with two survivors aboard, Hanley and the young Irishman, Dr O’Connell. Bouncing along inside, they discussed a wide variety of topics, everything from the difference between Irish and Scotch whiskey to Hanley’s preferred current topic of destiny and the role it played in his life. The young doctor was resisting Hanley’s attempts to draw him into a conversation, too tired to talk after a long night tending to new patients, more children infected by measles.

  Hanley was questioning the church’s position on fate and Sudan, which led to the young doctor trying to explain the role of destiny or determinism in Christian beliefs.

  “The church believes that God’s divine providence carries man along as a swollen stream might. That man is free to swim against the stream, dog paddle with the current, try clinging to rocks along the way or float on his back and whistle or even drown. All of those actions represent man’s free will. No matter what he chooses to do, he still is carried along by the stream. Some Protestants believe a man is placed in the stream by God and can only float or drown. He has no choice. That is predestination.”

  Hanley checked the fuel gauge, noticing again the Land Cruiser’s large black steering wheel was cracked from years of heat and sweat. Hanley said, “Yes, that makes sense. I thought it was a heaven or hell thing, no grey area, God doesn’t allow for wiggle room, tow the mark or burn. And, isn’t that really destiny? I still think an omniscient did, somewhere along the line, add destiny to the mix, beyond the obvious overly deterministic predestination bullshit. Or is that man-made? I mean, I think some people just have a certain fate in store for them. Let me give you an example. When I was young, just out of college, I worked for a company, Thompson Machine, that manufactured machined parts, some of which were used in the aviation industry. It’s where I got my start. I was on my way to Wichita, Kansas and stopped in St. Louis to see a company I hoped to land as a client. It was a disaster. It shook me up for weeks. It was probably as much bad luck as anything, but it was one experience, not the only one, but one that started me thinking about fate. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

  A young Hanley Martin had made a sales call to a company in St. Louis, one of his first stops as he headed west toward Wichita and its many aviation companies. As he waited in the lobby, the man he was to meet, the Purchasing Director, was killed by his wife in his own office, after she accused him of having an affair with his secretary. She punched him and, as he fell backward, hitting his head on the corner of his desk, killing him instantly. Hanley did not make the sale that day. Hanley said, “After that day, I have always wondered about the decisions we make in this life and if they are really random or are they influenced by forces we do not recognize or would not understand if we did know about them. I’m not talking about the guy that died. He knew why his wife was there, cursing, showering him with spit and anger. He was guilty of getting some mud for his turtle with his secretary, as we used to say in high school. Sorry. What leads us to be on a bridge that collapses, to be standing in front of a desk with hard corners and not a haystack when slugged by your wife or fly a plane to Africa? Is it truly chaos or is it a plan? I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “What is that?” Dr O’Connell said, looking up the road ahead. Lying by the roadside, Hanley saw a form, indistinguishable at that distance, looking like a mound of dirt, dark, but with something bright in its midst, maybe a scrap of paper or cloth, weeds surrounding whatever it was, making identification more difficult. As they approached, Hanley slowed the truck, stopping beside what now appeared to be a body. The two men looked at it for a moment, the sadness connecting them tangible like webbing strung between, spun by the spiders of conflict that haunted Sudan. O’Connell said, “Let’s take
a look.”

  Covered in a coarse, mud-red blanket, a single foot protruding from beneath it, was the body of a boy, maybe twelve years old, Hanley thought. He was mostly skin and bones, his face gaunt, eyes protruding, staring at whatever lay before him in whatever world he now found himself. “He’s still warm,” the doctor observed after touching his wrist, feeling for any sign of life. “I didn’t see him on the way into Rumbek this morning, did you?” Dr O’Connell asked Hanley.

  “No, no, I didn’t. Maybe he and whomever he was with hid in the brush when he heard the truck coming. Perhaps he thought we were soldiers or Baggara.”

  “Maybe. Will you open the back of the truck? We’ll at least see that he’s buried. We didn’t do anything else for him, now did we? We can at least do that.”

  Hanley opened the rear door of the Land Cruiser, holding it while the doctor placed the boy’s body inside. Arranging the blanket so it completely covered the boy, Dr O’Connell stopped, laid a hand on the cloth covering the dead boy’s head and held it there for a moment. Then he turned to Hanley and said, “What he’s facing today must be better than what he faced yesterday.”

  Hanley looked up and slammed the door closed.

  ***

  “Jumma.”

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “Could you come with me to the clinic? I want to store the medicine and the supplies Mr Martin brought from Nairobi. We are fortunate the people at the Nairobi Hospital are generous in response to our needs and requests. They understand how severe our situation is.”

  Sister Marie Claire had found Jumma sitting alone in the dining hall at the main table, writing in his notebook with the black and white, speckled, hardboard cover. Now, with his head down, he continued to write as they spoke. Jumma said, “I think the people at the hospital in Nairobi may not be as good to us as you believe.”

  “What do you mean, Jumma?”

  “Last night, two of the doctors were talking about the supplies and just how much was brought back in Hanley’s airplane. One of them said he thought it was unusual, that is the word he used, ‘unusual’. The other doctor said he thought Hanley was buying extra supplies. I don’t know about this.” Jumma did not look up from his writing, which she knew he loved, and so she was not insulted.

  “Jumma, are you certain that is what they said? I do not mean to doubt you, it is just that this is a serious allegation, one that I must look into. Our relationship with these hospitals is important to the mission. It has taken the church some time to develop these ties. Why would you tell me this if you knew I would talk to others about it?” she asked.

  “Sister, I do not know why I told you. I should have known it would upset you and I do not want to do that. I could not prevent myself from telling you and I do not know why,” he said.

  “Which doctors said this? Which doctors, Jumma?”

  Two quick steps brought the nun to the table’s edge. Placing her hands flat on the table top, she leaned forward, pushing her words toward him. “Jumma, tell me which doctors.”

  The young African stopped writing, twirled the pen in his fingers, his trouble drawn on his face, stopped twirling the pen, looked out the window in front of him and said, “Dr Milosiak, he said it.” Jumma closed the notebook and stood. Looking at the nun, he said, “Sister, I really don’t know about this. I heard the doctors talking, that’s all.”

  Her jaw working back and forth, Sister Marie Claire stood up straight, turned and walked to the door. Without looking back, she asked, “Will you help me, Jumma?”

  “Yes Sister.”

  The clinic was crowded, a line forming at the door, ran across the open space to a tree, around the tree and toward the road. Three doctors and two nurses were providing care that day. To alleviate the crowding in the clinic itself, one doctor and a nurse were working the line, screening the people to prioritize the cases.

  Sister Marie Claire walked fast, so fast, Jumma could barely keep up. She stopped by the tree, hoping to calm herself before reaching the clinic. She stood with her eyes shut, her hands balled into fists. When she opened her eyes, she saw a man, standing in a line of people waiting to see the clinic doctor, staring at her. In his arms, he carried a child, a boy, thinned by prolonged hunger, his eyes now slightly bulging, his lips swollen and parched. The man looked so forlorn, she thought, so lost. As they exchanged looks, the man smiled a wan smile, a brief betrayal of his circumstance, offered to the nun as a gift, a gift without reason. It lasted only a second as the line began to move and the man was forced to move with it.

  Jumma asked, “Sister, why is it that Hanley’s kindness makes you angry?”

  “I’m not angry, Jumma. I just wish Monsieur Martin had talked to me about this first. We have a good arrangement with the hospital in Nairobi. I don’t want that to change,” she said. “I am going to the office to call the hospital, then I’ll come back so we can work. We have much to do this morning.”

  ***

  Playing with his two-way hand-held radio to pass the time, Hanley’s face was covered with a fine layer of sweat. He sighed, smacked the radio against his leg, looked at it again, moved the dial again, heard nothing but static and then put it in a pocket of his cargo pants. “Forget it,” he said to no one as he was alone. Looking up from the front seat of the Land Cruiser, he saw Sister Marie Claire striding across the grounds toward him. She looks constipated, he thought. As she drew near, he slid from the seat to stand by the truck. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Monsieur Martin, I have a question.”

  ‘Okay, shoot.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Please, ask the question.” Hanley smiled, but it was apparent the nun was in no mood for smiles. She stood before him, arms at her side, fists clenched, feet apart. Hanley thought she looked ready for a fight.

  “The doctors believe you may be buying supplies from the hospital in Nairobi. The hospital has been generous and understanding of our needs. I’m afraid you may have caused us a problem.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “If they believe you are willing to pay for the supplies we require, if they think we now have a rich American, willing to spend his own money, then they may not be willing to donate these supplies. You may have harmed all the work we have done to gain a commitment from them, a commitment to our mission. You should have talked to me first. It was irresponsible of you. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You don’t know how it is here. This is not America–”

  “Really; I hadn’t noticed.”

  “–and things are done differently. Please don’t hurt our efforts. I know, at least I think you want to help, but we have been nurturing these relationships for many years.” While the nun complained to Hanley, he smiled at her, which made her even angrier than she had been when she started her explanation. Her eyes narrowed, her voice rising, her irritation clearly apparent to the American.

  “Monsieur, you must believe I am very concerned. What we do here has many limitations imposed upon it. Relationships are fragile. Don’t bring us problems; we have enough.”

  Hanley said, “I understand, I really do. I’m just trying to help. I have resources that have value here and I just thought that maybe I could, you know, make a difference.”

  “You are making a difference. Bringing us medicine and doctors, taking patients to hospitals for care, that makes a difference, a great deal of difference. I thought you would understand that.”

  “Sister, I understand, maybe better than you think. When I first picked up supplies in Kenya and saw how little they were sending, I thought of suggesting I could perhaps buy some extra, you know, a hundred extra tongue depressors here and there.”

  The nun shot back, “You didn’t just buy some additional tongue depressors. There is much more than normal at the clinic. I contacted the hospital in Nairobi and was told I should speak to you about the arrangement. What arrangement?”

  “I had the opportunity to meet the hospital’s administrator at the airport in Nairobi. I was p
icking up the doctor from Sweden who had been at the Nairobi Hospital before coming here. The administrator had driven him to the airport. The administrator asked me if I was interested in flying their doctors to southern Kenya on occasion. They offered money, but I bargained for something else. They agreed to increase the monthly supplies for an occasional flight. Simple. They’ll also buy the fuel. It was an easy decision, I thought?”

  She stared at Hanley for a moment, her eyes wide and blinking rapidly. The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips, moving from one side of her mouth to the other. She looked down at her feet and said, “Thank you,” then turned and walked away.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  17

  African maize covered half of the garden plot, which was maybe half an acre, the corn now a foot high, the leaves small, covered in a fine dust, making them gray in the afternoon sun. The fruit, the ears were also small and would not be large he thought, not like the roasting ears found in Indiana and all over the mid-west of America. Maize was what his grandfather called rough corn. He knew enough history to know what he saw growing here came here from somewhere else, from somewhere in the Americas, an invention of the Mayans or Native Americans.

  Hanley tried to think of the size of the garden in hectares, but couldn’t get it right in his head. Sister Marie Claire was hoeing, digging out weeds between the rows at the other end. The American walked around, looking at the vegetables planted by the mission staff, tended by everyone but him. He recognized some beans, several types if squash, including pumpkins, if they were a squash. He thought he had known that once, but could not remember.

  It was late afternoon, with no real wind to stir the hot African air. He saw she wore an old baseball cap over a solid red bandana, the tails made by the knot lying on the collar of her dark blue shirt. The ball cap was also dark blue with a very large red C on the front. Where did that come from, he wondered. Her jeans were dirty at the knees, where she had knelt to pull at the more stubborn of her opponents. She hummed something, he did not recognize it. Without looking up, she said, “Did you bring a hoe?”