The Atlas of Forgotten Places

by Jenny D. Williams

  “He’s…” What could she say? That she wanted to pull him closer, inhale his smell? That he might have had an affair with her twenty-two-year-old niece? But she did trust him, and she told Rita as much.

  “And Rose?” Rita asked.

  Sabine thought of the poised Ugandan woman. Rose was inscrutable, a mystery. But the unease Sabine felt about her wasn’t mistrust, she thought. She recalled the sense of closeness, the easy intimacy between Rose and Christoph—the way he’d let her work at Franklin’s house, the unspoken signals between them. The discomfort in Sabine’s gut wasn’t doubt. It was envy.

  “I think Rose wants to find Ocen as much as I want to find Lily,” she said.

  “I’m assuming you don’t plan to contact the woman from the U.S. embassy in Kampala.”

  “Kathryn? Not a chance.”

  “What about Steve?”

  “He’d be against it, no question.”

  “You don’t think he has a right to know?”

  “I think he’d be dialing CNN the second we hung up, and publicity is the last thing we need right now.”

  Through the window of her room, Sabine caught a glimpse of Christoph crossing the courtyard area, on the other side of the pool. The handsome profile of his nose and lips. He was moving slowly, his head down, hands in his pockets. Where was he headed? She craned her neck to follow as he passed out of view.

  “It must be hard for him,” Rita said. “Being so far away. He probably feels helpless.”

  Sabine pulled her attention back to the phone. “Steve’s a good man. Hannah loved him. But he doesn’t understand anything about Africa.”

  “Do we?”

  Sabine half-laughed. It was better than crying. “No, I don’t suppose we do.”

  The knock came just as she hung up. She opened the door to find Christoph with a grim look on his face. “Guten Abend,” he said.

  “Come in.”

  There were no chairs, and Christoph glanced around awkwardly until she gestured to the bed. They sat apart, their legs dangling off the side. Christoph shifted a few inches toward her; Sabine, her neck prickling, stayed put.

  “I talked to the hotel manager,” he began.

  Sabine felt a trickle of betrayal. “About our plans?”

  “Just that we want to cross the border. I said we were tourists.”

  “He believed you?”

  “It’s not unheard of. He mentioned a Danish couple from earlier this year—they were driving from Cairo to Cape Town, via Congo and Zambia.”

  “They would have had an easier time through East Africa.”

  “Apparently they wanted the adventure,” Christoph said. “In any case, the manager said he can arrange a ride for us to the border in the morning. We don’t have time to sort out the paperwork on your car, and it’s a rental anyway. We can leave it parked here for a week if need be. I asked about visas, too. He said we should be able to get them on the spot.”

  “Good.”

  “What if some of us get turned away?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  He pressed his hands hard against his thighs. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  He stood up and began to pace. “They left Arua weeks ago. We need to be prepared for the possibility that this is as far as we can go.”

  “You can say that because you didn’t love her.” The force of her bitterness took her by surprise; the words had come out before she’d consciously formed the thought. Suddenly she was afraid of how he would respond.

  Christoph stopped walking.

  “You’re right,” he said. “But she reminded me of someone I loved.”

  “She did?”

  “My sister,” Christoph said.

  Had she gotten his interest in Lily all wrong? A glimmer of relief and hope shimmered at the edge of her awareness.

  “They were the same age,” he said. “Céline would have been twenty-three in March.” He sat back down on the bed, closer this time. Sabine felt a palpable sense of something being exchanged between them. “After I was born, the doctors told my mother she couldn’t have any more children. She didn’t—for fifteen years. Then, out of the blue…” He smiled. “Céline was a beautiful baby. I know everyone says that. But with her, it was true.”

  Sabine’s stomach clenched with foreboding. “What happened?”

  “I was hardly ever around. I left for university when she was five, and then I did my master’s and Ph.D.… I came home for holidays, of course, but I was preoccupied. I didn’t even notice how she was slipping away.” He lifted his hand to the mosquito net knotted overhead and rubbed it between his fingers. “She overdosed when she was seventeen. Heroin. I can’t help but think that if I’d been there for her earlier—if I’d seen the signs…”

  Sabine knew the guilt he felt. She thought of all those curt replies she’d sent to Lily’s e-mails from Kitgum, the cursoriness of her advice—how little attention she’d paid to Lily’s struggles. A deep sadness tugged in her chest.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  He turned toward Sabine, his eyes moist. “Linda was right about Lily being disillusioned. She and I talked about it a lot. I wanted to help her.”

  Outside, the last patches of tangerine sky were darkened by the encroaching night.

  “She told me a story,” Christoph said. “A fairy tale her mother used to read to her when she was young. The Seven Ravens.”

  Talking ravens, glass mountains, siblings lost and found.

  “I remember watching Hannah sit on Lily’s bed at night with that book,” Sabine said. “Our grandfather read it to us as children. We always loved the story of the seven ravens, too.”

  “It was a question Lily struggled with a lot—sacrifice,” Christoph said. “How far to go to help others. She brought up the girl in that fairy tale quite a lot. She said she didn’t know if she had that kind of courage.” He met her eyes. “She believed you did. She admired you deeply, you know. She thought you had it all figured out.”

  “I didn’t,” Sabine said, suddenly helpless. “I didn’t have anything figured out.”

  Christoph took her hand and squeezed. “Does anyone?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes; she could only see the fine white-blond hairs on the back of his hand where he held hers, the subtle lines under his skin, his blood pulsing, his warmth.

  “I know I’m not family,” he went on, “but I felt responsible for her somehow. Protective. With Rose, too.” He paused for a long time, finally releasing her hand. “She was abducted by the LRA when she was thirteen,” he said at last. “She spent five years with the rebels. She’s never talked to me about it. I found out from another expat who worked at the rehabilitation center where she arrived when she first came out of the bush. She’s very private about those years.”

  Sabine didn’t know what to say, and so she said nothing.

  “I can’t even begin to imagine what she’s been through,” Christoph went on. “And now, with Ocen missing…”

  “I can see why you would feel protective,” Sabine said.

  “I want to help her, Sabine. I want to get her a better education, a better job.”

  The steadiness of his eye contact made her uncomfortable, and she looked away.

  “You understand why we have to go,” she said. “She and I both.”

  His voice was quiet. “I do.”

  “You don’t have to feel responsible for me, too.”

  “You? Veteran of a hundred disasters?” He smiled. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

  * * *

  The morning dawned chilly but clear. Sabine had said good night to Christoph with a prolonged hug—one that had left her dizzy, confused—then spent the rest of the evening packing and unpacking her bag, eliminating all but the essentials. It was strange to imagine Lily having done the same, weeks before: what had Lily chosen to bring? What had she left behind? What had brought her comfort on this d
angerous journey? What was with her still?

  She met Christoph and Rose at the breakfast buffet, which was laid out with fresh fruit and pancakes. Her body was tense and alert to Christoph’s presence. After their conversation last night she had the feeling that something was shifting between them, and she was both exhilarated and nervous. She missed her sister with an abrupt longing. Hannah would recognize this terrain of in-between; she’d know the delicate balance of coyness and encouragement that would help the process along.

  “Sleep well?” she asked him, bumping his shoulder ever so slightly.

  He looked up at her with tired, red-rimmed eyes, and gave a small smile. “Didn’t sleep much, I’m afraid.” He turned blankly to the slice of pineapple on his plate. “I can’t stop thinking about them. What might have happened.”

  And here she was, trying to flirt. How selfish to think of Hannah now; if Hannah were here, she’d have space in her thoughts for Lily and nothing else. Abashed, Sabine took a step away and said, “The best thing is to focus on the next step. For now we just need to cross the border and get to the mine.”

  Rose was as reserved as ever, her movements graceful and slow; Sabine’s gaze fixated on the sewn-together sleeve that covered Rose’s shoulder. The unconsciousness of her elegance left Sabine feeling gangly and stilted in her wake. How could someone who had been so profoundly crushed by tragedy hold herself with such poise?

  What an odd trio we are, she thought: an unlikely band of rescuers. Yet this morning she found comfort in their strangeness. Yesterday she’d hoped their paths would split; today she was grateful she did not have to face the next steps alone. Christoph thought her tough, and she was. But today she was also afraid. Afraid that they would not be able to cross the border—and afraid that they would.

  The road leading out of Arua toward the border was flat and wide and lined with greenery. Tall, spindly-trunked eucalyptus trees flanked the roadsides. Bodas and bicyclists passed in both directions, some holding their eyes a little too long on the car, and Sabine thought of Ocen’s uncle and wondered if she was witnessing his network in action. The distance was less than ten kilometers, but the few minutes it took to drive felt as though they kept looping back on themselves, as if time was stuck and wouldn’t move forward, as if she would stay suspended forever.

  “Here we go,” Christoph said as a meadow opened up to their right and the driver slowed. Half a dozen trucks were parked alongside the road ahead, and a series of huts and small buildings signaled the border offices. The driver pulled over and pointed to a small white building with a brown roof behind a ten-foot fence topped with barbed wire.

  “Immigration,” the man said as the three of them got out of the car.

  “Thanks,” Sabine said, handing him a twenty-thousand-shilling bill.

  Christoph came up to the driver’s side window and said to the man, “Can you wait a few minutes until we make it to the Congolese side?”

  “No problem.”

  Christoph caught Sabine’s eye. “Just in case.”

  They turned toward the building.

  Two officers in khaki uniforms and black berets sat idly in the shade of a large tree. The officers glanced at their approach but showed little interest. They appeared to be manning a single barrier, one metal pole painted in alternating blocks of black and white; farther down the road were more small buildings, more parked trucks. Sabine went first through the gate in the fence, followed by Christoph and Rose. Her mind was alert, her body on edge. She’d crossed plenty of African borders as an aid worker, but relatively few as a tourist; without official credentials and a nongovernmental acronym to smooth her way, she felt small and powerless. She steeled herself for an interrogation, ran through the lines they’d discussed at breakfast: Overland expedition through Africa, adventure in public transportation, headed south to Bunia, then west to the Okapi Wildlife Reserve. They’d agreed that this invented itinerary seemed less suspicious, as it took them away from the military action in Garamba rather than toward it.

  But the Ugandan officer hardly said a word; he took each of their passports and examined them morosely—he spent an especially long time scrutinizing Rose’s photo—and then stamped them and waved them on.

  “That’s all?” Rose whispered as they left the building and exited the gate.

  “They’ve only given us permission to leave Uganda,” Christoph said. “Now we have to get permission to enter Congo.”

  One of the two police officers rose from his seat in the shade to check their passports before they could skirt the black-and-white vehicle barrier. Once past, they began to walk the short stretch of no-man’s land between border posts. A cool breeze lifted the fabric of Sabine’s shirt around her waist. With each step she took on the hard earth, her legs felt heavier. Breathe, she told herself. It’s just another road. Just another blue sky. Just another signpost.

  LA REPUBLIQUE DEMOCRATIQUE DU CONGO VOUS SOUHAITE LA BIENVENUE

  “The Democratic Republic of the Congo welcomes us,” Christoph said.

  “Yes,” Rose said. “I am feeling very welcome.” She turned to Sabine and smiled, and Sabine felt herself smiling back. Just another border crossing. Just another adventure.

  The building and cars came closer. Leafy trees rustled gently alongside them. Four women chatted while resting in a shady patch of grass, buckets of green bananas and plump bags of sugar and avocadoes sprawled before them. It’s really quite peaceful, Sabine thought: no one seemed stressed or hurried or angry. She hadn’t seen a single gun or even a soldier in camouflage. She knew there would be refugees farther north, families fleeing the resurgence of LRA violence; she’d half expected to see throngs of displaced people trying to cross the border here. But the LRA attacks were so recent—they’d only started in the last week or two, since the start of Operation Lightning Thunder—and this border was hundreds of kilometers away from the fighting.

  From the cluster of roadside traders, two children came out from behind their mothers and pointed at the mzungus and the one-armed girl as they passed; one boy was sucking on his finger, and when the other nudged him to go closer, he swatted him with the wet digit.

  Christoph nodded at a low white building with a blue-trimmed roof. “Is that it, you think?”

  “Must be,” Sabine said. She halted and turned to him. “You can still turn back.”

  He squinted into the sun. “You know I can’t do that.”

  She looked to Rose. “You, too.”

  Rose’s expression didn’t change. “And you.”

  They exchanged a nod.

  The immigration building—identified by a hand-painted sign—was bordered by two others without markings. Outside one of them, three men stood in a small circle having an animated argument. Two were dressed in civilian clothes and a third was in a khaki officer’s uniform. They were the only other people present; evidently the rest of the guards were busy with Franklin’s fleet. The men weren’t speaking French—that much Sabine could tell—but when she glanced at Rose, the Ugandan woman gave a brief shake of her head: not Acholi. One civilian kept pointing toward a parked truck, whose contents were hidden beneath a tarp. The officer responded angrily, flicking his hand against a piece of paper that seemed to be the flashpoint of the discussion. The front of the trucks faced east; they were coming into Congo rather than leaving. Just as Sabine was stepping into the immigration room, she noticed a figure exit the nearby building and insert himself into the arguing group. Her heart pounded in surprise: the man was white. Another mzungu? Was he a development worker? Missionary? Diplomat? He looked rather young, didn’t he?—but she only caught a glance before she was inside the building, in the dimness, with a wall between them.

  The room was sparsely furnished with two desks, six wooden chairs, and several sets of filing cabinets; a tall fan stood unplugged in one corner, dusty staplers and hole punchers crowded the top of the cabinet, and stacks of loose papers covered much of the desktop space. A smallish, round-faced man sat neatl
y behind the desk with pursed lips and glasses. From outside, the faint sounds of arguing drifted in.

  “Oui?” the man said briskly.

  “Bonjour,” Christoph began. Sabine couldn’t follow the rapid-fire back-and-forth that came after; she mutely handed over her passport when Christoph told her so, and watched his face and the Congolese official’s expression closely as they spoke. Christoph remained surprisingly cool—firm but polite, she thought—and the official gave nothing away. He barely made eye contact with Christoph, focusing instead on opening each passport in turn, flipping through the pages, then closing it again. When he went through all three, he began again. Sabine glanced to Rose, who stood quietly by, delicate beads of moisture gathering on her forehead. Sabine was sweating underneath her shirt. Why wasn’t the fan plugged in?

  “He says it’s possible to get tourist visas,” Christoph said in a low voice to Sabine and Rose. “Seventy-five dollars each.”

  “Will you accept euros?” she asked the man directly, in English. He cocked his head and looked at Christoph, who translated.

  “Oui,” the man said.

  Sabine nodded. “All right.” She sensed Rose tense beside her, and touched the woman’s elbow. “Don’t worry, Rose. I can pay.”

  Upon the exchange of currency, the man opened a large ledger and copied their names and passport details painstakingly into the narrow columns, then wrote in each passport in tiny letters and stamped the page. As soon as the last stamp thudded down, Sabine felt both relief and terror. There was no going back. Meanwhile Christoph continued to ask a few more questions, to which the man replied curtly.

  “The roads are secure south to Bunia,” Christoph murmured to Sabine.

  “What about west? Did he say anything?” She kept a smile on her face.

  “I didn’t ask. I thought it would raise suspicions.”

  “A casual inquiry wouldn’t hurt.”

  Christoph seemed skeptical but spoke to the man again. The man put down his pen and clasped his hands on top of their passports, then lifted his gaze to meet Sabine’s eyes.

  “And what interest do you have in traveling westward?” he asked in crisp, precise English.