“‘We are hard pressed on every side,’” he bellowed, “‘but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair.’” The preacher opened his eyes and gazed upon his congregation of fifty or so people. “‘Persecuted’”—he raised his voice—“‘but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.’” He stopped to let the vibrations of his words ricochet off the back walls and escape through the cut-open squares of windows. “That is what Paul the apostle wrote in Second Corinthians. Is it not what we, the Acholi people, might also say?” He raised his hands from the pulpit and spread them wide. “We have suffered,” he said. “We have lost our brothers and sisters, our mothers and fathers. We have lost our children.” Now his right hand came up, alone: “But we have not lost our hope.”
James was nodding beside her, but Rose had already lost interest. Suffering, yes: who here had not suffered? But if they had not yet lost hope, perhaps their suffering had not been enough. The men might know the pain of hard labor, fine, but how many knew what it was to travel from here to Sudan on foot, crossing rivers at night with only a rope to guide your chafing hands, and nothing to eat but plants you found along the way? The women knew the pain of childbirth, but who among them had been cut open right there in the dirt, sewed up a minute afterward so that she could flee a UPDF bomb strike, without even water to wash herself and her newborn child? She wanted to scoff: hope, indeed.
Then she felt it: a tickling on her fingers. She looked down and saw Grace’s arm extended lightly across her lap, the girl’s hand brushing Rose’s. That was all: not an embrace, not a squeeze; Grace didn’t even look her way or turn her head. But her touch—as slight as a stalk of grass, or a bird’s feather traced across the skin. Rose found herself blinking back tears. Grace’s existence was almost as precarious as Rose’s own, and yet here was this small, wise being, hopeful, unafraid.
Rose stopped listening to the sermon; she felt it more soothing to let it roll over her, the surge and drop of the preacher’s cadence like the swells of a storm in the rainy season, his words like tiny droplets pelleting the walls and ceiling while she, inside, surrendered.
Afterward, when the sermon and the singing were finished, everyone stood, and Agnes left her place at the front to join Rose and James and the children. Agnes’s green cross lay neatly against her collarbone above her blouse, and she had a radiant look about her.
Rose kissed her on one cheek. “You sing beautifully.”
“My wife does everything beautifully,” James said. Agnes put a hand on her belly, beaming.
Agnes’s sister, Beatrice, approached with the four children under her care, who mingled with Grace.
“Apwoyo,” Rose offered, but Beatrice didn’t even spare her a glance. It was as if she were invisible; no one worth noticing.
“Eh, sister,” Beatrice said to Agnes, “the light of God shines upon you. Today He is smiling on your unborn baby.”
“This is true, Agnes,” said the preacher, who had come up behind Beatrice. “The Lord has blessed you with this gift.”
“I have sung His praises in thanks,” Agnes said.
The preacher turned to Rose. “And you, my sister,” he said, the whites of his eyes glittering. “You are most welcome here.” He took her hand and enclosed it in his two warm, soft palms. “We are praying for you to find salvation in Jesus. In the Lord you will find forgiveness for your sins.”
“Yes,” she said, though she knew what he said was a lie. Who would forgive her if they knew everything? Not Christoph, not Ocen, not God. She released her hand from his grasp.
* * *
Rose wandered outside to find Isaac and discovered that he’d been caught throwing stones at the chickens and had been made to sit with the women cooking millet around the back of the church until the service was over (He is too stubborn, the women chided)—and Rose took advantage of the moment to steal away. After the unkindness of the congregation, she wanted to be somewhere she felt safe. Up the road a little ways from the church she waved for a boda, who agreed to take her to the cluster of huts past the airstrip where Ocen had his hut. She’d slept there many times, grateful for the relative privacy it offered compared to her rented room, whose walls were thin. She thought of the way Ocen would drive her on his boda late at night, her arm around his chest, her cheek against his back, the wind whipping her face, bones jarred by potholes; he’d take the turns gently, careful of her, his precious cargo. Riding there now without Ocen’s familiar body in front of her made her disoriented and sad. When the boda dropped her off, she paid him and told him not to wait. She wasn’t sure what she would find here—if anything—but she wanted the luxury of time.
Ocen’s hut was one of several standing in a scattered group at the southern edge of town. Beyond the circle was the old airport, surrounded by a fence to keep out goats and children. The dirt runway was out of use now, apart from private planes and missionary landings. It had seen its peak during the last of the war years, when humanitarian activity increased to such an extent that Eagle Air offered regularly scheduled flights to Gulu and Kitgum for those who were willing to pay extra to avoid the long, bumpy drive from Kampala. Rose had never been on a plane, but she remembered watching them take off. The instant of liftoff always seemed impossible to her—surely this time physics will fail—until the plane was afloat, high above, a speck that appeared to be hardly moving at all, and she would long for that escape. Then Ocen would slip a hand around her waist—the hand with the braided metal bracelet she’d given him, always that hand—and she would feel tethered and content.
Besides a stray dog sleeping on its side in the shade of a neighbor’s hut, the clearing was deserted. The other families were at church, Rose knew; she recalled those delicious Sunday mornings with Ocen in his bed, undisturbed, engaged in their own acts of worship.
The door on his hut—a thick slab of wood—was closed tight but not locked. It could only be locked from the inside. He kept no money at home; with her help he’d opened a bank account at the Stanbic branch in town, where she also kept her savings. His cell phone was cheap and he carried it with him always, and the other objects he owned would be of little value to thieves. She ducked beneath the low thatch roof and leaned against the door hard with her good shoulder, and it swung open with a creak.
Inside, the ceiling was angled so steep that she could not stand up straight except in the very center. The atmosphere was dim, and the dark outlines of the shapes were sweetly, heartbreakingly familiar. There was the small pile of folded clothes; the bowl and spoon for when he joined the neighbors for a meal; the thin mattress beneath a haphazardly draped mosquito net. Here, a calendar from 2007 stuck to the mud wall with rusty nails; a dented yellow jerry can; the slant of light angling in from a tiny square window onto a pen and the school notebook he used to track his earnings and expenses as a boda driver. He’d probably started a new one when he left, she thought. The air was stale and dry. She tried to find any trace of Ocen’s scent—a distinctive combination of soap and clean sweat—but there was only a touch of mustiness, a hint of earth. The space felt close and empty.
Had Lily come here? she wondered suddenly. Was the mono girl not just a source of money but something more, too? It happened, sure: foreign girls relishing in the adventure of a Ugandan lover, swayed by sweet talk and the heady proximity of a war they hadn’t experienced and couldn’t understand. Rose’s breath became short; she couldn’t stay longer. What did she think she would find here, anyway?
She picked up Ocen’s notebook on her way out—a token, something tangible that she could weigh in her palm, put to her skin—and in the bright sunlight of the clearing, she sat on a wooden stool, set the notebook on her knee, and with her one good hand flipped slowly through its pages, hoping to calm her mind.
But the neat, tidy columns of numbers tugged at her, the dates, the distances, the fares—such meager makings! A thousand shillings, five hundred, one seven; Rose earned twenty thousand a day, on the days that she worked. And at the bottom of eve
ry page, the subtraction of his weekly cost of fuel and rentals and personal expenses—a disheartening tally. The total grew over the course of the notebook, but by such agonizingly minute increments. How had she been so blind to his poverty? He’d worked so hard, said nothing. Perhaps she’d willed herself to be deceived.
Stop. The thought reached her brain a moment too late, and she had to flip back a few pages to see what had caught her eye. She found it again—three words written at the very top of a page, above the columns; a strange incongruity—and pressed the notebook open to the spot. Ocen’s handwriting was clear and deliberate, as if he were copying the letters from somewhere else:
Patrick Flynn Lakwali
She read the words several times. Patrick she recognized as a Christian name, and Lakwali had the right consonants and vowels to be East African, but in combination with this mysterious Flynn, the phrase meant nothing.
But it must mean something.
Patrick Flynn Lakwali.
The sleeping dog rose abruptly and shook itself, stood a moment panting, then trotted off down the road.
* * *
“Visiting hours are strictly Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” the maroon-uniformed officer said in a monotone. It was a different officer than the last time she’d been here. “You must return tomorrow.”
Rose stood at the door of the prison, which the officer had opened a crack at her insistent knocking. “It’s important. I have to speak with him. It can’t wait.”
“I cannot help you.” His eyes lowered lazily to her breasts.
Her heart beat hard against her rib cage. Instinctively she began to cross her arms, but with only one, the movement felt futile. She let her arm fall again to her side. “Is there … an extra charge, perhaps? A special weekend fee?”
The officer nodded to her to come inside. “It is possible.”
The narrow hallway of the entrance felt tighter than she remembered. The officer on Friday had been courteous, at least. This man had an aura of apathy to him that frightened her. There was no one else in the hallway or in the side room that she could see, and from here the window that looked out onto the courtyard showed only the roof of the barracks and the sky above. The officer looked her up and down. It took great effort not to tremble.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a light-purple-and-green twenty-thousand-shilling bill toward him. It was not a subtle gesture, but at least it put an arm’s length—and cash—between them.
He took the bill delicately and flicked it with a finger.
Rose stepped back. Without this thinnest line of defense, she felt naked, but this was for Ocen, she reminded herself. What would Ocen have done for her? What had he done for her already? She pressed forward again, taking a second bill from her pocket.
“And this, for the holiday,” she said. Her voice would not stay steady.
The officer laughed, his white teeth large in the hazy light. “You amuse me,” he said. “I would have settled for a kiss. What is the name of the prisoner? You can have five minutes.”
A moment later, Paddy stood again at the window, his hands on the bars. He seemed warier this time than before.
“You have seen my family?” he asked.
“I will go this evening,” she promised. “I can give them a little something to help.”
He breathed more freely. “Thank you.”
“Paddy,” she said, leaning in, “do you know the words Patrick Flynn Lakwali?”
Paddy frowned. “Say it again?” But her repetition sparked no greater recognition in his expression. “It is a name?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I never heard it.”
A second prisoner appeared at the periphery of the window. “Lakwali,” the man repeated. “Eh, I know this place.”
“What is it?” Rose asked.
The man came into full view. His face was batlike, small and squished. “It is the name of a gold mine.”
“Kitgum has no gold mines,” she said.
“Eh, the place is in Congo. My cousin went there to work.”
“Congo?” Rose’s vision began to tilt. “What do you mean, Congo?”
A shrill whistle cut through the air, and the man flinched and looked toward the barracks across the courtyard. Already the other prisoners that had been outside began to move reluctantly toward the officer with the whistle in his mouth, standing in the barracks’ doorway. Paddy released his hands.
“What’s happening?” Rose asked. “Where are you going?”
“Labor duty,” Paddy said. “They sell us like oxen.”
She gripped the bar. “Why would Ocen know the name of a gold mine? Who is Patrick? What is Flynn?”
But Paddy only shook his head. “Please,” he said, turning away. “Tell my wife I am well.”
* * *
Outside, the noon sun twisted cruelly overhead. The light turned to white then turned to yellow while she stood at the roadside, unsure where to direct her body next.
A gold mine? It didn’t make any sense. What was his interest there? Had he gone for work, like the man’s cousin?
Or was it more subversive? She thought of Ocen’s uncle Franklin in Arua, far in the west, just a few kilometers from the Congolese border. She’d met Franklin several times and had no liking for him. He owned several successful shops, but Ocen had spoken of Franklin’s involvement in a loose band of small-time thugs in Arua who called themselves the Opec Boys—smugglers, mostly, taking fuel and cigarettes from Congo into Uganda. Ocen had always disdained such dishonesty, but Rose knew there was good money to be made. Had Ocen come under his uncle’s sway in order to earn her dowry?
Who was Patrick? What was Flynn?
And Lily: where did she fit?
The shadows tightened; the questions spun; the sun beat down.
CHAPTER 11
SABINE
December 28
It was midday Sunday before Sabine left the Bomah to visit the police station down the street. She’d spent the morning on the phone, first with Kathryn in Kampala, who wanted to set up face-to-face meetings with Ugandan officials for her the following week. Sabine explained that she wasn’t ready to leave Kitgum, but she’d appreciate any direct assistance they could offer. Kathryn prevaricated for ten minutes before Sabine finally got fed up and claimed a previous engagement. Then Steve called to update her on media coverage while she snacked on a plate of chapati she’d asked the restaurant to bring to her room. Lily’s story had been reported by Denver-area TV stations and newspapers but hadn’t been picked up nationally, and after Saturday’s air strikes in Gaza, everyone’s eyes were on the Middle East.
“I’m still pushing for more coverage,” Steve said wearily. “Any luck on your end?”
Sabine summarized her encounters in Kitgum so far, carefully excising any hint of ivory. Steve agreed that tracking down Lily’s boda driver sounded promising.
“By the way,” Steve said, “remember that guy who was hacking into Lily’s e-mails?”
“Did anything come of it?”
“Yes and no. There’s been no activity since her last night in Kitgum—since the message she sent to us.”
Sabine thought of the words, those three exclamation marks: Wrapping up things in Kitgum … don’t freak out if you guys don’t hear from me before my flight!!!
“But there was something else?” she asked.
“Apparently Lily opened another e-mail account a few months ago. There was a blank message sent to her main address in early November. My guy said it’s probably nothing—lots of people have secondary accounts they use for online stuff.”
Or for conducting secret investigations into illegal activities, Sabine thought.
“The weird thing is,” Steve said, “she used Hannah’s maiden name—your last name—instead of Bennett.”
“Lily Hardt?”
“Strange, huh?”
“Very.”
“In any case, he couldn’t access that account yet. Hopefully soon. What a
bout the Kitgum police?”
“I’m headed there next.”
But before she could leave, her phone rang for a third time that morning: Rita, wanting to catch her up on the news in Kampala.
“The radio ads have been playing on Simba and Radio One since Friday,” Rita said. “I went by the missing persons’ desk yesterday and it sounded like they’ve had some calls. Mostly inquiries about whether there’s a reward. The police are supposed to be following up on substantial leads. They have your number if they find anything.”
“I won’t hold my breath,” Sabine said.
“Also, Jochem posted Lily’s picture on some kind of expat forum online. They’ve got people all over Uganda, so there’s a good chance that if Lily passed through one of these places, we’ll hear about it.”
She appreciated these updates from Rita and Steve; she knew the importance of coordination and organization. Still, the time she spent on the phone felt cumbersomely administrative—too much like aid work, where every hour in the field corresponded to a hundred hours in the office wading through paperwork, proposals, permissions, contracts, reports. Even though she’d specifically taken postings in smaller field offices rather than capital-city headquarters, she’d nevertheless spent most of her working hours behind a desk. The little round table in her room at the Bomah was starting to feel too familiar, and she was grateful when she finally closed the door behind her and crossed the courtyard in the warm sunshine, headed for the police station across the street.
As soon as she exited the Bomah gates, she saw a woman emerge from the yellow police building—Christoph’s assistant, Sabine knew immediately. The woman’s one arm made her unmistakable. Sabine hurried to catch her. If Rose—that was her name, wasn’t it?—if Rose could put her directly in touch with Lily’s boda driver, it would spare Sabine from searching out Christoph, whom she hadn’t seen this morning, and whom she hoped to avoid the rest of the day after last night’s awkwardness.
Sabine expected Rose to stride purposefully onward, but the woman stopped at the roadside, as if uncertain. As Sabine got closer, she could see that Rose’s expression was some mixture of confusion and concern. What was her interest at the prison? Not that it mattered, Sabine thought. It was none of her business. She approached slowly.
The Atlas of Forgotten Places Page 12