Running the Rift

by Naomi Benaron

  Jean Patrick took a fried sweet potato and dipped it in fresh milk. The cream floated to his lips, and his eyes closed with pleasure. “Mama,” he announced, “every day at school I will think of this taste, and I will be happy.”

  “Jean Patrick—listen to me!” Mukabera called across the room, raising her bottle of urwagwa toward him. “When you get sick of that school of yours, you come back and marry my beautiful daughter, eh?”

  Olivette tossed back her head in laughter, and it seemed to Jean Patrick as if she had just now stepped from the shadowy background and into day. He saw her white, straight teeth and lively eyes, her ocher skin, polished by the afternoon light that streamed through the windows. Like Jacqueline’s, her hair fell straight and shining around her ears. When he next came home, he would have to take her for a walk.

  “Oya, Mukabera—Jean Patrick will not have time for girls,” Uwimana said.

  Angelique rolled her eyes. “Umukunzi wanjye, there is always time for love.”

  Dipping into a fresh pot of igisafuria, Uwimana said, “Hear me—Jean Patrick is going to be a famous man in this country.” With his fingers he picked out a bit of chicken and popped it into his mouth.

  After oration from Mama, Uncle, and Uwimana, Uncle Emmanuel proposed a toast. Everyone whistled and raised a bottle. “Speech, Jean Patrick! Give us a speech!”

  He took in the celebration. There was so much he wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth to begin his speech, only a long sigh came from his throat.

  HIS SUITCASE OVERFLOWED, but still Jean Patrick kept finding one more thing he couldn’t leave behind. Pili lay by his feet, following his movements with a distrustful eye. “Zachary, tell me which of Papa’s books you want.”

  “Just the Bible and the hymnal. You can have your science—it thickens my head too much.”

  The suitcase wouldn’t close. Zachary had to sit on it while Jean Patrick knotted twine crosswise and lengthwise to keep it from bursting open.

  “This is a big fish you caught,” Zachary said.

  “From now on it’s up to you.” Jean Patrick cut the twine with his knife. “Next year you’ll get a scholarship for secondary school, and it will be your turn to leave.”

  Zachary leaned against the bookshelf, his countenance rapturous. He could have been Saint Kizito, stepped down from his pedestal at Gihundwe and come to life. “I’m not worried,” he said. “Imana has His plan for me.”

  On the shelf, carefully folded, was the suit that Uwimana and Angelique had given Jean Patrick for his journey. He shook out the pants and then the jacket. They were gray with faint silver pinstripes. “I’m an important man now, eh?” He pulled off his shorts and held the pants to his body. The pleasant scent of newness filled his nostrils as he pulled them on. He put on his blue shirt, freshly pressed, and then the suit jacket. The sleeves came exactly to the middle of his wrists, and he laughed, thinking of his mother secretly measuring him, passing the numbers on to Angelique for the tailor. He took a few prancing steps. “Smart, eh?”

  Zachary gave a low whistle. “Big professor, weh!”

  Jean Patrick hoisted the case onto his head. The weight was poorly distributed, and no matter how he tipped it, he couldn’t find the balance point. It was Zachary who succeeded. “What have I always told you?” Jean Patrick joked. “You’re good at science even if you don’t want to be.”

  THE BRIGHTLY COLORED procession to the bus stop snaked down the path. Jean Patrick and Emmanuel formed the last segment of tail, Jean Patrick holding tight to Uncle’s hand. A lifetime of hard work had callused those hands beyond healing; with his eyes closed, Jean Patrick doubted he could distinguish them from tree bark. Uncle wore his formal black suit and broad-brimmed black hat to mark the occasion. His carved herder’s staff accompanied his step with a toc. Baby Pauline trotted to keep ahead of them.

  They reached the stop just as the bus for Butare came into view. It strained up the hill, coughing out a thick plume of exhaust. At the tiny market that formed around the stop, market goers kicked up storms of red dust into air already thick with smoke from roasting corn and brochettes. Hawkers readied for the mad sprint to the windows, primping their baskets of sodas, breads, and candies, little sacks of fruit. As Jean Patrick went to buy his ticket, Uncle pressed a wad of crumpled bills into his palm.

  “Aye! This could buy half your motorboat.”

  “It’s bad manners to refuse a gift. A motorboat can’t run away.”

  “At least let me buy some intababara for the children.” Jean Patrick picked out a handful of plump fruits from a stall and put the rest of the money in his pants pocket.

  Emmanuel poked him. “Thief will take it there.”

  “Don’t worry. As soon as I buy my ticket, I’ll put the rest away.”

  Jean Patrick’s entourage stood as if waiting to be photographed when he returned. Clemence and the twins ran in and out between them, chins, arms, and dresses stained purple from fruit. Clémentine and Clarisse still dressed in matching clothes and giggled when someone mistook one twin for the other. Jean Patrick pantomimed snapping photos. “These pictures I can sell to a fancy tourist magazine.”

  Mama pressed a heavy sack into Jean Patrick’s hands. “So you don’t go hungry.” How many pairs of pants ironed for a loaf of bread? How many blouses for his favorite biscuits? “You better go now,” she said. “While you can still get a seat.”

  Jean Patrick pressed his forehead to hers. “Kubana n’Imana,” he said.

  “May God keep us all safe,” Uncle said, glowering at a group of Hutu Power boys. “There’s something from me at the bottom of the sack. You can open it when you arrive.”

  Uwimana clasped Jean Patrick’s hands. Unlike Emmanuel’s coarse grip, the palms felt soft and giving. “I meant what I predicted; you’ll be an important man in this country. My heart is full for you.”

  After hoisting his heavy suitcase up the step, Jean Patrick stopped to wave once more. It could go on forever, this thinning thread of good-byes. The driver sent out a blast from his horn.

  The last empty seats were in the rear, next to the window. A large woman carrying a basket filled with produce shoved in beside Jean Patrick. He squeezed against the side of the bus, and his knee vibrated to the engine’s hum. The bus door slammed shut, and Jean Patrick opened the window against the heat. The woman leaned across him and closed it again. “Leave it so,” she said. “We’ll all get sick from the dust.”

  With a loud clunk, the bus ground into forward gear. The driver turned up the radio, and the tinny speakers buzzed with song and static. 365 is my number.

  “Eh! That’s my favorite Sunny Adé tune. More volume!” a boy in a red and gold boubou hollered.

  “That’s as high as it goes,” the driver yelled.

  The boy stood in his seat and harmonized with the lyrics.

  “Lord bless us—we have the King right here on this bus,” someone joked. A riotous hooting and whistling erupted from the passengers.

  The bus lurched into motion. It snaked through the crowd and onto the main road, slowly gaining speed. Gears ground. The driver leaned on his horn. Animals and market goers scattered. Through the dust-caked window, Jean Patrick watched his family grow smaller and smaller as the distance between them increased. They still called and waved, but he could no longer make out the words. A crack in the glass split them precisely in half.

  BOOK TWO

  A BIRD BUILDS ITS NEST

  Buhoro buhoro ni rwo urugendo.

  Slowly, slowly, a bird builds its nest.

  FOURTEEN

  THE BUS ARRIVED IN BUTARE twenty minutes late, and Coach wasn’t at the stop. In his last letter, he had mentioned he would be coming from out of town. People pushed and shoved past Jean Patrick. A woman stepped on his foot. He checked his watch, imagining a car wreck, Coach lying at the bottom of a cliff. Jean Patrick hoisted his suitcase onto his head and set off toward Coach’s house. Dust coated his shoes and dirtied his pant legs. At the crossing with l’a
venue de la Cathédrale, a group of nuns passed beneath the archway and strolled onto the main road. The breeze flapped their habits as they stepped carefully across the litter and rotted fruit in their path.

  A boy pushing a bicycle taxi stepped in front of him. “Hey, mister, where you going?” He whipped a rag from his pocket and made a show of polishing the passenger seat.

  “I’m going to the dirt road just before Ihuliro Hotel. How much to take me there?”

  “That’s where the rich people live. One hundred francs.”

  Jean Patrick sucked his teeth. “You be thief. Me, I’m not rich. For that I can walk.”

  “How much, then?”

  “Fifty francs.”

  “How much you pay for this?” The boy leaned over his bicycle and rubbed the sleeve of Jean Patrick’s suit between his dirty fingers. He dug his flip-flops into the pedals and peeled away. Over his shoulder he called, “Stingy! You got crocodile in your pocket, afraid he’ll bite if you stick your hand inside?”

  “OK: sixty.”

  The boy stopped pedaling and turned around. “Seventy. And pay now.”

  “All right. Seventy. Let’s go.”

  Jean Patrick set down his suitcase and reached into his pocket. Uncle’s money was gone. He felt someone brush his side, and he whirled around to see three boys in ragged shorts sprint toward the market. Two held his suitcase between them. The taxi boy pedaled furiously down the street, hurling insults over his shoulder. Jean Patrick charged after the boys.

  The suitcase burst open, and clothes and books scattered across the dirt. The boys dropped it and disappeared into the swarm of foot traffic. Jean Patrick hurled a stone at their backs and slapped his head. What had Uncle told him about leaving money in his pocket? Dusting his things as best he could, he stuffed them back into his suitcase and dragged it to a spot beneath a tree. He retrieved the sack of food his mother had given him from his knapsack and took out a sandwich of fried sardine and tomato. It tasted of his mother’s love and the fertile earth of Gashirabwoba. It tasted of home.

  “SORRY,” COACH SAID when he appeared in a swirl of dust. Dust covered the doors, windshield, and mirrors. “I had to take a goat trail, and it was rough going.”

  Jean Patrick grasped his outstretched hand. He could have kissed it. “I was beginning to think you were dead.”

  “You can’t kill me off that easy.” Coach inspected Jean Patrick. “Didn’t your family feed you? You’ll blow away in the first gust.”

  “I ate plenty, Coach, but also I grew too much.” Jean Patrick maneuvered the broken suitcase into the trunk.

  Coach frowned. “What happened?”

  “My uncle gave me money, and I forgot to put it away. Some street kids tiefed it. My suitcase, too, but it came apart, so they dropped it.”

  “Let’s get you out of here before you get in trouble again,” Coach said. He opened the passenger door. The same red grit coated the dashboard.

  “Were you on safari?” Jean Patrick joked.

  Coach ignored the question. Jean Patrick rolled down the window and stared out at the town. He breathed in the clean, pungent scent of eucalyptus from cook fires. Buhoro, buhoro—slowly, slowly—he let go of anger and embarrassment.

  Coach pointed at a small house on a corner, barely visible behind a thicket of evergreen. “There’s Gicanda’s house. Your queen.”

  “The mwami’s wife?” Jean Patrick leaned out the window. On his tongue was the correction, She was queen for all Rwanda, not just Tutsi. But he swallowed it with a gulp of air, and instead said, “I hear she’s so kind. Anyone can visit.”

  “I’ve arranged for you to room with Daniel at university,” Coach said. “I have some pull where you’re concerned.”

  Jean Patrick clapped. “Like old times, like Gihundwe.”

  “Yes. Like old times.” Although Coach smiled, his mind seemed elsewhere. Maybe in the place he had just come from. Maybe with a girl, his secret umukunzi.

  A new, higher gate guarded Coach’s driveway, and a high wall surrounded the house. “Too many criminals,” he said. He honked the horn loudly.

  A grandmother in a muddied pagne shuffled to let them in. She grinned broadly, showing off her few remaining teeth. A strong scent of polish and soap permeated the front hall. As soon as Jean Patrick had removed his shoes, the grandmother clucked her tongue and took them. “To polish,” she said.

  “Jolie, bring us a beer and something to eat.” Coach plopped down on the couch. “Jean Patrick—put your things in the spare room; it’s all set up for you.”

  Jean Patrick rummaged through his suitcase and found a T-shirt and sweats. When he emerged from the room, Coach looked up from his running magazine and frowned. “You need to lift weights, eat more protein. You need plenty of meat if you want to tangle with world-class runners.” He motioned to a chair beside the couch.

  The smell of leather surrounded Jean Patrick as he sank into the seat. With all the new furnishings, he barely recognized the room. There were carvings of tribal art, large drums of varying types and sizes, and fancy lamps. A bookcase now took up most of one wall, with books in several languages, arranged by subject. Mostly history and government, but surprisingly he noticed titles of poetry, some traditional, in Kinyarwanda. Habyarimana still ruled the room from his place of honor above the mantel. Some things did not change.

  Jolie set a dish of freshly boiled peanuts and two Primuses on the coffee table. She opened the beers, tipped Jean Patrick’s glass, and poured. “For you. Muzehe pours his own.”

  “Jolie is the best cook in Butare,” Coach said. “Once you taste her food, you will want it every day.” Jolie cackled. Coach jiggled a handful of nuts and watched her shuffling gait in silence. When she had shut the door, he pushed the dish toward Jean Patrick. The nuts were still warm from the fire.

  “Tell me, do you still have your Tutsi card?” From Coach’s casual tone, he may as well have been inquiring about the weather.

  Jean Patrick’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “I do. Uwimana asked me to keep it.”

  “Good. I have a proposal for you.” Coach brushed salt and bits of skins from his trousers. “Well, not a proposal exactly, because the decision’s been made.”

  Suddenly, Jean Patrick couldn’t swallow. He didn’t know what to do with the nuts. Put them back in the dish? Pretend to eat them? He slid his clenched fist beneath his thigh.

  “I think I can trust you,” Coach continued, “if I speak frankly.”

  “Yego, Coach. You can trust me.” Jean Patrick wondered if this trust was mutual.

  “Our government is in trouble with the West. Important countries are threatening to cut off aid unless Rwanda shows progress with human rights.” Coach spat out these last words as if ridding his mouth of some foul taste. He moved closer, and Jean Patrick resisted the urge to scoot to the far end of the chair. “Certain people have decided you will be our example. What could be more progressive than a Tutsi in the Olympics?”

  Jean Patrick thought of the chess games between his father and Uwimana. When he was small, he used to watch, fascinated, as they picked up the mysterious pieces and moved them about the board. He felt like one of those pieces now, dangled from unknown hands. “I’m not clear. Are you saying you want me to be Tutsi again?”

  A mosquito alighted on Coach’s arm. He slapped it and flicked the body away. “You are the best runner this country has ever had. With the right training, you can medal. I don’t say this just to flatter you. In the world of track, you are the jewel in Rwanda’s crown. Why not give up the pretense and represent your people?”

  If Roger or Uncle had said this, Jean Patrick would have been proud. But coming from Coach, it sounded like a dismissal, an insult. “My people are the people of Rwanda,” he said. He slid his hand from beneath his thigh. One by one, he put the nuts in his mouth and chewed slowly. It was dizzying, this throwing down of one identity and picking up another. Outside the window, night bruised the sky. “If I am Tutsi again, can I st
ill go to school?”

  “Why not? You earned your scholarship.”

  “And travel to track meets?”

  “You must. No one here can challenge you, and you need to get your name out there. Run qualifying times where they count.”

  “But it’s so hard now for Tutsi to travel. What if I get stopped at the border?”

  Coach roared. “You leave that to me. All you need to do is run.” He poured the last of the beer into their glasses. “Good. It’s settled, then. Let us drink to your future.”

  Of course, it had been settled from the first. On the one hand, Jean Patrick felt relief. He would not have to bite his tongue each time he presented his card, and as Uncle had said, he would truly lift up all Tutsi with each victory. But now, when he put his indangamuntu in a soldier’s hand, he would once again know the feeling of surrendering his fate as well.

  He glanced up at Habyarimana, then down at the volumes of Kangura stacked on a bookshelf. Although he did not see it now, there must be some advantage he could gain from this game. All he had to do was bide his time, hang back behind the leader, the way Coach told him to run the eight hundred. Like a chess player concealing his strategy, he smiled at Coach. “To my future,” he said. They clinked glasses. “And my gold medal.” They drank.

  “Did you bring your Tutsi card?” Coach asked. Jean Patrick pointed toward the spare room. “Fetch it. And your Hutu card as well.”

  Jean Patrick took both booklets from his backpack. A piece of paper Jonathan had given him with his address fluttered to the floor. With trembling fingers he picked it up and put it on the table beside his bed. Cyarwa Sumo. Later he would have to ask Coach where that was.

  “You look like I’m going to shoot you,” Coach said when Jean Patrick put the two booklets on the table. “Don’t worry; everything will be all right. You have to trust me.” That word again: trust. Coach upended his glass. A mustache of foam remained on his lip. “I have to take this.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tapped the Hutu card.