“I’m not sure. Would you like to check my spleen, Isabella?”
“A sense of humour that returning is also a good clinical sign,” Isabella said, raising an eyebrow in Chantal’s direction and smiling.
“Are you up to a cup of coffee yet? We have had our first one but there is still some left.”
“I would love to try.”
“Sit down and I’ll get you one then,” Chantal said. “Then I’m going to the market and you two can catch up, which I’m sure there’s a lot to do.”
The coffee did not taste quite the same, with possibly the malarone affecting his taste. However, even though the coffee had an aluminium edge, it was great to taste something other than water, and not have the feeling that it was not going to reappear immediately in front of him. He looked at Isabella, enjoying having her close again. Her velvet coal dark hair still had the rich blackness, which he had often remembered. When they had had first met in Cape Town nine years ago, she had worn it shoulder length. He had really liked the longer length as she would wear it in so many different styles, all of which seemed to suit her. Now she wore it short and cropped into her neck, which emphasised her cheekbones. The large black rim glasses gave her an academic look and a mature sexiness. One thing had not changed, which he had long wondered about: the intense passionate desire for her was still present in abundance. The way that she looked at him suggested to him that it was for also there for her as well.
“You don’t like the short hair, do you?”
“I really do. It’s just not the memory that I have of you, although I can see and feel you are the same Isabella. I do like the new version.”
“You look very much the same to me although your hair is a little bit longer, and after the last few days you are much thinner than I remember. However, when I saw you lying there on the plastic floor, burning up with a fever and delirious, I still had the same kind of feeling of desire that I had experienced when I first saw you in Cape Town.”
Christian was initially taken aback by the boldness of the statement. There was a confidence about her now, which had replaced the teenage innocence he remembered. It was that confidence which he had noted when she had calmly taken over his care. That was to be expected; medicine had also given him a similar confidence. Isabella, like him, was trained to care for people. He held her gaze, realizing that she was scrutinizing him to see whether he felt the same. He smiled back his agreement. His mind wandered back to their meeting in Johannesburg, when they had discovered they were not brother and sister. Without the horrible thought that they had previously committed incest, they had discovered a sexual chemistry, which had threatened to overwhelm them both. In the months which had followed, Christian had moved back to Australia and the relationship intensity had waned. Until he had met Petrea on the plane, he had not felt that intensity of feelings for another woman. He had thought that the chemistry that they had had experienced was unique only to Isabella. The intensity that they had previously brought to their relationship came sharply back into focus; he wanted to feel strong enough to enjoy discovering the chemistry that they had previously had, again. Christian decided to try and match her boldness.
“Any particular therapy you would recommend which would speed my recovery?”
“There is good research that suggests direct skin contact stimulates endorphin release which is therapeutic in the healing process,” Isabella replied looking directly at him and smiling mischievously.
“That was in a peer reviewed journal, I’m sure.”
Isabella took off her glasses and moved her stool closer to his. Stroking his hair, she kissed him on the cheek and said.
“I need to take that intravenous needle out now that we no longer need to give you intravenous fluids. You will need to take off your shirt.”
Christian was about to take his shirt off when he heard Chantal open the front door. He did up his top button as Isabella moved the stool back a little.
“Hello you two. Up to mischief, I hope,” Chantal said, gently knocking on the doorway, as she peered into the bedroom.
Isabella laughed as Chantal handed the Rwandan Times newspaper to Christian. The front page covered the shooting in the Congo under the headlines ‘Militias vie for control of resources’. He read the first few lines as Isabella read over his shoulder. The newspaper condemned the militia groups and argued that it was time that the area was controlled by a legitimate government force. Christian allowed Isabella to continue reading.
“Do you understand this fully?” Isabella said as she read on.
“I’m starting to understand it a little bit more each day. The world thinks it’s an ethnic conflict but it’s all about money and corruption and who controls one of the richest resource regions in the world.”
“Would you two like some lunch?” Chantal called from the kitchen.
Christian and Isabella walked through into the kitchen, where Chantal was unpacking the fruit and vegetables that she had bought at the local market.
“Actually Mohammed has invited me to lunch via text message this morning. I feel strong enough to go, especially if I can take my doctor with me.”
“Yes, I heard that Mohammed had been very helpful. You realize, of course, that some in the hospital might see that as Mohammed looking to gain influence with you and the community in general.”
Christian nodded. He knew going to have lunch with Mohammed may well contribute to that feeling, which principally came from Emmanuel. With that in mind, he had asked Mohammed to meet at one of the small cafés in the main street. That, at least, he thought would be neutral territory.
“Chantal, I’m aware of what people might think of that. I have arranged to meet at one of the cafés in the main street, so that it can’t be misunderstood. I am going to check on the boys in the hospital first though.”
“Isabella, do you think he is strong enough?”
“Well he is certainly getting his cheekiness back, so I suspect he will manage a quick ward round. I will go with him to make sure he doesn’t do too much and then after lunch, I have an outpatient clinic and he can walk back here.”
The walk back up to the hospital was both tiring and rejuvenating. Christian’s legs felt rubbery by the time they made it to the top of the hill, but after two days cast in bed, just walking was gratifying. Isabella told him as they walked that the four boys had been placed in the paediatric ward. The two older boys could possibly have been in the adult surgical ward, she said, however they all had burns, and it was easier to have them together in one ward for dressings and possibly skin grafting.
The paediatric ward was similar to the other wards, red plastic mattresses with a single sheet covering them, creamy yellow mosquito nets furled and tied to the ceiling above the beds. The major difference was mothers with two or three children occupied the beds. When Christian had first arrived, it had been difficult sometimes to determine which child was the patient.
Michelangelo was in the second bed and as Christian and Isabella entered, he looked up. There was no smile of recognition and he quickly cast his eyes down. The boy in the first bed appeared to be about the same age as Michelangelo. Christian stopped at the foot of the first bed and looked at the chart. The pulse and temperature were significantly elevated, suggestive of a developing infection. Christian looked at Isabella and the ward sister, Margarita, who had now joined them. Anticipating his question, the ward sister said that Doctor Nikita had started antibiotics the previous day. They would take twenty-four hours to start being effective in bringing down his temperature. Christian approached the bed to exam the boy’s burns, feeling Michelangelo’s eyes watching him. As he pulled back the sheet, he turned and glanced at Michelangelo who again quickly looked down.
“I think we will need to debride those burns in theatre tomorrow,” Christian said as he pulled the sheet back up.
“Yes, Doctor Chris. I will organize that with theatre,” Margarita said, writing instructions in her notebook
�
�Do we know whether any of these boys have family yet?”
“None that we know of.”
“Good morning, Michelangelo,” Christian said as he moved to the foot of next bed.
Michelangelo did not look up. Christian examined his chart and noted that there was only a slight temperature. Nothing to be alarmed about; however, what did concern him was that Michelangelo now gave the impression that he did not recognize him.
“None of the boys have said a word since we admitted them,” Isabella said. “They will not even tell us their names or whether they have families. It’s almost as though they are too frightened or shocked to talk.”
Christian knew post-traumatic stress could cause such an effect. Just because violence was so endemic in the Congo did not mean that those subjected to it so frequently should be immune. Nevertheless, something still did not quite fit with Michelangelo, for he had responded initially. Christian’s intuition told him there was something else happening that they did not quite understand.
“Margarita, could we get this patient down to theatre now? His wounds need to be dressed as soon as possible.”
Isabella was about to protest when she sensed that Christian wanted Michelangelo away from the ward and the other boys. By the time they finished the rest of the ward, Josef, one of the orderlies, had already taken Michelangelo down to theatre.
“Care to tell me about this intuition with Michelangelo? Clearly you’re not going to operate on him,” said Isabella as they walked down the concrete pathway to theatre.
“Just a strange hunch at the moment.”
Michelangelo was just inside the theatre door, and Josef had put his bag of intravenous saline hooked over a window catch. He again did not look up as Christian and Isabella entered. Christian picked up the wooden chair from behind the reception desk and pulled it up next to Michelangelo. He motioned to Isabella to stand beside him as he took Michelangelo’s hand.
“Michelangelo, I know Cindy from the orphanage. She is a good friend of mine, and we’re going to look after you and make sure you never go back to fighting or the mines. Cindy is coming tomorrow to see you. I know that you speak English. Is there anything that’s frightening you that we can help with?” Christian squeezed his hand in reassurance as Isabella moved to the head of the bed and gently stroked his head. There was no response from Michelangelo. Christian looked up at Isabella who motioned to him to leave the reception area. He quizzed her with his eyes and Isabella responded by waving him in the direction of the door. He stood up, offered the chair to Isabella, and walked out the door, closing it quietly. He sat down on the concrete walkway next to the theatre door.
It seemed like half an hour before Isabella opened the door and said,
“We will need to get the dressings changed so that the other boys don’t suspect anything.”
Christian walked back in through the half-open theatre door and headed to where he knew Teresa kept the dressings. He quickly dressed the wounds, while Isabella went to organize Michelangelo’s return to the ward. As he applied to the last piece of micropore tape, he looked up to see Michelangelo watching him. His eyes were filled with tears. Christian resolved instantly that this was one boy he would never let go back to the militias, even if it meant his own life. Josef and Isabella arrived back as he looked at Michelangelo and said,
“Just remember the promise that I made you.”
“Come on. We need to make lunch with Mohammed,” Isabella said closing the theatre door behind Josef and Michelangelo.
“You need to tell me what you found out first.”
“Walk with me while I talk to you and explain.”
They headed out hand-in-hand through the main entrance of the hospital towards the dirt road that led up to the town. Within five minutes, they had reached the main street of the town. Each side of the street was lined by two-story buildings with wooden frontages The rest of the buildings were made from traditional mud bricks, creating the impression of a western movie set that you would expect to see in Hollywood - not Africa. The shop openings all had wooden planks as a footpath separating them from the dusty main road. Balconies above the shop frontages appeared to be tailor-made for damsels in distress to wave from, although he could see they also had practical value as a place to dry washing. Hitching posts in front of some of the shops, added to the strange western movie set impression, while also suggesting that horses had only recently been substituted for by motorcycles. Further, up the main street several pedal-operated Singer sewing machines were busy, each with two or three people standing around them while clothing was repaired.
“So what did you find out? It’s not all just post dramatic stress, is it?”
“No, it’s not. The boy in the first bed is one of the sons of Kariba Offengowe. All the boys are terrified to say anything in case he comes back to get his son and kills them for running away.”
“I knew there was something not right,” Christian said, stopping as they got to the first building in the main street. “And we can’t get them to a safe place until we’ve got them well.”
“Exactly, Christian, but we need to let Emmanuel know. Perhaps we can transfer them to Kigali by ambulance which might be safer for them.”
“Okay, that’s worth thinking about. Let’s have lunch with Mohammed and then I will go and talk to Emmanuel.”
Mohammed was sitting at little wooden table half way up the main street. He spotted Christian and Isabella and waved.
“Good morning,” Christian said as Mohammed stood up to greet them. “This is a friend of mine, Isabella, who is also a doctor.”
“You forget that this is a small community. We have heard about your lady doctor friend, and that she has nursed you back to health, for which we are all very grateful. And I suppose he hasn’t told you, Isabella, that he saved my son’s life?”
“He did mention that to me.”
“May I buy you both a coffee?”
“I didn’t know that you were allowed to drink coffee as a Muslim. We are happy to drink water if you cannot join us,” Christian replied.
“Muslims introduced coffee to the world. There has been debate about it being an intoxicant but mostly it is acceptable as long as it does not have pig’s milk in it. Did you know it was discovered in the year 1400 in Yemen, and Muslims used it to stay awake to pray in the night? Then when it was exported to Europe, it was seen as an evil drink because of its association with Muslims.”
“Well, I didn’t know that. What an interesting bit of information,” Isabella said, looking at Christian who smiled and turned to Mohammed.
“Mohammed, I wanted to thank you for sending all those medical supplies. They may well have saved many of the boys’ lives including those that we brought back.”
“Helping others and contributing to peace and harmony is what the Quran and the prophet Mohammed commands us to do.”
“So that’s not just other Muslims that you are commanded to help but everyone. I thought that there was a Hadith that indicated that this command applied only to Muslim brothers?”
“You are well informed, Christian, and with a name like that I suppose you should be when it comes to religious matters. Since ultimately we are working for Allah, to whom all people belong, we help everyone where there is a need.”
“That’s not too dissimilar to Christianity then. Perhaps there is more common ground than we think. However, I am sure extremists on both sides would never allow any kind of cooperation despite the good that might come from that.”
“Unfortunately, Christian, I think you’re right. Although I don’t think that means that those of us who believe that it can be achieved should stop working for that goal. Within any religion, there will always be an old guard that sticks to the old ways. Many of us prefer the benign persuasion to gain popular support, but there are still those who believe in al-sama’wa’l-ta’a, and unfortunately they are the ones who capture the headlines.”
“From what I could see, Mohammed, the way that
you assisted with those children across the border, was so far from forceful coercion that it has to have impacted on some of those at the hospital who might have been resistant to the idea of any cooperation.”
“Can we ask you what you know about the shooting?” Isabella asked.
“The truth is very disturbing on many levels. Young boys are kidnapped from their families and forced into being child soldiers. Other boys too young to be useful soldiers are forced into labour camps deep in the Congolese Bush. The most notorious of these, run by Kariba Offengowhe, is called Mount Golgotha. Hundreds of boys are sent down mine tunnels each day, each expected to fill 50 kg bags of rock containing Tin Tungsten and Tantalum. In temperatures of up to forty degrees, many die from exhaustion, and any who rebel are tortured or killed. Offengowe controls the flow of resources and money via the city of Goma, which Bosco the Butcher and his backers are attempting to take control over.”
“Did not the United States pass a law making it illegal to deal with militias in the Congo?” Isabella said.
“That was intended to stop abuse and illegal trade, whereas in effect, it just increased the price of resources and contributed to greater corruption and violence.”
Christian reflected for a few minutes on Mohammed’s explanation before telling him that they had one of Kariba’s sons on the hospital ward and that he was very sick.
“You may be in great danger. Kariba is an atavistic monster and when he finds out where his son is, none of those boys will be safe and you may not be.”
“He has a serious infection, and if he takes him now, then he may well die.”
“Then you will be blamed and he will kill you both.”
Christian was about to tell Mohammed about Michelangelo when a text message registered on his phone. It was from Cindy telling him that Kim Yao had found out that Michelangelo was in hospital and would be arriving that evening to return him to the orphanage. Christian finished reading the text message and quickly explained to Mohammed that Cindy had concerns that the orphanage was being used to supply boys to the militia. She thought Michelangelo might have information about that which is why Kim Yao desperately wanted him back.
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