Monsieur de Fontenaille laughed, threw his hands in the air, poured glass after glass of whiskey, and offered some to his guest, who refused more and more feebly until he eventually accepted. Virginia didn’t dare interrupt Father Pintard, but when she noticed the sun was close to setting, she whispered in Fontenaille’s ear:
“It’s late, I must get back to the lycée, I need a lift.”
“Please excuse me, Father,” Fontenaille interrupted. “Virginia must get back to the lycée. I’ll tell my driver to take her back. Now, Virginia, promise me you’ll return on Sunday: I want to see you as Queen Candace.”
“Young lady,” said Father Pintard, “think hard about what I’ve told you. You’ll find some consolation in my words for your people’s misfortune.”
“Tell me, Virginia, did you play the queen at Fontenaille’s?” asked Veronica.
“I did what I needed to do. But I also learned that Tutsi aren’t humans: here, we’re inyenzi, cockroaches, snakes, rodents; to whites, we’re the heroes of their legends.”
King Baudouin’s Daughter
After the Easter break, Mother Superior wanted to show just how far her liberalism extended: she gave the girls permission to decorate the partitions of their “rooms.” With taste and moderation, she had insisted, and distributed drawings of Our Lady of the Nile that they could hang over their beds. Gloriosa checked to make sure that all the girls had placed the President’s photo next to Our Lady of the Nile. In Rwanda, all human activity took place beneath the curatorial portrait of the President. In even the most humble boutiques, the head of state’s dusty red portrait stood guard atop a shelf, flanked by a few bags of salt, some matches, and three cans of Nido milk; in even the sleaziest of bars, the portrait swung above jugs of banana beer and a lone crate of Primus bottles. The living rooms of the rich and powerful competed to have the largest, since the size of the President’s portrait testified to the businessman’s or civil servant’s unswerving loyalty to the Emancipator of the majority people. Unfortunate is the lady of the house who neglects to divest the beloved leader’s portrait of the tiniest speck of dust each morning.
Goretti was the only one who dared criticize the venerated photo: “I like our President very much,” she remarked, “but at least he could’ve dressed like a president for the photo, with a peaked cap, a smart uniform with epaulettes, loads of braid on the sleeves, and a heap of medals on his jacket. That’s what every president looks like, but ours looks like a seminary student in that dinky suit.” The girls around her pretended not to have heard. They awaited Gloriosa’s reaction. She took her time to retort, and surprised everyone with her moderation: “Our President doesn’t need a uniform to address the people, they all understand him, not like you and your colonel father.” Making fun of the way people spoke in the North, where they lived alongside gorillas at the foot of the volcanoes, was just part of the joking around that hardly shocked anyone. So nobody understood why Gloriosa hadn’t deployed her usual arsenal of threats, like denouncing remarks of her being subversive with regard to the Party and, even worse, her father … The most perceptive deduced that the military, particularly officers who came from the North, were clearly becoming quite influential, and that the President himself had to reckon with them. Goretti’s behavior suddenly seemed less awkward, and her language less rude. The girls refrained from the customary teasing and showered Goretti with signs of affection and solicitation, which she received with disdainful benevolence.
It proved to be quite difficult for the girls to decorate their alcove partitions as recommended by Mother Superior. They hung up some small basketwork panels decorated with traditional geometric motifs, place mats embroidered with simplistic flowers, photos of parents or entire families taken at an elder sister or brother’s wedding. But the girls weren’t satisfied with the result: this wasn’t how a young, modern girl, a “civilized” girl as they would say during the Colonial Era, should decorate her room. What was needed, and they knew it, were pictures of young people with long hair, singers wearing “anti-sun” shades, as they were called, blond girls, real blondes, blonder than Madame de Decker, long-blond-haired beach girls in bathing suits like the ones in the movies at the French Cultural Center. Of course there were no such pictures at the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, except perhaps, said Immaculée, among the French teachers, who were young and single, most likely Monsieur Legrand, who had a beard and played the guitar. Gloriosa decided that Veronica should go ask Monsieur Legrand if he wouldn’t mind giving his pupils a few magazines: “You Tutsi girls know how to handle Whites, and for once it won’t be to bad-mouth the Republic.” Monsieur Legrand seemed flattered by Veronica’s request, and the following day he brought a pile of periodicals to class: issues of Paris Match and Salut les copains. “If you want more,” he added, “just drop by and ask me.” Some of the girls were convinced his invitation was meant specifically for them.
The girls flicked feverishly through the magazines. Lengthy negotiations ensued to decide the sharing and cutting out of photos. Johnny Hallyday, the Beatles, and Claude François were keenly fought over. As for the female stars, Françoise Hardy and her guitar seemed too sad, but Tina Turner and Miriam Makeba caught the girls’ fancy because of their color, but Nana Mouskouri had the most success thanks to her glasses. Everyone wanted Brigitte Bardot’s picture, but there weren’t enough to go around. Gloriosa divvied them up among her favorites. Only a handful of girls, out of either caution or actual devotion, insisted on the Pope’s portrait and some views of Lourdes, Saint Peter’s in Rome, or the Sacré-Cœur in Paris.
When Mother Superior proceeded to inspect the “rooms,” she couldn’t hold back a “Mon Dieu!” of stupor, indignation, and anger.
“Just look at that!” she said to Father Herménégilde, who was standing beside her. “We thought we had protected our girls from the evils of the world, and the world has come crashing through our doors. But I can guess who gave them these horrors, and I’ll tell him quite bluntly what I think about this.”
“Satan,” the chaplain replied, “takes every available guise. I fear our Christian Rwanda may be under serious threat.”
Mother Superior severely reprimanded the girls and grounded them for the two following Sundays, except of course for those who had hung up a portrait of the Pope. She ordered the girls to tear down the indecent images and hand them in to Father Herménégilde. However, in order to demonstrate a certain liberalism, she exempted the photos of Adamo and Nana Mouskouri. The chaplain, it was noticed, conspicuously tore up the photos of the crooners but spared those of Brigitte Bardot and endeavored to furtively slip a few into his cassock pockets.
Mother Superior and Father Herménégilde apparently paid no attention to Godelive’s alcove. Yet her schoolmates were most intrigued by her decorative display. Apart from the obligatory icons of the Holy Virgin and the President, there was only one other image: a full-length portrait of the King and Queen of the Belgians, Baudouin and Fabiola. We also noticed that the royal portrait was not an illustration cut out of a magazine, but an actual photograph. When Godelive was asked why she’d chosen such a photo and how she’d obtained it, she got all mysterious, simply replying that she couldn’t say anything, that all would be revealed soon. Exasperated at not knowing, Gloriosa tried to force open Godelive’s suitcase while she was cleaning the chapel with a few other girls. But the padlocks withstood her attempts.
A few days later, Mother Superior gathered all the pupils and teachers in the large study room. She appeared quite moved as she stepped onto the stage. She cast an unusually maternal gaze over the pupils: “My girls,” she declared, “we are about to experience a momentous event, a historic event, I’m not afraid to say. Our lycée, the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, will have the remarkable honor of welcoming the Queen of the Belgians, Queen Fabiola. For King Baudouin and his wife are making an official visit to Rwanda. While the President and the King discuss politics and development, the Queen will visit the First Lady’s Orpha
nage in Kigali, but she is also keen to recognize and encourage the Rwandan government’s female advancement policy, of which our lycée is the best example. You are familiar with the generosity and piety of Queen Fabiola. She will therefore visit our lycée. We must extend a welcome that will show her the image of today’s Rwanda: a peaceful, Christian Rwanda. She will be accompanied by the Minister of Female Advancement, perhaps Madame the First Lady, too, we don’t know yet. She’ll stay for a day, perhaps, or a half day, I have yet to receive the definitive schedule. In any case, we have a month to prepare for this extraordinary event. The lesson load will be lightened if necessary. I am counting on all you girls, and on you, the teachers, to contribute wholeheartedly to the success of this day, which shall remain forever engraved in our memories.”
The joyful commotion that swept over the lycée during preparations for the royal visit delighted all the pupils. It was a constant whirl of comings and goings, yelling and hubbub, the bustle of the lycée hands as they repainted the corridors, classrooms, refectory, and chapel. The desks were removed from the large study room, and the walls were lined with wraparound fabric bearing images of the President and the King of the Belgians. Classes would be brusquely interrupted when Father Auxile came to get the choristers for a rehearsal, and then the Kinyarwanda teacher would dash in to choose the dancers. Nearly every day, a delegation would arrive from the capital to give instructions, ensure that preparations were advancing properly, and decide on security measures. The Education Minister dispatched his Principal Private Secretary; the Archbishop, one of his Vicar Generals; and the Belgian Ambassador, his First Attaché. The President’s Head of Protocol came in person and held long discussions with Mother Superior and the mayor, who never left the lycée during this time but rushed breathlessly along the corridors and up and down the stairs from one visitor to another, mopping his brow, in an attempt to outdo Mother Superior and her protocols. The pupils would rush to the windows whenever an unannounced Land Rover or military vehicle pulled up, and as the passengers climbed out of the official cars, there was always one girl who recognized a brother, an uncle, a cousin, a neighbor, or a friend. Without waiting for permission, and ignoring the teacher’s feeble threats, they’d leave class to go greet him.
The lycée was a hive of unusual activity. To showcase the progress of female emancipation, and despite Mother Superior’s reticence, it was decided to shorten the skirts of the girls’ uniforms, on the orders of the Minister of Female Advancement. And the same minister sent a consignment of white shirts to replace the old yellow ones. They were practically transparent, which Father Herménégilde seemed to appreciate, despite the reticence he displayed before Mother Superior. A whole afternoon was devoted to fittings and to patches on the bolero jackets bearing the colors of Rwanda and Belgium – Belgian colors on the right, Rwandan on the left over the heart. The tenth-grade girls plaited basketwork pieces as gifts for the Queen; on them they embroidered in red and black fibers: LONG LIVE THE QUEEN, LONG LIVE THE PRESIDENT, LONG LIVE BELGIAN-RWANDAN FRIENDSHIP. The songs composed by Brother Auxile were censored by the mayor, and particularly Gloriosa, the watchful eye of the Party. She considered heavy praise of kings and queens unbefitting to a Republic, in a country only recently freed from the tyranny of the Bami and the entire aristocracy. It was suggested to the composer that he might celebrate the farmer’s hoe and the peaceful development of the country, which had been returned to the common people thanks to the wisdom of its President – and with the assistance of Belgium, of course, and, if he insisted, the manifest protection of Imana and the Blessed Virgin. Brother Auxile did his very best, but the girls refused point-blank to learn “La Brabançonne,” which he suggested they sing after the Rwandan song.
The population of Nyaminombe was mustered to welcome the Queen. Obviously, she wouldn’t have time to visit the town itself, located three kilometers from the lycée, but all the inhabitants would form a guard of honor at the roadside waving little Rwandan and Belgian flags that had yet to be delivered. The crowd would cheer on the procession with shouts of “Hurrah, Fabiola! Hurrah, the President!” The word “queen,” umwamikazi, had been forbidden, for fear it might provoke some outdated nostalgia among some of the people. The imiganda, community workers, devoted themselves to filling in the ruts in the track. Eucalyptus branches were planted on either side of the track, since banana trees, which usually decorate the verges of roads along which official processions pass, struggle to grow at this altitude. A squad of soldiers set up camp close to the lycée and made numerous patrols. It was hoped that the Queen wouldn’t express the wish to visit the source of the Nile (which wasn’t on the schedule, in any case) for there was neither the time nor the resources to restore the damage inflicted on the statue by the bad weather.
Godelive’s mysterious behavior continued. She followed the preparations for the visit with a knowing look, getting involved as little as possible and not answering any questions. Which irritated her classmates greatly. Keenly aware of the arrival of any vehicle at the lycée, she would leap up at every slammed car door. It was noticed that she’d packed all her belongings in her suitcase as if readying herself to leave. A week before the big day, Godelive was summoned to Mother Superior’s office. The whole twelfth-grade class waited for her outside and then walked her back to her “room.” She sat down on her bed, and after a long silence, seeing that her classmates weren’t going to leave her alone, she finally spoke:
“Listen, I want to say farewell, I’m leaving, probably for a long time.”
“Where are you going?”
“Belgium. I’m leaving with the Queen.”
A stunned murmur spread among her audience.
“You’re leaving with the Queen?”
“It’s a secret. I’m going to tell you, but you’re not to repeat a word. To anyone. Especially not the other classes. Swear it.”
They promised her with utmost solemnity to remain silent.
“You know that Baudouin and Fabiola don’t have children. They can’t have any. I don’t know if it’s his or her fault. It’s sad not to have kids, even more so for a king and queen. They’re desperate. So the President thought that since they were coming to Rwanda, at his invitation, the most beautiful gift to offer them would be the gift of a child. You know very well it’s the done thing in Rwanda. A family with no children isn’t a family. They can’t be left to that sorry fate. It’s the very worst! So if there’s a brother, a relative, or a neighbor with lots of children, then they must give them one. Otherwise, it means you despise that family, that you wish them ill. If you give up one of your children, it means they join a new family of course, but it’s still your kid. You’ve saved a family and they’ll always be grateful and respect you. That’s what our President wants to do: he’s giving up his daughter for the sake of Rwanda.”
“And you’re the one he’s giving to the King of the Belgians? At your age! A big fatty like you! With your kind of grades! Can you see yourself as Fabiola’s daughter?!”
“No, not me, he’s giving one of his own daughters, Merciana, the youngest. She’s nine and very light skinned, looks like her mother. She could almost pass for a white girl.”
“So where does that leave you, then?”
“Me, I’m accompanying Merciana to Belgium. She needs someone to speak Kinyarwanda with so she’s not too homesick, someone to cook her bananas or cassava when she gets a craving.”
“Ah! You’ll be her servant! Now it makes sense!”
“You all claim to be intelligent, but you know nothing. Every queen, every princess has her retainers, even in Rwanda in the olden days. They choose daughters of good families, of noble birth. They’re called ladies-in-waiting. And it’s a great honor to be a queen or princess’s lady-in-waiting.”
“But why did the President choose you?”
“My father keeps out of politics. He’s a banker, as you all know. He’s rich. He knows the President from way back. They were together at the Legion of Mary. He�
�s trusted. The President told him: ‘I feel reassured that one of your daughters, educated in Rwanda’s best lycée, will be there to look out for my little Merciana. I’m doing this for Rwanda. By giving up my child, I’m saving Rwanda from poverty: the whites will be obliged to help us in return. We’ll be a part of their family. It’s more than a blood pact. Merciana will have two fathers, myself and King Baudouin, both of us linked by this shared child.’ So my father didn’t hesitate: I was chosen to accompany the President’s daughter. After all, I was born in Belgium, and even if I can’t remember it much, maybe I’m still a bit Belgian, so that’s handy for adapting. Now leave me be, I’ve got to finish my packing.”
The whole class immediately gathered in the library to discuss Godelive’s revelations. So that no one might eavesdrop on the debate, they decided to discreetly lock themselves in the archives room. Goretti started off by saying that she didn’t believe a word of what Godelive had said, that she was spinning tales. If the President was really giving up his child, how could he have chosen the ugliest and stupidest girl in the lycée to accompany her? Unless her father had paid for it or had made who knows what kind of promise. Gloriosa couldn’t contain her indignation:
“You’re insulting our President again. Things could end badly for you. Godelive said it, he’s giving away his daughter to save our country. Merciana might not become queen, but she’ll be a princess in Belgium. They’ll marry her to a prince. The Belgians will be obliged to help us. How shameful it would be for them if the country of one of their princesses remained so poor. And Godelive is a true Rwandan, make no mistake, you can’t measure that with grades, even less with beauty. She’ll make a fine representative of the majority people.”
“But if Fabiola’s infertile,” said Modesta, “why doesn’t Baudouin take another wife? Kings can do that, because they absolutely must produce a successor.”
Our Lady of the Nile Page 13