Leaving the refectory, she tried to go upstairs to the first floor without being seen, and there, at the end of the corridor, was Father Herménégilde’s study. She felt as if she was being watched by all the other girls, who would be bound to notice her absence at study time anyway. She knocked at the study door as discreetly as she could.
“Quick, come in,” answered a voice with a kindness that surprised her.
Father Herménégilde sat behind a great black desk, on which stood an ivory Christ on the Cross, papers scattered across it – perhaps rough drafts of his lessons or sermons, thought Veronica. Behind him, beneath photos of the President and the Pope, the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, repainted in the colors of Our Lady of the Nile, presided over bulging shelves of books and folders. To the right, a black curtain closed off an alcove, doubtless where the chaplain’s bed lay.
“I’ve asked you here,” Father Herménégilde said to her, “because you’re very deserving of a reward. I’ve observed you closely and I appreciate the way you work. Of course you’re a Tutsi, but all the same, I think you’re a beautiful … a good girl. Take a look at the armchair beside you, I’ve picked out a pretty dress for you.”
Spread out on one of the armchairs reserved for visitors was a pink dress with a lace décolleté. Veronica had no idea what to do or say, and she didn’t dare approach the chair and the dress.
“It’s for you, it’s for you, don’t be frightened,” Father Herménégilde insisted. “But first I want to make sure it fits you, that it’s your size, so you’ll have to try it on, here, in front of me. I want to be sure it fits you properly, otherwise, I’ll fetch you another one.”
Father Herménégilde got up, came round the desk, took the dress and handed it to Veronica. She made to slip it over her uniform as Rwandan modesty requires.
“No, no, no,” said Father Herménégilde, snatching back the frock, “that’s not the way to try on such a lovely dress. I want to be sure it’s a perfect fit, and to do that you must take off your uniform, that’s how you try on a lovely dress like this.”
“But Father, Father …”
“Do as I say. What’s there to fear while you’re with me? Have you forgotten I’m a priest? A priest’s eyes know not concupiscence. It’s as if they didn’t see you. And you won’t even be fully naked … not quite … not yet. Get on with it,” he said irritably. “Don’t forget who you are. You want to stay at the lycée, don’t you? I could always … Take that uniform off, quickly.”
Veronica let her blue uniform dress slip to her feet, leaving her standing in nothing but her bra and panties under the gaze of Father Herménégilde, who seemed in no rush to hand her the “reward.” He went and sat in the armchair and contemplated her for a long while.
“Father, Father …” Veronica implored.
At last Father Herménégilde rose, came up to her, very close, gave her the pink dress, and with the pretext of zipping her up in the back, unclipped her bra.
“It’s better like that,” he murmured, “for the neckline, it’s much better.”
He stepped back a bit and then went to sit down in his chair.
“It’s a little big, of course,” he said, holding the uniform dress and the bra on his lap, “but it will do, all the same. Next time, I’ll find one that fits you perfectly. Take the dress off and put your uniform back on.”
Veronica waited for ages, arms crossed over her chest, until Father Herménégilde gave her back the blue dress and the bra.
“Back to your friends now, quickly. Don’t say anything, or show the dress, they’ll be jealous. You came for confession, that’s all you need to say. But I don’t like those cotton panties of yours. Next time, I’ll bring you some lacy ones.”
Never again was Veronica rewarded by Father Herménégilde. Frida took her place. She asked for a pair of lace panties the very first evening. The rest took place behind the black curtain.
Frida remained Father Herménégilde’s appointed favorite for a whole year, which didn’t stop the chaplain handing out “rewards” to other deserving and obliging pupils. But the next year, Frida’s ambitions lay elsewhere. She spent her holidays in Kinshasa, where her father was First Secretary at the embassy. He viewed his daughter as a prime ornament for embassy dinners and receptions. Kinshasa likes to party through the night, and Frida was quite a hit on the dance floor. Her light skin, opulent grace, and shapely curves were just what Zairians liked, while the fact she was Rwandan added a touch of exoticism. So no one hid their surprise when it transpired that the affections of the daughter of the Rwandan Embassy’s First Secretary had fallen upon a short, older man. It’s true that Jean-Baptiste Balimba still went in for the Zairian sapeur look of tailored jacket, bell-bottoms, and flamboyant vest. It’s also true he was rich, and in with President Mobutu’s crowd, so they said. Frida’s father openly encouraged his daughter’s liaison, considering that it could only be good for his diplomatic career. They even held a party to celebrate their unofficial engagement while awaiting the outcome of putative wedding negotiations. Of course it was rumored that Jean-Baptiste Balimba had other wives dotted along the length of the River Zaire (formally Congo) as far as Katanga (now known as Shaba). Well might her father worry that his daughter Frida would become “yet another posting.” And a posting only lasts a certain time. To prove his sincerity, Balimba requested he be appointed Ambassador to Kigali a few months later, and got the job without too much difficulty. He declared to whoever would listen that he could have applied for far more illustrious postings, but that he wanted to be close to his fiancée, who, at her father’s insistence, really needed to finish her studies at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile.
The rumor of Frida’s engagement caused quite a sensation in Kigali, as well as at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, where Father Herménégilde gave up pursuing Frida with his “rewards,” for obvious patriotic reasons. She, however, became insufferably arrogant toward her schoolmates, going so far as to defy Gloriosa, who, powerless, could only swallow her exasperation. But it was at the start of that third year, a few weeks after term began, that Frida unleashed a wave of awe and indignation across the lycée, and not a little envy and admiration.
One Saturday, marked by the successive showers that heralded the rainy season, a procession of four Land Rovers drove through the lycée gates and stopped outside the Bungalow. The driver of the first one rushed to open the rear door, and out climbed a small man dressed in white slacks and a safari jacket, His Excellency Ambassador Balimba. He gave an absentminded greeting to Sister Bursar, who had been placed there to welcome the illustrious visitor. Sister Bursar asked His Excellency to please excuse Mother Superior, who was extremely busy, but that if His Excellency wouldn’t mind, she would receive him after High Mass, which His Excellency would surely wish to attend.
While Sister Bursar showed the ambassador around the Bungalow, his liveried servants unloaded huge trunks and swarmed noisily throughout the villa, shifting furniture, piling up groceries and alcohol in the kitchen, unfolding canvas chairs in the living room, placing President Mobutu’s portrait on an easel, carting a large bed on a seashell frame edged with gold trim into Monsignor’s bedroom, and piling it high with cushions of every shape and color. One of the men rigged up an enormous transistor radio out on the terrace, which immediately began to blast out a deafening throb of rumba live from Kinshasa.
“Frida’s not here, my fiancée,” said the ambassador. “Quick, go fetch her.”
In her panic, Sister Bursar quite forgot to knock, as she burst into Mother Superior’s study, where the latter was in conversation with Father Herménégilde and Sister Gertrude.
“Mother! Reverend Mother! If only you knew what … if you could hear that music … loose women’s music … at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile! Mother! If you could see what’s happening at the Bungalow! The Congolese ambassador, he’s creating havoc, he’s moved Monsignor’s bed and put a crib of lust in its stead! A den of depravity! And he wants Frida bro
ught to him! Mon Dieu!”
“Calm down, good Sister, calm down. Believe me, I disapprove of this as much as you do, but some things are beyond us, some things we must accept. Let us hope this misdeed will bring a greater good deed …”
“Listen, dear Sister,” Father Herménégilde interrupted, “as Mother Superior says, it’s for the country’s good that we must suffer the disorder brought by His Excellency, the Zairian Ambassador. I myself counseled our Mother Superior at the start of the year to accede to His Excellency’s requests. Indeed, she received a letter from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs along these lines. You must understand that we have agreed to this for Rwanda, this little country you’re so fond of, that you love as much as your homeland, perhaps a little more so. When I was a seminary student, I read a book about the Jews, a secret book written by the Jews themselves, I don’t know who brought it to light. The Jews wrote that they wanted to conquer the world, that they had a secret government pulling the strings of every other government, that they had insiders across the board. Well, I’m telling you, the Tutsi are like the Jews. Some missionaries, like old Father Pintard, even say that the Tutsi are really Jews, that it’s in the Bible. They may not want to conquer the world, but they do want to seize this whole region. I know they plan a great Hamite empire, and that their leaders meet in secret, like the Jews. Their refugees are everywhere, in Europe, in America. They’re hatching every possible plot against our social revolution. Naturally, we’ve chased them out of Rwanda, and those who’ve stayed, their accomplices, we’re keeping an eye on them, but one day we’ll maybe have to get rid of them, too, starting with those who infect our schools and our university. Our poor Rwanda is surrounded by all her enemies: in Burundi, the Tutsi are in power and they’re massacring our brothers; in Tanzania, it’s the communists; in Uganda, the Bahima, their cousins. Thankfully, we have our great neighbor to support us, our Bantu brother …”
“Please, no politics, dear Father, no politics,” said Mother Superior. “Let’s simply try to avoid a scandal and keep our innocent girls away.”
“But they’re engaged, Frida and the ambassador,” said Father Herménégilde. “We can say they’re here to prepare their marriage, I’m the lycée chaplain … Sister Gertrude, go and tell Frida her fiancé is waiting for her. I’ll go see them this evening and bring Frida back for refectory.”
Shortly before the bell rang for refectory, Father Herménégilde walked up to the Bungalow and addressed the two guards in military fatigues sitting on the front steps.
“Please inform His Excellency that I wish to speak to him and that I have come to escort the young lady back to the lycée.”
“The ambassador’s not receiving anyone,” answered one of the guards in Swahili, “and he said that the girl will stay the night.”
“But I am Father Herménégilde, the lycée chaplain, and Frida must come back to the lycée for supper like all the other pupils. I must speak to His Excellency.”
“There’s no point arguing,” said the guard. “It’s Monsieur Ambassador who decided the girl would stay the night. You can head back.”
“But the young lady can’t stay here all night. She’s a pupil, we must …”
“We’ll tell you once again, there’s no point arguing,” said the other guard, who stood up, revealing his towering frame to Father Herménégilde. “The kid’s cool, they don’t want to be disturbed.”
“But, really …”
“I told you there’s no point in arguing. The kid’s with her fiancé, it’s what Monsieur came for.”
The giant of a guard slowly came down the steps, and advanced menacingly toward Father Herménégilde.
“All right, all right,” said Father Herménégilde, retreating. “Please pay my respects to His Excellency and wish him a good night, I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Frida remained in the Bungalow with her fiancé until Sunday afternoon. When the convoy of Land Rovers moved off, Frida was seen on the top step of the Bungalow waving expansive good-byes until the cars disappeared around the first bend in the track. A small crowd of pupils in the garden witnessed the scene, held some distance away by Sister Gertrude’s threats and a brigade of servants, and when Frida pushed her way through her clustered schoolmates with affected nonchalance, she didn’t deign to answer any of the questions they hurled at her.
“Mother, Reverend Mother,” said Sister Bursar, as she entered Mother Superior’s study, “if you could see the Bungalow! What a mess! And the kitchen … And Monsignor’s bed …”
“Calm down, dear Sister, they won’t be coming back. I’ve negotiated with Monsieur Ambassador, made him see sense, and he’s recognized it will be difficult for him to come to the lycée every Saturday and Sunday. He has his diplomatic obligations, and I reminded him that the track gets bad in the rainy season, he might even get stuck. So he agreed, and this is what we decided: whenever it’s possible, an embassy car will come and collect Frida on Saturday, then return her on Sunday … or maybe on Monday … sometimes. Well, they are engaged after all, as Father Herménégilde says … and we must render unto Caesar …”
For several weeks, an embassy car drove up to fetch Frida each Saturday after midday refectory. The same car deposited her back at school late Sunday night or, more often, on Monday morning. Mother Superior and the monitors pretended not to hear the creaking gate in the middle of the night, and the professors not to notice when Frida suddenly burst into class and noisily took her seat to a murmur of disapproval from her schoolmates. But Frida eventually broke her disdainful silence: she couldn’t resist the desire to dazzle her schoolmates with the enthusiastic account of the inimitable life she led with her fiancé. In order to make peace with those girls she’d scorned for so long, and who would remain slyly hostile no matter what she did, Frida brought a whole basket of goodies back from the capital: doughnuts only Swahili mothers know how to make, and above all, the even more exotic brioches and rolls from the Greek baker, as well as sweets from Chez Christina, the shop for whites. There was always some Primus, even a bottle of wine sometimes, preferably Mateus. Practically the whole class managed to squash into Frida’s “bedroom,” even the class’s quota of two Tutsi was invited. When the bell rang for lights-out, the monitor, who had her share of the feast, didn’t dare interrupt the fiancée of His Excellency the Ambassador. Frida went over the inventory of her wardrobe at the Zairian Embassy again and again, employing words that didn’t fail to impress her audience: evening dress, cocktail dress, culottes, negligé, nightgown. Sometimes she brought one of these prestigious outfits with her, putting it on to elicit wonderment – sincere or feigned – in all the girls. Addressing Immaculée, the acknowledged specialist when it came to beauty products, she listed every skin lightener Ambassador Balimba had recommended to her: makeup remover, foundation, Oriental Blossom lotion, etc. He wanted the whitest fiancée.
“And jewelry?” they asked her anxiously.
Naturally, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur had given jewelry to his fiancée: an engagement ring boasting a huge diamond (in Zaire they walk on diamonds), gold bracelets, vintage ivory bracelets, necklaces of pearls and precious stones. But her fiancé forbade her to wear any outside the embassy. “It would only attract thieves, Kigali’s crawling with them! It’s too risky: a hand for a basic ring, an arm for a bracelet,” he explained. “As for those soldiers and policemen at roadblocks, you never know who you’re really dealing with.” When Frida wasn’t there, the jewelry was strictly locked away in the embassy’s enormous safe.
“And your dowry? What’s your dad negotiated for your dowry?”
“Don’t worry, we’re not talking goats or cows here, but money, lots of money! My father and my fiancé are going into business together to set up a transport company. Balimba’s putting in all the money, capital he calls it. They’ll buy trucks and tanker trucks to carry goods between Mombasa and Kigali, but they’ll go further than Kigali, as far as Bujumbura and Bukavu – my fiancé knows the Director of Customs. Ah, if you
only you knew what kind of life I’m living with His Excellency Monsieur Ambassador of Zaire my fiancé. We go to all the bars, like the Hôtel des Milles Collines or the Hôtel des Diplomates. And at the French Ambassador’s, we eat corned beef that’s far tastier than what Sister Bursar gives us for the pilgrimage. And at the Belgian Ambassador’s, they serve shellfish from the sea, though I didn’t dare try it – it’s not fit food for a Rwandan after all … And we never drink Primus, but white folks’ beer, and when you uncork it – there’s no need for a bottle opener – it explodes like thunder and this foam spurts out like smoke from Nyiragongo.”
“You think my dad hasn’t heard of champagne?” Gloriosa cut in. “He’s always got some in his office for visitors, the important ones, he even let me have a taste.”
“And me,” Godelive said, “you think I haven’t seen mussels, I was born in Belgium but I was too young to eat them. My dad often talks about them; says Belgians eat nothing else, and when he goes to Brussels, my mother makes him promise he won’t touch them.”
Frida was oblivious to the troublemakers:
“If it’s a sunny afternoon, we don’t take a siesta, we get in the red car, the convertible sports car, and drive out of Kigali, speeding down narrow tracks and causing everyone to flee – women, children, and goats – and men on bicycles to zigzag about and drop their load of bananas and fall into the ditch. We seek out a quiet spot, which isn’t easy in Rwanda. One of those places reforested with eucalyptus. Or some rocks up on a ridge. We stop. I press a button. The roof opens. You know, those seats in the little red car are like a bed …”
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