Running the Rift

by Naomi Benaron

  “Even me, I have to laugh when I hear his songs. They’re so exaggerated.”

  Coach shook a sauce-stained finger at him. “Don’t forget—you’re a member of Rubanda Nyamwinshi now. The great majority. Officially, you’re playing on Bikindi’s team.”

  Jean Patrick felt the hot flash of anger in his face. Could he calculate the instantaneous velocity of rage? In his mind, red arrows exploded from Simon Bikindi’s music, sprang from the students talking in animated voices at the next table. They sprouted from a stalk of bananas on an old woman’s head as she passed by the window. Arrows blazed from the cue sticks of the soldiers playing pool, calling out “Shot!,” slapping hands.

  JEAN PATRICK STRUGGLED through another eight hundred, wishing it would end. His times were not improving.

  “Run from your belly,” Coach shouted. Jean Patrick didn’t get what he meant. “Your belly!” Coach repeated. He made Jean Patrick lie down on the grass and place a hand on his abdomen. He made him bicycle in the air on his back.

  This is stupid, Jean Patrick thought. Frustration fueled his stroke. He forced his cadence higher until his stomach cramped. Then, out of nowhere, a jolt of energy went straight through his belly and into his hand as his legs connected to his core. “Coach, I got it!”

  “OK! Now get up and run. Quickly, before it goes away.”

  The feeling was no more than a shift in his center of gravity, a subtle flow of force inside him. But it was enough. He knew that this time, when he crossed the line, Coach would hold up his stopwatch and smile.

  AFTER THE WORKOUT, Jean Patrick sat on Coach’s couch and watched him pace. His thighs still throbbed with a pleasant, tingly heat. President Habyarimana glared down from his portrait on the wall. Giddy from his effort and emboldened by the Primus beer he had half finished, Jean Patrick tipped his glass toward the president in a mock toast.

  “What is that boy’s name, the Tutsi in your class who runs distance?” Coach asked.

  Jean Patrick’s heart quickened. “Isaka.”

  “Do you still run with him? He pushes you—you push each other.”

  Jean Patrick averted his eyes from Habyarimana’s gaze. “He left.” Isaka had not returned to school in September. There were rumors that his family had been killed in an August massacre in Kibuye, rumors that they had fled to Burundi. Jean Patrick didn’t take them seriously. He knew his friend’s spirit. Whatever had happened in Kibuye, Isaka had somehow survived.

  “No matter. You’ll be here permanently soon enough.” Coach jiggled a handful of peanuts. “There are two parts to the eight hundred: heart and head. You’ve got the heart, no question, but the head is where I come in. If you don’t have the tactics, you’ll never get out of the pack when you run with the Ndizeyes and Gilberts, the Sebastian Coes and Paul Erengs of this world. And starting next year, you’ll be doing that.” He listed off the dates of important meets, the times Jean Patrick should be running by then. “Strategy, Jean Patrick. More than any other race, the eight hundred is about strategy. Watch any national or international race and see how often the original leader actually wins,” he said.

  Listening to Coach’s plans, Jean Patrick realized that, like Roger at Easter, he now stood at the vertiginous edge of his future. The Olympics became something he could touch and taste and smell. He took another sip of beer and enjoyed the rush, the sensation of falling and flying at the same time.

  “Are you listening?” Coach poked Jean Patrick’s toe.

  Jean Patrick’s head snapped up, his eyes immediately pinned by Coach’s intense stare. He turned his attention to a copy of Kangura on the table beside him.

  A COCKROACH CANNOT GIVE BIRTH TO A BUTTERFLY, he read from the open page, a cartoon with a Tutsi woman beckoning to a Hutu man. A machete dripped blood behind her back. What would the world see when he ran for Rwanda? Cockroach or butterfly? When his picture appeared on the front page of the paper, how would anyone know who—or what—he was?

  Father Julius wrote the equation for the behavior of springs on the board. It was the last few minutes of the last class of the day, and Jean Patrick couldn’t concentrate. Looking out the window at the gray, rippled sky, he rubbed his legs, still sore from the weekend’s workout. Rain weighted the air. Quietly he touched a hand to his belly, lifted his leg beneath the desk, and tried to feel the instant when muscle converted to action.

  “Here is the work done by the spring when force is applied.” Father Julius drew a diagram with a spring and a thick arrow to represent the force. He wrote the calculus beside it.

  Jean Patrick copied the equation in his notebook. Then he added, Like a spring, if someone pushes me, I push back. An equal and opposite force.

  A tentative ping sounded on the metal roof. Jean Patrick looked at Daniel. Rain?? he scribbled on the corner of his page. Daniel grinned and shrugged his shoulders.

  The raindrops came closer together. Father drew two blocks connected by a spring, arrows of force between them. Before he finished, a riotous downpour ripped the sky. Yes!!! Rain!!! Daniel scrawled below Jean Patrick’s question.

  A rivulet of rain dripped between ceiling and wall. It ran down the board through the middle of Father’s artwork. The drumbeat of rain rode over his words. Finally the bell rang. “Class is finished,” Father shouted, chalk-whitened fingers held high.

  Everyone bolted from the classrooms, taking off their shoes to dance in the season’s first storm. “Imvura!” they shouted, faces turned toward the sky, arms held wide. Rain! It was an occasion worthy of tradition, the best Intore dancers going to the center to leap and spin, mimicking the steps of the early heroes, the graceful women of the mwami’s court. “Finally it’s come!” they sang. Even the priests joined in, showing off their best steps, white frocks raised to their calves. The courtyard erupted in swampy celebration.

  Jean Patrick could almost believe there was no war, no drought, no indangamuntu weighing down his pocket. Bean plants would sprout. Fish would fly onto hooks. Roger would come home from the mountains unharmed. From nowhere, a memory of Mathilde came to him, a day when her face gleamed like polished copper, her smile transformed by the simple miracle of rain. After her death, they found out she had come in first in exams. She would have started secondary school this year, but no miracle could make her rise from the dead.

  A FEW DROPS still fell when Jean Patrick and Daniel walked back to the dorm and pushed through the ruckus of naked boys. Instantly, Jean Patrick knew his bed had been disturbed. He could smell it, sense it on his skin, taste it on his tongue. He felt between the sheets, looked under the bed. When he ran his hand beneath the pillow, he found what had been placed there.

  It was a copy of Kangura, folded open to an excerpt from a speech by Mugesera. Two sentences were underlined in red. If you are struck once on one cheek, you should strike back twice. And Your home is in Ethiopia, and we are going to send you back there, quickly, by the Nyabarongo River. The word quickly had been crossed out and dead written in its place.

  Jean Patrick put the paper back beneath the pillow and sat heavily on the bed. The euphoria of the rain had evaporated; in its place was a sense of shock and the eerie feeling of eyes at his back. He looked around the room but saw only the chaos of bodies and slapping towels.

  “What happened, eh?” Daniel sat beside him, dressed only in a towel. Beads of water blinked from his skin.

  “Leave it,” Jean Patrick said, instantly regretting his harsh tone. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  Jean Patrick ran outside without answering. It was forbidden to leave school grounds, but he slipped out the gates, still barefoot and in his soaked school uniform. Again he felt the prickle of eyes at his back. At the edge of town, he stopped at his father’s favorite bakery. The yeasty warmth of baking bread enveloped him. Instantly he was a small boy again, holding his father’s hand and pointing at the chocolate-covered biscuits.

  “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.

  TWELVE

  THE 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.

  JONATHAN 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?”