She fingered the package that her father had given her before he left on his trip with Mr. Bello.
“This is a great chance, Melissa,” he’d said. “An opportunity for you to get better. In France, you can get treatment at a state-of-the-art hospital. They have the best doctors in the world, better than any you could find here. Bello told me that most of them are African anyway, transplanted from our own lands as if the marsh wasn’t connected to the river. You’ll get the royal treatment. We’ll even have a place to stay. Doesn’t that sound good?”
Anywhere was better than Zimbabwe, where she was an outcast confined to her own home. Still, she wasn’t as excited as when Bello had visited, when he had made everything sound perfect, and the prospect made her nervous. “We’ll go together?”
“Not this time, Melissa. This time I need you to meet me there. I want you to get started on your treatment right away. You can be a big girl and travel on your own, right? You remember what I’ve taught you. Mr. Bello will fetch you at the airport and I’ll meet you at his home after I’ve finished my work.”
Her father believed that the problem lay with her skin, because that’s what the doctors had told him. They’d diagnosed it as vitiligo, the harmless but unsightly growth of skin cells without pigmentation. They’d never seen it spread so rapidly yet they believed that it might be possible to halt its progress. Her bleached skin covered her body so thoroughly that she looked half-albino, with irregular blots of brown skin. Her father’s little coconut.
The worst that could happen, the doctors said, was a bad case of sunburn or rickets, but they didn’t know about the pain. She had been through so many treatments in the hospital and from the bush doctors that her body no longer felt as if it was her own. On moonlit nights it felt as if something insidious tugged at her insides, and Melissa would toss and turn until dawn, feeling the hot blood cut through her veins until she vomited from nausea. She was afraid to tell her father because he worried about her so much. He was her one true friend after all these years and he was so often gone on his freedom missions, as he called them, that she didn’t want him to fret when he was around.
She clung onto the feeling that maybe she could be cured, that she could be whole again, feel joy again, play with friends, as much for her father as for herself. France could be better than Bulawayo, she could at least start over again.
When he’d left on his trip, her father gave her a package to take to Mr. Bello and a backpack for her to carry, which he’d filled with snacks and a small wad of French money. Melissa could be trusted to deliver the package better than anyone else. Her father had taught her how to keep secrets that even his sentries didn’t know. He kept the home immaculately clean and would leave signals for her: lowering the blinds meant she was to leave the home because a police raid was expected; a chalk mark behind the television meant he would be gone for a week; two chalk marks for two weeks. If he left a jar of honey in the sink, she could tell how long he had been gone by watching the trail of ants. Just a few ants meant he’d been gone an hour. A long trail of ants that wound out the door meant several hours.
Melissa liked these games. Once she began wearing the niqab, she became better at keeping secrets than anyone else. She’d seen wounded men burst into her father’s compound in the middle of the night and she’d mopped up the blood and burned the soiled garments. She’d passed along coded messages from nervous dignitaries to the freedom fighters. She knew never to volunteer information unless asked and not to ask her own questions, but to listen and watch beneath her niqab. She was her father’s most trusted confidant.
That was why she didn’t look inside the package that he wanted her to deliver to Bello. It was sealed by layers of tape and he’d stamped it in three places in case someone tried to peel off the tape and replace it again. But there was a manilla envelope on top of the package that was, strangely, only held by a brass clasp. This she opened. It was the first sign that something was wrong.
At last the plane was descending into Charles de Gaulle Airport and banked sharply over the suburbs that ringed Paris. Her first intercontinental flight: her first landing. The flight attendant, a sweet, plain woman with a fresh spray of floral perfume, identified Melissa by the giant card around her neck that showed she was an unaccompanied minor. Melissa had briefly considered taking off the card and then abandoned the idea. She didn’t know anyone in Paris.
The corridor to the flight arrivals area made her fidget, as she was taller than the flight attendant, and she could feel the stares of strange families and the limousine drivers. The other girls in their niqabs rushed towards a family holding placards with their names on it: Faisa, Fatima. There were hugs for them, but no placard for Melissa. After a few minutes, the flight attendant told her to stand next to an information desk, and went to the personal announcement system. Melissa tried to take in the multitude of faces rushing past her.
“Melissa Tebogo,” a voice said behind her.
She turned to see an attractive black woman with a fine nose and excessive rouge on her cheeks. She was carrying a plain green handbag. She wore a plum-colored blouse over an ankle-length black dress. Her feet were in sandals.
“Enchantée,” Melissa said.
“You don’t look like your father,” the woman replied, ignoring her attempt at French. She gave Melissa a stiff, mechanical hug and blew two kisses over her ear.
“Where is Mr. Bello?”
“He is indisposed,” the woman said. She pulled the name card off. “You will not be needing this.”
Her accent was not South African, nor did it sound like the French people on television. Beyond that Melissa hadn’t a clue. Only that the woman was from elsewhere. She was pulled by the hand until they found the flight attendant negotiating to utilize the PA system.
“I am Mrs. Niyangabo,” she said. “I am Melissa’s aunt.”
“Let me check the list,” the attendant said. She nodded. “She was supposed to be fetched by Mr. Bello. Mr. Nurudeen Bello.”
“He is indisposed,” Mrs. Niyangabo said. “The papers are here.”
“We typically require a—” Mrs. Niyangabo handed her another document. “Very good. I see you have the affidavit and the registry letter. Melissa, do you know this woman?”
Melissa didn’t like Mrs. Niyangabo’s stiff manner but returning to Zimbabwe seemed much worse. She had come here for a cure, not for kindness. “Yes, I know her.”
“Sign here, and here, Mrs. Niyangabo. You have a very well-behaved niece.” The attendant handed over a suitcase with a bright orange tag on it. “This is her luggage.”
Mrs. Niyangabo gave a weak smile. They walked down a series of moving walkways laid out in a circle. The middle of the circle was open to the air with a mesh cage to keep out the birds that was covered with feathers. In the parking garage, Mrs. Niyangabo tossed Melissa’s name card in the trash bin. “Did you bring the package?”
“Yes,” Melissa said.
They approached a black Audi sedan. Once inside, Mrs. Niyangabo turned to her and said, severely. “Give it to me.”
Melissa did as she was told and Mrs. Niyangabo turned the package over before tucking it under her seat. They drove onto a wide highway with hazy sunlight. There were old stone farmhouses with acacia trees for windbreaks, with bright green spinach plants against brown-tilled earth. Melissa did not like the speed at which Mrs. Niyangabo drove. She would zoom so close to the cars in front that they would have only a moment to switch to another lane. Not once had Mrs. Niyangabo mentioned her niqab.
“Are we going to Paris?”
“No, Bandoufle.”
They drove for an hour. They exited the highway onto a frontage road then exited again into a neighborhood with a maze of roundabouts with small three-bedroom homes laid out in a housing complex. They passed the entrance to a golf course and a sports stadium that seemed much too big for the town. There weren’t any people on the streets walking dogs or pushing children. Just watching the entire deserted
scene made Melissa thirsty for water.
Mr. Bello’s home was as lifeless as the community. A foyer with a hard bench, a kitchen, a living room, and three small bedrooms. He wasn’t there. The air inside felt stale and Mrs. Niyangabo did not open the windows to let in a breeze. The living room had two burgundy couches with wooden clawfeet. There was a television, a coffee table, some still-life paintings, and plastic flowers in a vase. Melissa recognized a portrait over the fireplace of an august-looking Mr. Bello with a colorful pointed hat. Unsmiling, Mrs. Niyangabo brought water and a plate of crackers with cheese.
“Stay here.” She could be heard speaking on a telephone in a language Melissa had never heard; then she returned carrying the package along with a box of matches. “You were very brave to come here, Melissa. You did the right thing. Mr. Bello is, I regret, unable to come to meet you. But first let me attend to this.”
She broke the seal of the package for Bello. Inside, she flipped through some papers and paused at a bundle of airline tickets. She took out a pen and wrote down the information. She also picked up a few trinkets: a computer disk, an electronic keycard, a roll of film, and a plastic object like a pulley. She made a note of these and then placed the entire package in the fireplace. She squeezed some liquid on the cardboard and set a flame to it.
“No!” Melissa shouted.
She rushed over to put out the blaze and Mrs. Niyangabo slapped her with the back of her hand. She fell into a pile of kindling, scrambling to get up.
“Get on the couch or I’ll hit you again!”
Melissa sat down and waited. She began to cry but tried not to make any noise. No one had ever hit her, ever. Mrs. Niyangabo took a poker and spread the ashes around, until some pieces poked through, added more liquid, and lit the pile again. She put on a log and burnt that, too. The smell of burning plastic filled the room.
“Take this,” Mrs. Niyangabo said. She produced a clean white handkerchief. “I did not want to have to do that, Melissa. I did it for your own safety. Take a sip of water and you’ll feel better.”
Melissa took a sip of water. The bubbles tickled at her throat but she didn’t feel any better. “I thought you were my father’s friend.”
“No, I am not his friend.”
“Then who are you?”
“I will tell you what I believe is safe. First you must accept that you will never see your father again.”
Melissa swallowed. The woman had given her no reason to trust her yet. Only to fear her. “You’re lying!”
“Shut up, you insolent girl!” Mrs. Niyangabo snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know who your father was.”
“He’s a freedom fighter.”
“That’s what he told you.” She took a cracker from the table and nibbled on it daintily. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t be proud. He’s not a freedom fighter. He’s a terrorist.”
Melissa understood now that Mrs. Niyangabo was not going to help her, nor was she a friend of her father’s or Mr. Bello’s. Her father wasn’t a terrorist! He’d spent his life helping the freedom fighters, people she had helped herself. She glanced at the door. She thought she could make a run for it and get outside. She would sort out the suburban wasteland later. There had to be a phone somewhere. In France there must be phones and there must be police.
“He will get what he deserved,” Mrs. Niyangabo went on, glancing at the cinders across the room.
“Why did you burn the package?”
Mrs. Niyangabo did not seem accustomed to answering questions. Dispassionately she removed a pocket mirror from a purse, taking her time applying rouge to her cheeks, and snapped it shut. “The information in that package was dangerous. I did it to protect my people. I’m surprised, really, that your father did not find out much more than he did. His reputation was unmerited.” She paused. “Are you getting sleepy?”
Melissa shook her head.
“It is called jetlag.”
“I know.”
“You may know it, but you haven’t had it. In ten minutes you’ll be asleep.”
“No,” Melissa pouted. “I’ll stay awake. I’m not tired.”
But she was tired, very much tired. It was too much. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, not after the woman had slapped her so viciously. If she believed Mrs. Niyangabo then her father would be gone forever.
“You will fall asleep. First, I need you to tell me one thing, Melissa. Answer it honestly. Entrusting you with the package was reckless, I’m afraid. I need to know so that I can protect you to the best of my ability. If you do not tell the truth, your life will be in danger.” She looked Melissa in the eye. “Did you look in the package?”
“No. He told me never to look at his packages.”
“You are sure.”
“Yes.” Then, as if it had slipped her mind: “I also found a photo of my father and me in my backpack.”
“Where is it?”
She unzipped her backpack and fingered the photo, taken before her skin had begun to change. Reluctantly, she handed it to Mrs. Niyangabo. Mrs. Niyangabo glanced at it and handed it back. “You can keep it. It means nothing. You can go to sleep now, Melissa.”
“I’m not tired.”
“I will show you to your room.” They walked down the stale hallway with more unsigned portraits of fruit and olives and flowers. At the door to the bedroom, where there was a single twin bed, Mrs. Niyangabo stopped her. “Melissa, if you are lying, I will find out. This is not a game.” She clicked open Melissa’s large suitcase. “Take what you need to sleep.” Melissa grabbed her toothbrush and a novel about the English seaside. Mrs. Niyangabo snatched the book and leafed through it slowly, didn’t notice anything, and handed it back. “Why do you wear the niqab?”
“For my skin.”
“Let me see it.”
Melissa peeled off her glove first on her right hand, then her left, and pulled up the sleeve. Mrs. Niyangabo wrinkled her nose but didn’t touch her.
“Is it contagious?”
“No.”
“You need a bath. You stink.” She lugged Melissa’s belongings down the hallway. “Now be a good girl and leave the door open. Good night.”
Mrs. Niyangabo was correct about the jetlag, for Melissa tried very hard to stay awake, but the long flight and the suburban desert made her feel far away. Melissa knew that below the folds of her niqab, she was there, she was present, but Mrs. Niyangabo frightened her, for beneath her rouged cheeks there seemed to be nothing at all. And she was terrified of coming closer to that nothingness. Bitter and black, halfway down, in the darkness, she was falling tears, she was sadness and sleep.
She awoke at dawn having to pee but was so afraid of Mrs. Niyangabo that she didn’t stir, and held it rather than go to the bathroom. She drifted into a fitful sleep and this time when she awoke she couldn’t stand it and rushed to the toilet. On the way back she saw that the other bed was already made. The living room was also empty and where there had once been ashes in the fireplace there was a fresh log. Mrs. Niyangabo was nowhere to be found.
She went into the kitchen and found more crackers and cheese, laid out with a note. Back in five minutes. No signature. In the refrigerator, all the shelves were empty except for a box of long-life milk. She searched the cabinets and found dishes but no food. Cautiously, she crept through the apartment and looked at the picture frames. Mr. Bello was in several of them, smiling in the smooth way she recalled from his visit in Bulawayo, though there were no photos with her father. After she ate some crackers and drank a glass of milk, she rushed back to her bedroom and waited for Mrs. Niyangabo to arrive. At last she heard the lock—and in a flash she thought, maybe it was Mr. Bello, maybe it was her father—and she ran to the front door.
But it was a different person altogether. The woman was wearing a full-length dress with a string of large false pearls. Her face was wider than Mrs. Niyangabo’s face and her skin was darker, with fuller lips. She stopped and looked at Meliss
a from head to toe.
“Melissa,” she said. “I am Madame Kaluanda.”
“Enchantée,” Melissa replied.
She raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Enchantée! Quelle jolie fille! Est-ce que tu parles français?”
“Non.”
“You will soon. For I am a French teacher. Would you like that, to learn français?”
“Yes.”
“S’il vous plaît.”
“See voo play.”
“Very good. Your first lesson. Please get your things and we will go.”
“Where is Mrs. Niyangabo?”
“I am sorry. This may be difficult for you, but you will not see her again. I am going to be your guardienne from now on, Mademoiselle. She gave me your luggage already. It is in the car. Dépeches-toi.”
Madame Kaluanda did not hug her, but that was fine for Melissa, because she knew where she stood. They were not going to be friends. They would be acquaintances. Mrs. Niyangabo’s frigidity, on the other hand, had frightened her.
“Are we going to the hospital?” she asked.
“Non, Évry.”
Évry was only a fifteen minute drive from Bandoufle, and the buildings grew taller as they drove into it. She saw train tracks and a black river with some beautiful trees on the banks, and they passed through an old neighborhood with stone houses draped with dark green ivy. There were kids in some of the streets. They turned into the driveway of a large apartment complex, unloaded the bags, and got into a slow elevator with scribbles of graffiti next to the buttons that took them to the fifteenth floor. It was a long, closed hallway with a seaweed-green carpet. One of the windows, she noticed, was cracked and she could smell rich cooking oil in the air.
She was given a bedroom with two other girls. In total there were fifteen girls spread over two apartments, six in that apartment, and nine two doors down. There were two bathrooms with bathtubs and toilets without seat covers. Madame Kaluanda ran the place as a boarding house for parents who couldn’t afford to move to France, or who had returned home for one reason or another and left the children to get better schooling. She was frank about this. There was none of the secrecy of Mrs. Niyangabo, none of the veiled threats. Melissa was told that there were strict rules and rent was monthly. Her rent had been paid in advance by Mrs. Niyangabo for the first year, and after that she would have to pay her own way.
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