An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  As the jeep approached the white stucco home, Jim was struck by the geometrical balance of the grounds. The putting-green lawn was surrounded by a symmetric French-style formal garden with a galaxy of blooming flowers. The brilliant display of crimson bougainvillea, pink hibiscus, blood-red roses, and orange leonatis arrayed against bordering palm, eucalyptus, and acacia trees was in sharp contrast with the dusty, trash-filled streets and gray buildings Jim had seen on his way to Abbot’s house. When the jeep came to a stop, two very small men came running from the garden.

  “That’s Albert and Anatole—they’ll collect your bags,” Abbot said.

  After warm greetings were extended to Jim in French by the two gardeners, Abbot ushered him through the main house to the veranda.

  “It’s a bit empty now, Jim. Because of the spread of violence, I decided to send my wife, Elizabeth, and ten-year-old daughter, Karen, back stateside about four months ago. I’ll be going home to see them within the next few months.”

  He didn’t need to add that their absence was a cause of profound loneliness; his sad expression, while fleeting, delivered that message—one Jim understood.

  Out on the veranda, Jim exclaimed, “Jesse, it’s like being in a park!”

  “Yeah, it’s quite a place. While the pay in Foreign Service is modest, and being so far from home can be difficult for various reasons, housing for a US diplomat is generally pretty damned spectacular. This is especially true in African countries, where the US government can purchase these homes dirt cheap.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Jim, “how much would a home like this go for in Burundi?”

  “Today, about 40,000 US dollars.”

  “It’d be ten times that much in the States.”

  “Maybe only ten times in Worcester!” kidded Abbot. “In a place like Westchester County, it’d be more like thirty times!”

  “You’re right,” smiled Jim.

  A fourth servant appeared, Josiane Kakunze, the Hutu domestic Abbot had told Jim about. No more than four feet tall, her smooth, sable skin was lit up by a radiant smile. Dressed in a traditional wraparound pagnes with lime green and umber flowers, she was very pretty and probably in her mid-forties. Somehow, her personal losses in life did not smother her spirit.

  Jim made certain he didn’t stare as he had at the restaurant, but he did notice her hair fixed in tight ringlets, her deep-set eyes, and her full lips. Another lovely Burundian woman, he thought.

  Josiane greeted Jim warmly in near-perfect English. “Salama, Mister Jim Keating. Welcome to Burundi. We wish you peace and happy stay. Please excuse to make iced tea.”

  “Salama and thank you.” Jim bent slightly at the waist.

  When she had left the room, Jim turned to Abbot and asked, “Um . . . how many domestic workers do you have?” asked Jim diplomatically.

  “We have eight, Jim—four Hutus and four Tutsis. Before the outbreak of violence, we had five, and Ntare’s job was not as an armed gatekeeper, but as my driver. . . . Also, before the violence exploded, we didn’t pay any attention to our Burundi Affirmative Action Policy, as we call it. But we sure do now. If it got out that we were employing a majority of one side or the other, it could cause us problems.”

  Abbot added, “And, as I mentioned at the airport, by Burundi’s standards, we pay well—very well. ‘Heavy lettuce,’ as Ntare says. The result is that we get great people.”

  “Do they get along, the four Hutus and the four Tutsis?” Jim asked.

  “They do. In fact, Burundian society has been, and is, to a large extent, quite fluid. Many, if not most, Burundians don’t sympathize with the insurgent groups. And, of course, they want to keep their jobs. I don’t mean to say that they socialize after hours, but yes, they get along fine.”

  As Jesse spoke, Jim found himself increasingly curious about his new living quarters.

  “Tell me about this home,” said Jim, who by now felt completely comfortable with Abbot. “I bet it has quite a history.”

  “Sure does!” said Abbot. “It was owned by a Belgian industrialist who purchased a cattle farm here in the early 1950s and built this home in ‘54. Now, understand, when this was a Belgian colony, if you take into account the tax advantages he received, a guy like that could build it for practically nothing. It was like a little paradise for him, and, as legend has it, he had a rather large appetite for the Tutsi women. In fact, the apartment you’ll stay in was supposedly built for his mistress. He’d come down here for a month and then go back to stay for a month with his wife and three kids in Brussels.”

  Jim felt his usual Catholic unease about a discussion involving sexual matters, particularly with someone he just met.

  Abbot continued, “Anyway, one summer he was down here on one of his so-called business trips. His wife, who had never been here before, decided to surprise him.”

  “And I guess it was quite a surprise,” said Jim, forcing a smile.

  “Sure was. As I heard the story, the wife made him sell the house and plantation to another Belgian. Then, in ‘62, when the Belgians gave independence to Burundi, the Swiss Embassy purchased the home. When they downsized their diplomatic corps several years ago, we bought it for the princely sum of 25,000 US dollars. So now that you have all of the prurient details of this hideaway, let me show it to you.”

  As Abbot escorted Jim into his new home, Jim’s delight with his surroundings was tempered by sudden pangs of guilt. The apartment’s graceful elegance was in sharp contrast to the conditions, only several miles away, where human beings were living in what Jim imagined might rival the worst of thirteenth-century serfdom. But his concern receded somewhat as his host ushered him around the apartment, which had surely been built with someone of consequence in mind—in this case, a mistress. It was a small jewel, with the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and veranda all having spectacular views of the gardens, Lake Tanganyika, and the hills beyond. Soon, Jim’s feelings of guilt melted away, overridden by his appreciation for such nice quarters.

  “Jesse, this place is great!’

  “I’m glad you like it, Jim. Now, it’s 1:45, and the reception starts at 7:30. I’m sure you’re exhausted. Why don’t you get some sleep, and I’ll knock on your door about six.”

  “Sounds good.”

  After Abbot closed the door, Jim surveyed his new quarters more closely. Jim would never pretend to be an expert in interior decoration, but after so many moves with Edna, he’d gained some sense of what created comfort and harmony and what didn’t. It wasn’t roomy, but it was exquisitely furnished, each piece having been carefully chosen and arranged. Jim would later learn that the dressers and writing table, both beautifully carved mahogany, were brought by the Dutch in the early 1900s. The lilac shades in the bedroom opened onto the spectacular view, but Jim soon drew the shades and slumped into the soft feather bed.

  Throughout the trip, the withdrawal from the Prozac had prevented Jim from sleep, save a few winks. When he landed, his adrenaline kept him moving. Now he was so completely weary that he drifted off immediately. When Abbot knocked on the door at six, Jim awoke refreshed, reminding himself that, for the last decade, he had not required more than four or five hours of sleep a night.

  “Did you sleep okay?” asked Abbot.

  “Slept great,” said Jim.

  “Well, the ambassador would like us to get there by about 7:00 so that she can greet you personally before the other guests arrive. Sergeant Rush will pick us up at 6:45.”

  “I’ll take a quick shower and shave,” said Jim. Retrieving a shirt and a tie, he turned to Abbot and smiled. “I haven’t worn a tie very much lately, but I think I can remember how it goes on. I’ll be ready, Jesse.”

  Underneath his shirts, Jim saw his picture of Edna and Sarah. He put it on the dresser.

  “That’s a very pretty pair, Jim.”

  “Thanks. Edna was a great traveler. She had a special love of Spain. Visited there many times when I was coaching in Barcelona.” Jim was reli
eved that he was remembering good times. He was definitely getting better. “Sarah likes to travel, too. Maybe I can get her over here if things ever calm down.”

  “That would be great, Jim, on both accounts—getting her here and having things calm down,” said Jesse. “I’ll let you get ready, Coach.”

  The shower was low and the pressure was less than Jim was accustomed to in Worcester. But it felt good, and he might have wanted to luxuriate awhile if not for his greater desire to meet Ambassador Foster and begin this challenge in earnest.

  The ambassador’s residence was about two miles from Abbot’s, in the Kiriri district, by far the most exclusive neighborhood in Burundi, consisting of twenty mansions, all built by the Belgians in the 1940s and ‘50s. While none of the homes had a view of Lake Tanganyika, they were all magnificent, including the ambassador’s—a twenty-two-room palatial estate built by another wealthy Belgian whose background Jim would soon discover.

  When the jeep arrived at the gate, Abbot stated the obvious: “Heavy security tonight, Jim.” Four Marines, two more than usual, were on gate duty, and after each one greeted Jim, the jeep passed through into a large parking lot off the side of the house.

  “Jim Keating! Welcome to Bujumbura!”

  The strong, clear, and cheerful voice came from a side door, out of which walked a woman dressed in a beige safari suit. Ambassador Cynthia Foster had taken on late middle age with grace. She was of medium height and slightly overweight, but not excessively so. “The traditional build of mature African women,” Jim would later hear her say in a bantering tone. Her hair was black and braided, her face clear skinned and worldly, and her eyes conveyed a kindness that immediately made Jim feel comfortable. He saw a lady who was attractive, not so much because of her physical beauty, but because of her intelligence, warmth, and natural personality. When she smiled, she glowed, and her presence was compelling without being domineering.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here!” she said.

  “Ambassador Foster, I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here,” said Jim, who, up until that point, had been uncertain how to react, but now was ready to discard his wariness.

  The ambassador invited him into the house. Holding his arm as they walked, she said, “Jim, I can sense you’re a little bit concerned, but I honestly think you’re going to like Burundi.”

  III

  Uncommon Surprises

  22

  “Glass of iced tea, Jim?” Ambassador Foster asked.

  “No—no thanks.”

  “Well then, shall we take a tour?”

  “Love to.”

  Ambassador Foster was obviously comfortable taking the lead, and she did it with an ease that Jim found appealing, if not disarming. As the two walked from room to room, Jim marveled at the grandeur of the home. He had seen some magnificent dwellings in his travels. Colonial mansions in New England, antebellum estates in the South, and the haciendas outside of Barcelona had all been imposing. This home, though, was majestic. Yet, once again, an image of mud-brick and thatched huts flashed in the coach’s mind.

  “Did Jesse tell you about all the rich Belgians who built these houses?” Ambassador Foster asked.

  “He did.”

  “Well, the unusual thing about this particular home is that it was built by a woman—an industrialist who, unlike most of the Belgians who built here, had a humanitarian side. She started a successful literacy program out in the country. When we moved here, the history of this home was related to me by our chef, and I became interested in her work. I did what I would call modest research on the results of her literacy program and found that more than 1,000 adults can now read because of her efforts.”

  “Is she still alive?” asked Jim.

  “Oh, no. She died in ‘59, at age forty-six. She was in northwest Burundi working on her program and was caught on a country road in a battle between the two warring tribes. She was killed by a machete, although we are not certain which side did it.”

  Pausing, the ambassador appeared to be momentarily unsettled.

  “You’ve heard the old saying, Jim, Oscar Wilde maybe, that no good deed shall go unpunished? Well, Odette Racouille—that was her name—she embodied that expression. And if my understanding of the Belgian contribution to Burundi is correct, her humanitarian initiative was remarkable, perhaps without equal. Fact is, Jim, Belgians were essentially absentee landlords who left most of the administrative and supervisory jobs to the Tutsis.”

  As Ambassador Foster spoke, Jim could sense her kindred tie to this woman, and he was struck by the way it seemed to suggest Cynthia Foster’s humanist sensibilities. But the coach was eager to shift the conversation to more immediate matters.

  “Madam Ambassador, thank you for the tour. This just may be the finest home I’ve ever been in. It’s certainly a long way from a triple-decker in Worcester, Mass.”

  As Jim spoke, the door leading to the library swung open, and a tall, lean, and graceful man appeared.

  “Jim, this is my husband Bill, who, I might add, played basketball at Indiana State!”

  “We weren’t quite as good as the Larry Bird teams,” Bill Foster said quickly. “Coach, this is an honor. I’ve really been looking forward to your arrival. Welcome aboard.”

  Foster had ramrod-straight posture and a thoughtful, intelligent face that seemed to transmit an aura of contentment. His white hair sharply contrasted with his swarthy skin, and his eyes were dark brown with small flecks of green. They were kind eyes. Jim noticed that he carried himself with the unmistakable bearing of a life-long athlete.

  “Bill, I was just saying to Ambassador Foster that this may simply be the most magnificent home I’ve ever been in.”

  “Yeah,” replied Bill, ‘just like the one where I grew up in Indianapolis. Only difference was that there were twelve other families in my house!”

  Bill delivered this ironic memory in a droll tone, but, at the same time, Jim observed that it was said in a low-key, unpretentious way. As he watched him drift over to Cynthia and throw an arm over her shoulders, he also guessed that Foster had no discomfort with being called “the husband of.” Jim got the feeling that he was going to like Bill Foster. And since he expected that Bill would play some role in this basketball peacekeeping enterprise, liking him would be important.

  “Jim, if it’s all right with you, I’ve got to shift gears shortly from guide to ambassador,” said Cynthia. “We’ve got about twenty minutes before our guests arrive. How about if you and I have a brief chat?”

  On cue, Bill politely excused himself, and the ambassador ushered Jim into her home office.

  “Sure you wouldn’t like some iced tea?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Jim replied, anxious to move right into the conversation. Besides, he wasn’t so much thirsty as he was hungry. A good sign, he thought.

  “Well, Jim,” she said earnestly, “I’m too old to think I’m going to solve the problems of the world. But I think we have a special opportunity here. When Jesse and I put the finishing touches on this project with your friend Barry Sklar—who, you should know, is one of my very favorite people—we realized that a basketball program was surely not going to put a stop to centuries of violence and ethnic hatred. That’s naïve. But, being from Indiana . . . by the way, what Bill and I didn’t mention was that our high school was the actual one beaten in the finals of the movie Hoosiers!”

  Jim’s face broke into a broad grin and, borrowing an old childhood expression, exulted, “For real?”

  “For real,” she smiled. “Bill was on that team a few years earlier. In fact, we’re probably about the only two people who loved every part of the movie except the end!”

  She paused, changing directions again. “But back to the point. Because Bill played—and the two of us have been such fans—well, we think that when you’re a Hoosier, you can tell what a basketball player looks like.”

  Leaning over and softening her voice as if she were about to tell a secret, the amb
assador said, “Jim, while the basketball players don’t get together that much, Bill and I have seen them play several times. We’ve watched athletes here, 6’8”— 6”10”—even 7 feet and taller, who, while not refined, are very natural. I watch my ESPN tapes that we get each week in the diplomatic pouch from Washington. I know that you coaches look for players who, in your jargon, ‘can run the floor.’ Well, Coach, some of these young men—these Tutsis—are like gazelles!”

  Jim was not used to talking with a woman so knowledgeable and enthusiastic about his game. He found it enjoyable, albeit a little unnerving.

  “Ambassador, your goal, as I understand it, is to use basketball as sort of a unifying force?”

  “That’s exactly my goal. Although, as I said, I’m aware that there are limits to any singular project like this.”

  “Well,” said Jim, his coaching hat now firmly in place, “the Hutus . . . can they play?”

  She smiled. “A true coach! And to answer your question, yes. I believe you’ll find they can play. As a rule, they’re stronger physically than the Tutsis. They’re very athletic; very quick. Again, they’re not refined in their game, but I bet you’ll be able to develop some excellent Hutu guards! Now, did Jesse speak with you about our thinking on the overall concept?” she asked.

  “Well, he mentioned that you’d like to see the National Team brought back together. Also, he said that you’d like to host some type of a big game against Rwanda.”

  “Yes, that’s part of it. I’d also like to get youth programs going—in Bujumbura and out in the country. Like the ones I remember back in Indiana.”

  She stopped for a moment, as if to restrain her enthusiasm.

  “But Jim, I want you to know you’re in charge. I’d like to use the game to, in a small way, help bring the two sides a little closer together. But you’re the boss of this project. And,” she said with a grin, “despite what people might think, I can take orders as well as give them.