Running the Rift

by Naomi Benaron

  Coach turned the blade of his smile on Jean Patrick. “It’s like football. The game goes much easier when you play for the right team.” The car crept forward. The family scrambled to collect the last of their vegetables. The baby wailed, and a little girl reached inside the bundle to comfort it. Coach flicked his hand as if swatting at a fly. “What can you accomplish when your life is reduced to that?”

  Slowly, methodically, Jean Patrick smoothed the fabric of his track pants. That, he thought, is who I am. The soldier inspected their documents and waved them through, tipping his cap to Coach. As he forced air into his lungs, Jean Patrick wondered if this sharp edge of fear could ever be blunted. He wondered what it would feel like to play for the right team.

  “YOU HAVE A strong spirit,” Coach said when the soldiers had vanished into the haze behind them. “How are your feet?”

  “I’ll have to pop the blisters again.”

  “Do you need new shoes? You’ve earned them. Why didn’t you say something?”

  Jean Patrick shrugged. It had never occurred to him that new Nikes could be his just for the asking.

  “I’ve talked to the burgomaster. An Olympic runner would be quite a feather in his cap. Tell me—how would you like to be one of the chosen?”

  It was as if a book written in strange symbols had become suddenly clear—the photo before they left Gihundwe, the pointed questions and comments: Coach was offering him a Hutu card. He could barely take it in. “But everyone knows I’m Tutsi.”

  Coach waved the words away. “It’s not so difficult to invent a male Hutu relative somewhere in the past. Do you think it hasn’t been done before?” Jean Patrick had heard the stories. “I’ve accepted a position at National University. No one else in Rwanda can train you to reach your potential, so I want you to follow me there after you graduate. You’ll come to train with me on weekends next year, too. A Hutu card would grease all the wheels.”

  “I’m going to the Olympics; isn’t that enough?”

  “Not so fast,” Coach said. “You have to run an A-standard time on a sanctioned track with an approved timing system between January ’ninety-five and the games. And you have to make it past the National Olympic Committee, the sanctioning body of Rwanda. If they choose, they can bypass a Tutsi with an A time to pick one Hutu runner with a B time.”

  Jean Patrick sank back against the seat. He had assumed all he had to do was run fast, and he would get to the Olympics. We can never forget we’re Tutsi, his mother had said. They were climbing again, papyrus and umunyeganyege giving way to pine and eucalyptus. Coach honked at a group of children pulling a calf up the road, and they scurried out of the way. Clouds sailed across Bugesera, the hills stained with shadow. Whirlwinds of dust swirled in the valley. A truckload of boisterous soldiers passed them. Crowded together in the bed, they shouted and sang, rifles raised high.

  Coach smiled. “Their team must have won.” For a moment his eyes followed the men. Then he turned to Jean Patrick. “Someday a Hutu card could be even more important than the Olympics.” His smile had disappeared.

  Jean Patrick watched an ocher funnel swallow the children and their calf. The dust had an almost human smell, like sweat and earth fermenting in folds of skin. There was something else, too—a suggestion of iron and rust, like the scent of dried blood that remained as a war wound on Jean Patrick’s Nikes.

  THE DORMITORY WAS still dark, heavy with the sounds of sleep, when Jean Patrick awoke. He rose quietly and slipped on his new shorts. Mathilde had made them for National Championships, and he hadn’t had the heart to tell her he couldn’t wear them at an official meet. His muscles felt weak and wobbly, but he had too much shouting in his head. He needed motion to sort things out.

  Daniel stirred. “Where are you going, superstar? I heard Coach say to take the day off.”

  “My legs hurt if I don’t run.” The sky grew light beyond the window. Birds filled the dawn with shrieks and whistles.

  “I’ll come with you, then, make sure you don’t go at some crazy pace.”

  At the door, Daniel held him back. “Do you have your card?”

  “We won’t be long. For once, I don’t want to have to think, Am I Hutu or Tutsi?”

  They set off at an easy pace. Jean Patrick thought of Gilbert and Ndizeye skimming around the track. Joyful songs of Sunday worship came from the churches.

  “Coach offered me a Hutu card.”

  “Let’s walk a minute. I can’t keep your slow pace and speak,” Daniel said, walking. He grabbed Jean Patrick’s hand. “Of course, if you have a chance, you must take it.”

  “But what about my family? How can only I be Hutu?”

  “If you have a card that says you are Hutu, what can anyone do?”

  “That’s what Coach said. Still, I would feel like a traitor.”

  “I got a letter from Papa yesterday.” Daniel slowed. He picked at the mole above his lip. “The commander instructed them to start making lists.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of lists?”

  “Tutsi. They were ordered to drive through neighborhoods and identify every Tutsi hut, every Tutsi house, every Tutsi business.”

  “And your papa did it?”

  “What choice does he have? He’s a soldier.”

  Jean Patrick shook off Daniel’s hand and broke into a run, dodging between a group of chittering girls and a man on a rickety bicycle. From the steep, runneled cliffs that framed the road, skinny trees rose as if only hope held them in place. Sun shimmered on the hills, a blue haze rising from the eucalyptus. A stork, startled, rose from a field below. Daniel tried to keep pace beside him. Jean Patrick increased his speed until Daniel dropped back. If he didn’t keep going, he would grab Daniel by the shirt as if everything was his fault: checkpoints and soldiers, Coach’s needling insults, yesterday’s lost race, the making of lists. He would shake his friend until he confessed what his papa would do if they told him to aim his gun at the Tutsi and shoot.

  BY THE TIME Jean Patrick reached the edge of town, churchgoers filled the road. A little girl in a Sunday dress, a child on her back nearly as big as she, stopped to point and giggle. Suddenly he remembered his shorts and sweaty jersey. He found a goat trail and pushed as hard and fast as he could go. The knot of anger in his throat did not release until the dusty ribbon of earth leading to his compound rose before him. There, a man in a suit stepped jauntily down the path. A brown briefcase swung from his hand, and his glasses gleamed like twin stars.

  “Mwaramutseho,” Jean Patrick called.

  The man waved and passed his hand over a cottony cap of hair. The gesture immediately carried Papa to Jean Patrick’s mind. His hair would be turning white, too. When he died, Jean Patrick had reached barely to his waist. Now, he imagined, they would be amaso ku maso, eye to eye. He tried to journey through the years and pull back the details of Papa’s face, but he realized he could not.

  What would Papa say about his beloved president now? Would he tell Jean Patrick to take a Hutu card? What would he think of the names of his family inscribed on a government list? Jean Patrick stopped by a tree to stretch. No, he thought. That can’t happen in Cyangugu.

  Lake Kivu stretched, steel black and dazzling, below. A group of sisters came out from Ntura Church. “Eh-eh, Jean Patrick,” they teased. “Running on the Lord’s day? And in such tiny shorts?” Peals of laughter followed, and their chatter buoyed Jean Patrick’s mood. There must be some explanation, he reasoned, some necessity for having these lists in Kigali.

  JEAN PATRICK FOUND Mukabera on the way to her fields. “Amakuru, Jean Patrick?” Olivette smiled shyly behind her.

  “My news is good.” He was bursting to tell them about the Olympics, but he held back.

  “Where are your mother and your aunt?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just coming now from school. Didn’t you see them in church?”

  “They weren’t there. Please greet them for me.” Mukabera shaded her eyes and pointed. “Ah. Zachary is coming.”
Her broad smile disappeared, and alarmed, Jean Patrick followed her gaze. He saw the reason and broke into a run.

  Zachary raced wildly up the path, shirttails flapping. He stumbled, caught himself, stumbled again. “Fetch Angelique and Uwimana.” His chest heaved. “We have to bring them.”

  “What is it? What’s happened?” Jean Patrick pulled him close.

  “Mathilde’s so sick. We went to collect firewood and she fell down and started flopping around like a fish. Now she won’t wake up. Auntie says it’s malaria.”

  Jean Patrick tasted metal on his tongue. “Don’t worry. You just take the pills and get well.” He rested his hands on Zachary’s shoulders. “I’ll run back to school. You go home. Tell Mama and Auntie you found me, and I’ve gone to fetch Uwimana. Can you do that?” He ran his fingers across Zachary’s scalp. Zachary nodded. Once he disappeared into the eucalyptus, Jean Patrick ran as if his own life depended on it.

  In the few minutes he had stopped, his legs had stiffened up. He pleaded for one last burst of speed and careened down the hill. He had arrived at the gate when his foot caught on a rock, and he fell.

  “Are you OK?” A man offered his hand.

  When Jean Patrick stood, he saw the hand belonged to a young soldier. He reached for his card and with a rush of panic remembered he had not taken it. “Thank you. I’m fine. I’m sorry, but I—”

  “I don’t care about that.” The soldier pointed at Jean Patrick’s bleeding knee. “You’ve cut yourself.” He had a broad, friendly face, cheeks like a baby’s, and sleepy eyes. He offered Jean Patrick his handkerchief. “That looks nasty, huh?”

  The gesture nearly broke the dam that held back Jean Patrick’s tears. He thanked the soldier and wiped his knee. Gingerly he took a step. Nothing hurt. He gave back the handkerchief. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve soiled it.”

  “No worries.” The soldier hiked his pants over his round belly and resumed his stroll down the road. His arm remained in the air, locked in a farewell wave. Jean Patrick passed through Gihundwe’s gates, and his welled-up tears broke through.

  MATHILDE SHIVERED INSIDE a shell of blankets in Auntie’s bed, Mama and Auntie beside her. They wiped her face and neck with a cloth that smelled of herbs. Uncle Emmanuel paced. They were all dressed for church.

  Jean Patrick knelt beside Mathilde. “It’s your brother, Jean Patrick. Can you hear me?” He put a finger to her brow. It burned like fire. Her eyes flickered open, then closed again. He offered a silent barter—he would never get a Hutu card if Mathilde got well. He heard Uncle’s voice in his head. Imana iraguha, ntimugura, iyo muguze iraguhenda. God gives you, you don’t buy. If you buy, he overcharges. But no price was too high for his sister’s life.

  “We can use the blankets to carry her to the truck,” Uwimana said. “Angelique has gone to the Centre de Santé. They are expecting you.”

  Aunt Esther wrung out the cloth into the bowl. “Uwimana, we can’t pay much.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Jean Patrick, come help. The three of us can manage, I think.” Uwimana wrapped the blankets tightly around Mathilde in a makeshift stretcher. She had no weight to her body when Jean Patrick and Emmanuel lifted her, only fire and air. Even so, the journey to the road took forever as they picked their way down the trail. Their feet stirred clouds of dust, and Jean Patrick covered her face to protect her.

  At the truck, Emmanuel turned back. Jean Patrick watched his slow, uncertain steps. He stooped forward as if the weight of the years had suddenly landed between his shoulder blades.

  THEY CRAWLED THROUGH traffic. Jean Patrick wanted to lean his head out the window and shout at the milling crowds to get out of the way. If only they had an ambulance with a loud, wailing siren. The four of them were squeezed into the front seat, Mathilde across their laps, the windows closed against the dust and wind. Mathilde’s fever burned through the blankets. Every now and then, a quiver arched her spine.

  None of them saw the checkpoint until a line of brake lights appeared around a curve. The soldiers seemed to be scrutinizing every car, every cart, every boy on a bicycle. Jean Patrick touched his hand to his shorts pocket and went suddenly cold. This time, the sin of his forgotten card would not go so well. They arrived at the barrier, and an officer demanded their cards. Uwimana, Auntie, and Mama already had them in hand, and they offered them up for inspection. Jean Patrick went through the motion of searching, afraid the officer would hear the blood that roared in his temples. The officer waved his hand in front of Jean Patrick’s face. “Indangamuntu,” he repeated.

  His power of speech gone, Jean Patrick shook his head. He sensed the excitement of a lion circling its prey. “You don’t have your card?” the officer asked, opening the door and beckoning Jean Patrick to get out.

  “I was in a hurry,” Jean Patrick said, unfolding his body to stand beside the truck. Although he knew it was pointless, he made himself smaller so the man would not know him for a Tutsi. “My sister has malaria, and I ran to get home. Until now, I didn’t realize I had forgotten it.”

  Soldiers swarmed the truck. Mathilde whimpered. Behind them, drivers leaned from their windows to gawk. “Everyone out,” the officer said. He gestured toward Mathilde. “That cockroach, too. Out.” Already the soldiers were patting down the seat, going through the glove box. Mama and Auntie huddled together, motionless, their eyes on the road.

  “Officer, the girl is burning with fever. We’re taking her to the Centre de Santé. My wife is a doctor there,” Uwimana said.

  With Uwimana’s card clutched in his hand, the officer swiveled around to face him. “What are you doing with a car full of cockroaches? Are you an RPF supporter?”

  A soldier yanked Mathilde by her ankles, and she cried out.

  “She’s too sick,” Auntie said, and she took a step toward the truck. Another soldier pushed her back with his rifle, and she fell against Mama. A cry escaped Jean Patrick’s lips. He did not know if it was from the wind on his wet clothes or the rage that swelled inside him, but he began to shake and could not stop.

  The soldier pointed his weapon at Jean Patrick’s heart. “I should arrest you, Inyenzi,” he said.

  “Officer, I believe I have a solution to this problem,” Uwimana said, gesturing toward his inside jacket pocket.

  For a moment, no one moved. Exhaust curled up, blue and noxious, from the line of cars. Jean Patrick held his breath, the soldier’s finger still on the rifle’s trigger. He understood that right now, only Uwimana had the power to help them. Then the officer gave a faint nod. “Put up your hands,” he said. When Uwimana’s hands were raised, he patted him down and reached inside his jacket. Jean Patrick saw the quick palming of bills.

  “You may pass,” the officer said.

  Quickly they got back in the truck. Jean Patrick could touch the fear in the air, each of them praying that the soldiers would not suddenly change their minds. Uwimana put the car in gear, and in another moment, the checkpoint was behind them.

  As if sensing the release of tension, Mathilde sat up. Her eyes wandered dully from face to face. The blankets had slipped to her waist. One sleeve of her shift fell across her arm, exposing the delicate hollow between neck and shoulder. Jean Patrick covered her, and her eyes focused. “Here you are.” She smiled and leaned her head against him. “Don’t leave me again.”

  With trembling fingers, Jean Patrick swept a stray curl from her forehead. Sweat had frizzed her hair, destroying the neat bob she had worked so hard to create in imitation of Jacqueline. He kissed her brow, tasted her salt. “Don’t be afraid.” He tried to calm the hammer of his heart against his ribs. “You’re going to be well soon.” But it was more a plea than anything he believed.

  A SHARP MEDICINAL scent, the sour odors of disease and unwashed bodies, hit Jean Patrick as soon as Uwimana opened the door at the Centre de Santé. All the seats in the small front lobby were taken. Children played on the floor or wailed loudly in their mamas’ laps. A grandmother rose from her chair and beckoned. “Bring
that poor girl here. Let her sit.”

  Mathilde was awake. She smiled and thanked the woman, and Jean Patrick allowed himself a shred of hope. Uwimana pushed to the front of the line at the desk and spoke to a nurse. Soon Angelique appeared. “Come back,” she sang. Hearing her cheer, so much fatigue flooded Jean Patrick’s body that he thought he might sink to the floor.

  They put Mathilde on a cot, and she drifted back to sleep. When Angelique touched her forehead, her brow pinched. “Let me get the stick.” She pricked Mathilde’s finger. Mathilde wailed, and Angelique smiled. “Good,” she said, smearing the blood onto a glass slide. “That’s a very good sign.” She took Mathilde’s temperature, shone a light in her eyes, hit her knees and elbows with a rubber triangle. She held the stethoscope to Mathilde’s chest, her back, her stomach. She took more blood and gave her a shot. “Chloroquine,” she said.

  Mathilde opened her eyes, her brow wrinkled as a new puppy. “Good morning. Can you tell me your name?” Angelique asked.

  “Mathilde.”

  Jean Patrick let out a sigh of relief.

  “Let her rest while I look at the slides.” Angelique embraced Aunt Esther. Jean Patrick caught the deep lines of worry in Angelique’s reflection in the glass.

  When Angelique returned, she carried a hospital gown and a gray blanket with a white stripe. “We need to keep her,” she said. “She has a very high fever, and her malaria count is high. With the shot, she should be much better in a matter of hours. Esther, we’ll find you a cot so you can stay with her. I am hopeful that in the morning you can bring her home.” Esther clasped Angelique’s hands and held them to her forehead.

  Jean Patrick pressed his cheek to Mathilde’s. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “Ndagukunda cyane.” I love you very much. The flicker in Mathilde’s eyes told him she had understood.

  MARKET GOERS CREATED a congestion through which the truck barely moved. In the dying afternoon, hawkers called out bargains, packed up unsold tools and clothing, used appliances held together with hope and string. Flies swarmed around carcasses of meat. The aromas of overripe fruit and gamy animal flesh made Jean Patrick queasy. A bicycle taxi swerved into their path, and Uwimana braked to avoid it. The woman on the back loosed a stream of insults in their direction.