An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  As the two women moved away, a thought burst forth in Jim’s mind.

  She looks so familiar.

  When Cynthia took Francesca off to meet other guests, Jim continued to enjoy the attention accorded him. Yet he found himself wishing the crowd would thin so that the ambassador would feel comfortable starting the meeting.

  As well-wishers surrounded him, he noticed Barry Sklar and Sarah at the far end of the tent, in a conversation that seemed to please his daughter.

  Moments later, Barry made his way to Jim. “Coach, can I borrow you for a few minutes? I have something I’d like to run by you. Okay if we walk around the grounds?”

  “Sounds important, old friend.”

  “It is important,” said Barry, as he rested his hand on Jim’s shoulder.

  The two made their way to the rear of the home, passing by the hoop Bill Foster had installed.

  “He entices anyone who visits into a game of HORSE,” said Jim. “I love Bill. He’s a great friend.”

  As they continued toward the garden, Barry said, “Well . . . the real reason I flew over relates to Bill . . . and the ambassador . . . and Mathias and Terrence, and most of all, the many young lives you’ve touched, including Leonard’s. But no more suspense. Let me get to it.”

  The two sat down on stone benches, surrounded by mixed clusters of orange and red hibiscus. Barry leaned back slightly and turned toward Jim.

  “What you’ve done here is amazing. It’s exceeded even my wildest expectations, and my expectations were pretty damned high to start. Anyway, about a month ago, we received an anonymous matching donation to continue Project Oscar and honor Leonard’s legacy. It came from a person who had learned about the program, and who, as the letter said, ‘was impressed and promptly impelled to support this initiative.’”

  Jim raised his eyebrows at the news.

  Barry continued. “Knowing that getting the funds matched through State would take some time, I contacted a friend in DC who oversees a family trust. I shared the details of Project Oscar, and two weeks ago, my friend got back to me to say that the trust would match the grant. So, Coach, we now have enough money to keep the program going for at least a couple more years. And, I’m guessing I can get State to kick in some extra money to even expand it a bit.”

  A mix of thoughts tumbled through Jim’s mind. He had been ready to return to Worcester; that was the game plan. But now . . .

  “I know this is quite a surprise, Jim. But let me tell you more,” Barry insisted. Jim recalled the initial conversation he’d had with Barry when he had first presented Jim with the job offer in Burundi. Barry had quickly related all the facts to Jim, enticing him with the details before Jim could say yes or no.

  Barry went on to tell him that the funding they received would mean that they could extend his contract for three years with a 6 percent per annum raise. Even though everything would come from outside funding, both grants would still go into the federal coffers, which meant that Jim would still be on their payroll. His medical and retirement benefits would stay in place and he’d receive two all-expense paid trips home each year.

  “I know you’re set to go back to Worcester, but please give this some good thought. You’re making such a difference here. And by the way, I told Sarah about this and she plans to talk with you. Well, make that more than just talk with you!” Barry chuckled. “And I also met Francesca. What a great idea. And what an impressive woman.”

  Jim looked straight into his friend’s eyes. Though he needed more time to process the facts, he wanted to tell Barry that his gratitude was exceeded only by his love of his old friend. And while his male censor blocked any emotional expression, his face conveyed the message.

  “You know, I’ve agreed to a meeting in a short while with the ambassador and Francesca to discuss the dance program.”

  “I know,” said Barry, with a playful grin.

  When Jim entered the study, the ambassador and Francesca rose to greet him. While these two accomplished women obviously came from vastly different backgrounds, their worldly wisdom and sorority-sister bond resonated throughout a workroom that had become a hub for a wellspring of creative ideas, including the one to be discussed.

  “Tea, Jim?” asked the ambassador as Jim took his seat.

  “No, I’m fine.” He was anxious to learn more about Francesca’s plan.

  “Jim,” Francesca began, “I was so impressed when I read about what you are doing—so affected. If I may, I have a concern that I would like to raise at the outset.”

  As she spoke, Francesca looked straight into Jim’s eyes. Once again, her harmonic voice and hypnotic air made him feel nearly powerless. Yet at the base of her demeanor lay an authentic aura of humility and kindness that allowed Jim to quickly snap out of his trance and focus on her message.

  Combining perfect English with just a hint of an Italian accent, Francesca continued. “Project Oscar is a concept owned by the two of you and all the others who have made it so successful, so meaningful. I would not want my idea to compete in any way.”

  Feeling more at ease, Jim said kindly and confidently, “You know, from what you’ve said, I sense it could enhance Project Oscar.”

  From there, the conversation soared. Carefully, but enthusiastically, Francesca laid out her plan. Young Peace Corpslike Italian dancers would come to Burundi for six-month stints. They would cultivate ancient Hutu and Tutsi dance rituals. At the same time, they would introduce original and creative routines, from Europe to North America. The capstone would be the integration of a burgeoning dance movement.

  Francesca’s excitement was palpable. As she spoke, she shared descriptive photos she had brought along. Jim was fixated by her movements, at once swift and smooth.

  “My goal is to have many dancers from both tribes working together toward a major production to be held in Bujumbura and beamed throughout Africa, if not the world. And at the end of the show, I see us using this new concept called mob dance, which involves a great many people dancing to a semi-choreographed routine, but all the while allowing a degree of personal creativity. One of the great advantages of the mob dance is that it can involve the participation of literally thousands of people all at once!”

  Francesca’s élan and sincerity caused Jim’s shyness to evaporate. “This is a brilliant plan, Francesca. I can see it making a world of a difference.”

  Jim realized that Francesca’s beauty and grace of expression complemented the winsome goodwill she projected. In her company for mere minutes, he felt a connection developing that went beyond the practicality of shared interests.

  As Ambassador Foster watched two of her favorite people interact, she suppressed a smile and thought to herself: Well, well, well!

  Before falling to sleep, Jim lay peacefully in his bed, his stillness the pleasant aftermath of one of the most perfect evenings of his life. There had been certain times in his past—hours or, at best, perhaps a day—when he felt similar tranquility, when everything seemed to come together in seamless accord.

  One Christmas came to memory. It had snowed heavily, the drifts forming a buffer around the Keating home on that Holy Day. His Saint Thomas team was off to an unblemished start, Edna was fulfilled, and, on her first Christmas Day, Sarah personified his mother’s favorite Gaelic phrase: Grá Gan Choiníoll—unconditional love.

  Tonight’s magic was an experience he would never have anticipated when fighting through the depths of his recurrent despair. Sarah, Barry, the reading, the ambassador’s heartfelt embrace, President Buyoya’s touching message, and then . . . Francesca.

  Incorporated into Jim’s late night musings about Francesca was his view of the romantic path that some, if not most, men follow. For younger men, Jim thought, the first allure is beauty, be it face, body, or a combination of the two.

  Second, discerning men, even young men, understand the importance of intellectual compatibility.

  But as a man matures, a third component emerges and becomes increasingly treas
ured: goodness—sheer, utter goodness.

  At this stage of his life, Jim could not imagine being attracted to a woman who was not an inherently good person. Francesca Cimbrone did not merely possess goodness; it radiated from her like a flower’s fragrance.

  Then, just as he nodded off, Jim remembered . . . and smiled. A flower! Of course. With drowsy bliss, he fell into an untroubled sleep.

  60

  Jim woke early, excited about the possibilities of the day. On the way out of yesterday’s meeting, the ambassador had suggested that he stop by in late morning for more discussion.

  “I don’t want to rush you, Jim,” she’d said. “I know this is an important decision, but I do have some other thoughts I’d like to share that might be helpful.”

  At breakfast, Jim had a wonderful conversation with Sarah, who left no doubt about her position.

  “Daddy, Worcester will always be there waiting. But this . . . this is now a mission . . . and a wonderful mission at that. And by the way, the ambassador introduced me to Francesca. What a gracious lady. And what an exciting idea. I could see the two of you working so well together.”

  “Yes . . . yes, she seems like a wonderful person,” said Jim in a neutral tone.

  Sarah wanted to share other thoughts about Francesca. But in this case, she could see by Jim’s guarded response that less was clearly more.

  At 11:00 AM, Cynthia Foster greeted Jim Keating at her front door. She was wearing pleated khaki pants and a Project Oscar t-shirt, and she radiated joy.

  “Thanks for coming, Coach. As you can see, I decided to go casual today!”

  The ambassador led Jim into her study and immediately got down to business.

  “First point, Jim—and an important one. Finbar sent me a fax this morning. He indicated that he is almost certain that he saw the Mediterranean man in Johannesburg.”

  “My God,” said Jim, his adrenaline racing.

  “My exact reaction, too. The fax did not have many details, only that Finbar is going to his superiors in Johannesburg in the hope that he will be allowed to get back on the case. He said he would keep me posted.”

  The news stunned Jim, and he needed a moment to gather himself.

  “We’ll hope for the best, Coach. But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to move to the main point of the meeting.”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, I’ll begin with full disclosure! I’m hoping to convince you to stay and let me tell you why.”

  Leaning forward in her chair, and making direct eye contact, she began her entreaty.

  “Jim, Project Oscar has become the singularly most important unifying force in this country. Let me paraphrase one of my favorite thoughts from the French filmmaker Claude Chabrol: The murders of Leonard and Consolaté have defined in the minds of many Burundians the absurdity of that gap between the awesome finality of death and the trivial reasons men adduce for killing—or putting themselves in the way of being killed. And may I add to Mr. Chabrol’s point by saying that for many in this country, this absurdity now equates to outrage—which is good.

  “So,” continued the ambassador, “we need Project Oscar to go on, Jim. We need it to grow. We need it to celebrate Leonard’s memory . . . and we need your leadership.”

  Delivered with earnest and gentle force, the ambassador’s statement enlivened Jim’s senses. But then his mind took another turn. At sixty-seven, the coach was bound to convention. His bags were ready to be packed, his flight was booked, and there were people in Worcester expecting his return.

  The ambassador anticipated the uncertainty, and she was ready with a game changer. “Jim, could you join me in the library for a moment?”

  In the library, Cynthia Foster led Jim to a large picture window that overlooked the side driveway and Bill’s hoop. When the ambassador and Jim looked down at the court, they saw but one player engaged—a tall, slender athlete wearing a basketball cap and bearing the smooth stroke of a classic shooter.

  The ambassador remained silent for a moment, allowing the coach to size up the prospect.

  “Nice touch and follow through,” said Jim. “But I don’t recognize him, especially with the hat on.”

  “The two of you actually met, albeit briefly,” said the ambassador in a tone laden with mischief.

  “Geez, with a shot like that, I thought for sure I’d remember the kid.”

  “Well Jim, you’re looking at a player who took every sentence of your lesson to heart and then, with no small amount of difficulty, spent hours practicing pretty much alone.”

  “Alone?” asked Jim.

  “Pretty much,” repeated the ambassador.

  Just as Jim’s mind was finally approaching the obvious, the ambassador rapped loudly on the window. In one swift motion, the player dropped the ball to the ground, removed the baseball cap, and then, with a radiant smile, looked straight at Jim Keating and waved.

  For a moment, the Coach was speechless and then, “Ambassador, that’s, that’s . . . the girl . . . the one we met out in the country . . . in Gitega.”

  “Correct, Coach! Remember . . . her name is Omella Kurabitu,” Ambassador Foster said. “In my view, she may be the best prospect we have in Burundi. Over the last several months, I’ve conducted a bit of a clandestine mission—and for a lot of reasons. When she did not show up that day in Gitega, I could sense from her brother, Alain, that she desperately wanted to try the game. A month or so later, Alain got word to one of the Marines that her parents might be rethinking their position on no play. And so, I traveled there, met with her parents, and received their permission to train her. I’ve been heading to Gitega every other week since, and it has been a joy. By the way, we will be constructing a court there next week. And while we’ve made good progress, I know that I can only take her so far.”

  Jim smiled and simply shook his head in admiration.

  “Coach, just like Project Oscar has made small but important strides in scaling that high wall of hatred between Tutsi and Hutu, I’d like us—you and me—to scale yet another wall: the vile wall of prejudice that prevents women from pursuing their dreams. In this case, the dream of a young lady to become a world-class basketball player. And, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to include Francesca’s program in our overall plan.”

  “A great idea,” Jim said with a nod.

  “You know, Jim, as we’ve already seen, basketball can become a small but important contributor to reaching this objective. And so can dance. And by the way, if Omella is as good as I think she will be, she can become one of the movement’s leaders.”

  The ambassador took a step toward Jim. Clasping his hands in hers, and staring straight into his eyes, Cynthia Foster launched her final shot. “James Patrick Keating, Project Oscar needs your coaching, which is why I hope you’ll follow me back into my study, sign the contract, and get down to the driveway and back to work.”

  With deeply felt gratitude and a renewed sense of purpose, the coach pivoted, followed his dear friend, and did exactly what she asked.

  Later that evening, Ambassador Foster made a short entry into her journal:

  June 23, 11:40 PM

  So pleased that Jim will stay. He is such a good man and Project Oscar has so much promise. My God, I cannot imagine the project moving forward without him.

  Still need to tell him about Ted Williams and my long-ago crush on him. But I need to have time to discuss it with Jim, and to tell him about an old boyfriend, who was white, and how this was so forbidden in that era. I must also tell him that the only person I told about my crush on Ted was my sister, Carolyn, who told me not to tell anyone else. She reminded me of how saddened I was when my white boyfriend ended our relationship due, I knew, to pressure from his white friends.

  I need to tell Jim of my surprise and, to be honest, my disappointment with myself in holding back about Ted... finding that this mindset still existed within me. I need to tell him that I know full well that such a mindset makes no sense ... but it’s still th
ere ... forever lurking. By sharing this information, I hope it might help Jim better understand some of the deep-rooted pains that African Americans face.

  But this whole issue . . . well, it still makes me so sad.

  61

  The meeting took place in The Chairman’s retreat home, situated thirty miles outside of Johannesburg, surrounded by forty acres of dense forest. Security was ironclad, nothing could penetrate the high walls topped with glass shards and a roll of concertina wire.

  The Chairman entered and the five men already in the room, all billionaires, stood and saluted.

  “Please sit, gentlemen. First, I want to confirm that all of those who were part of the Burundi experiment are dead. . . . We have eliminated any threat of a link to the experiment.”

  The Chairman then pulled from his satchel five envelopes and passed them out.

  “What you have before you is a one-page executive summary of the plan. Please open your envelopes and read the plan.”

  As they read the summary, smiles creased their faces. When finished, The Chairman collected the envelopes and summary and immediately shredded them.

  “Now, gentlemen, may I propose a toast?”

  He ceremoniously uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured six glasses. After a moment, he slowly raised his glass, and the others followed suit.

  “To the mission,” he said gravely, “which we are now ready to begin.”

  All in the room felt a rush of exhilaration. All except one.

  62

  His veranda had become Jim’s favorite place to meditate, to lean back and let his mind slip into a pleasant placidness. The view to Lake Tanganyika was spectacular, but in between his rattan chair and the lake was another scenic view: Josiane’s garden.

  It was an exquisite garden, a spectacular mixture of small patches of purple lobelia and mint-green clover amid bands of bougainvillea, Leonidas roses, and hibiscus. Jim’s favorite was the spiked orange aloe because it attracted several species of hummingbirds. When Josiane had first come to work for Jesse Abbot, she had suggested a garden, and Jesse readily agreed. The result was a magnificent mix of colors, planted and cultivated in perfect harmony.