The Eternal Audience of One

by Rémy Ngamije

  “That’s not a real degree, Mr Caff.” Séraphin quickly added, “You know, with Rwandan parents.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand. Tell you what, there’s an English scholarship for East African students at Remms you’d be eligible for—I know because I got the same one. If you write me a kickass essay I’ll send it in and write a strong recommendation letter for you. If you get it you can spend three years messing about before you have to get a real degree.” Mr Caffrey smiled to himself. “You still have your Rwandan papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s see if they can’t get you something positive for once. Remms – Séraphin, I tell you, a man can get into glorious mischief there. Best years of my life. You’ll enjoy it. Just don’t invest too much in it. University isn’t a real world – I mean, it’s real in its own way, you know. You’ll have good days and bad days. But it’ll feel like a dream, where everyone is always young, always excited about the next thing. Just don’t get sold the dream. University ends. You need to be ready for wherever it is you’ll wind up, whether it is here or somewhere else.”

  Séraphin nodded as he chewed on his bottom lip. Mr Caffrey looked at the young man in front of him, knowing full well the gravity of his message would only make sense much later when it had been relegated to the past. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Help me close up. I’m sure we have other places to be.”

  Mr Caffrey smiled encouragingly at Séraphin and then climbed off the chair. Together they closed the windows and drew the curtains. As they walked out of the room, Mr Caffrey switched off the lights and the whirring ceiling fans. Séraphin turned to Mr Caffrey. “Walked in on your wife?”

  “I should’ve known. Or I knew but I didn’t want to know. I can never tell which.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” You had nothing to do with it. Don’t apologise for things you don’t plan on making better, Séraphin. Never offer empty platitudes. Silence is better.”

  Mr Caffrey offered his hand to Séraphin who shook it. They walked towards the parking lot where Mr Caffrey’s battered Beetle waited for him. “Enjoy the weekend,” Mr Caffrey said as he wrestled with the door. “And, Séraphin, take it easy. Life has stranger things in store for you. Stick around and I’ll tell you, kid. My life is based on a true story.” Mr Caffrey rapped a salute to Séraphin as he sat down in his car. “That’s all it is in the end anyway.”

  “What?”

  “This life, Séraphin, it’s just a story. But only a story when you make it through, that’s the real trick.”

  Parked outside Jasmyn’s house, Séraphin pulled out his cellphone and sent her a message.

  Sans_Séraph—Wolff_Jazz: Here.

  Wolff_Jazz: Opening the gate.

  Séraphin watched the black gate slide open. He inched the car up a steep driveway which levelled onto a wide courtyard paved with reddish-brown interlocks. The courtyard yawned onto a wide view of the city skyline. Tufts of cloud were clumping together on the horizon as he parked the car. On the right, a mansion sat atop three garages. A series of stairs led to a balcony which protruded over them and led into the house. On it he could see three plump women lounging in deck chairs. Smoke emanated from somewhere out of sight and the smell of roasting meat wafted down to him. From behind the three women came a man whose great weight and gait made Séraphin think of a walrus bull coming out to meet a challenger. The man wore nothing but small blue shorts which would have been considered skimpy on everyone else but its cultural clansmen. The round, bald head gleamed in the sunlight. He scratched his pale belly and then asked, “Jasmyn?”

  “Yeah,” replied Séraphin.

  “She’s coming,” he said, before walking away to attend to his braai.

  Jasmyn appeared from the side of the house. She was wearing a pair of short red running shorts which displayed delicious inches of flesh to the sun and a white top which, due its tightness, seemed like it was painted on her.

  “Yo,” he said.

  “Hello.” She lifted one foot off the hot ground like a heron. “Let’s get inside quickly.”

  They walked towards the house, Séraphin turning towards the stairs which led to the balcony, certain he was going to meet the walrus. But Jasmyn led him around the left side of the house on a tapered walkway. A sloping garden on his left encircled the house and he could see into the neighbouring house’s yard where a blue swimming pool stood unmolested in the midday heat. When they had rounded the house they arrived in a backyard shaded by a tall willow. Jasmyn led Séraphin across the yard to what she introduced as her flat.

  “It’s as big as a house!” he exclaimed.

  The interior of the lounge was cool. The walls were an off-white and the floor had clean, light brown carpeting. The room was divided into two, one half occupied by a coffee table with three armchairs gossiping together, and the other half dominated by a large Chesterfield sofa which faced a widescreen television on a low table. One lounge window looked out into the backyard while another faced the blueness of the sky overlooking the neighbouring house. The lounge was separated from the open-plan kitchen on the right by a long counter and two bar stools on one side of it. Jasmyn asked Séraphin if he wanted something to drink.

  “Juice,” he said.

  “Any particular kind?”

  “I’m a grape man, but if you have apple or pineapple, that’ll do.”

  “Grape then.”

  Séraphin made his way to the kitchen counter and perched on a bar stool. Jasmyn poured juice into two glasses and passed one to him. “What do you do exactly to live in a place like this?”

  “Advertising,” said Jasmyn.

  “Must be doing well then.” He took a sip of the cold juice.

  “Not really. It pays peanuts. Otto lets me stay here as a favour.”

  “Otto? The walrus?”

  “That’s mean,” Jasmyn said. Séraphin could detect amusement in her voice. “He’s my uncle and he’s sweet. He let’s me stay here rent-free.”

  “What pitiful job do you do in the big bad world of advertising?”

  “Social media – or trying to humanise brands one click at a time.”

  “Sounds riveting.”

  “It is,” Jasmyn replied, “to someone without brain cells – and I have at least three. I’m thinking of leaving soon.”

  “For?”

  “I’ll figure it out after I hand in my notice.”

  “Sounds as good as any plan I’ve heard.”

  “Hmm.”

  “How’re your parents?”

  “Mom’s okay. She’s living in Germany. Dad passed on.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not. If he’d loved his liver a little more, he could’ve lived a little longer and left us with fewer problems.” Séraphin knew a line of enquiry was closed. He asked after her brothers. “All grown up. They’re studying at Wits at the moment.”

  “So when do they plan on attending a real university?”

  “Funny. And your family, how’re they doing?”

  “The usual: mom’s at home, dad’s always at work, Yves is finishing next year, and Éric is in his second year. Both of them are here.”

  “Cool.”

  They both sipped their juice for a couple of seconds before Séraphin said, “So, Jasmyn, the last time we were in the same place things were hella awkward. Then, poof, you vanished right after the exams. No text, no call – nothing. Just ignored every message.” Jasmyn avoided making eye contact, hiding behind another sip from her glass and then walking around the counter to sit on the Chesterfield. Séraphin strolled over and joined her. “You’ve no idea how many free drinks that story has gotten me over the years. People love a good virginity story. Which makes me think Mary must have killed it back in the day.”

  Jasmyn laughed. When she finished she said, “Look, Séra, bumping into you yesterday was totally unexpected. But I’m glad I did. I wanted to apologise for ghosting for a long time but I just
didn’t know how to. What the heck was I supposed to say anyway? I didn’t know then, I still don’t know now. But when we met yesterday I was, like, just apologise. So, sorry, I guess.”

  “It’s fine. It was a long time ago.”

  “Still.”

  They looked at each other then sipped their drinks once more.

  “So what happened?” Séraphin asked.

  “Dark times. My dad loved the horses a bit too much but they didn’t love him back. So the school fees were the first thing to go and you know you can’t pay St. Luke’s in promises. They let me write my exams and I transferred out. Anyway, soon after, Keaton showed up again, we dated again. Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t say some smart shit. So we dated again and then we ended it again. Twice – don’t look at me like that. After that I just focused on studying and getting the heck out of Namibia. Then you went off to Cape Town and I went to study in Germany and then I decided it was all in the past anyway.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Séraphin said. “I only hurt for like a year or so. I made some killer playlists, though. Shit like Broken Mood Swings and The Half Life of Love.”

  “Sounds depressing.”

  “You have no idea.” Séraphin smiled. “It’s a little funny now since it’s so far away.”

  “I’m glad you can have a laugh about it.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Sometimes, and other times I still feel like that was just the worst thing that could’ve happened.”

  “Nah. I’ve been through, seen, and heard of worse.” She looked at him curiously. “Varsity will do things to you,” he said by way of answer.

  “I’m sure.” They were quiet for a while longer. Then Jasmyn said, “You seem different somehow. I don’t know, more chilled. And you’re more filled out. You must have turned into a heartbreaker.”

  “Can’t break what’s not there,” Séraphin replied with a chuckle.

  “Don’t be an ass, Séra.”

  “Okay, okay. I did not return the same horse.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The room felt heavy with expectation and it grew dim as a cloud drifted past, high above. Jasmyn asked if Séraphin had any new playlists.

  “Just naughty ones,” he said.

  “I’m glad. Because I could do with some right about now.”

  In the cavernous hall in Séraphin’s mind where decisions were constantly vetted the Séraphins paused in the middle of whatever they were doing, mouths agape. Quickly, the chain of command was shifted to a five-star general experienced in negotiating girls out of their clothes. Séraphin connected his cellphone to the television’s auxiliary port, navigating to his music library, pressing play when he located the playlist he wanted. A hollow ringing bounced across the surround speakers, the stereo sound playing tricks on the ears before a rattling bass line announced the confident intentions of a Philadelphia-based rap group.

  “I like this song,” Jasmyn said. “But it’s very boastful.”

  “The Roots and Musiq Soulchild have never said anything I can’t back up.”

  “Look at you, so sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “I have.”

  Instead of going back to sit on the couch Séraphin went and stood next to Jasmyn, pulling her to her feet and kissing her, softly. She relented to his pressing lips which traced a fine line from her mouth to her neck, her head rolling around, attempting to catch the string of kisses. With practised execution Séraphin peeled her out of her top and reached around her back, pinching and unhooking her bra strap in one smooth movement. Her eyebrows arched. The suddenness of her déshabillé caught her by surprise and she instinctively brought her hands to cover her breasts before Séraphin gently pried them apart, exposing the flesh, browned in the tropics reached by the sun. She pulled away from Séraphin for a moment and said, “Seriously, that was too slick.”

  “Like I said, different horse, different ride.” He stepped closer to her and pulled off his shirt, throwing it on the Chesterfield.

  “And you’ve gotten cocky too. What have those Capetonian girls been teaching you?”

  “Let me show you.”

  XII

  Rwanda is a big name in a small country. It is a memory commencing with two loud booms that wake Séraphin up. His mother rushes into the bedroom he shares with Yves and Éric, scooping his two younger brothers frantically into her arms. Curiosity to investigate the booming sounds drives Séraphin to the next room, whose windows face the street. He hears his mother calling to him. He answers, but stays by the window, his eyes trying to find the source of the crackling in the air. His mother comes into the room, desperately calling his name. Then he, too, is bundled into her arms and carried into the corridor. His questions about what is happening are not answered. His parents shush him and his brothers gently as they drag mattresses into the corridor. Guillome tells Therése it is safer to be in the corridor in case bullets come through the windows of the rooms facing the street. Yves and Éric fall asleep quickly near their mother but Séraphin staves off slumber a bit longer. He is eager to know what is happening. In the darkness, he hears his father rotating the knob of his world receiver, only getting static in return. Séraphin’s earliest memory of that faraway country is falling asleep on a mattress in a corridor, with his parents’ hushed voices whispering urgently to each other.

  The next day seems to go on forever but it is only a week. It starts with his father and mother waking him and his brothers up in the early morning for a hasty breakfast of bread and tea. Then his father whispers to his mother, who clutches his arm fiercely and refuses to let go. An argument ensues but in muted tones. Séraphin sees his mother sigh and then let go of his father’s arm. His father vanishes from the house and his mother locks the doors behind him and gathers the boys to her on the corridor floor. Séraphin and Yves are prohibited from entering any of the other rooms in the house. They can play any games they want as long as they are quiet. A knock at the door in the afternoon makes his mother run to it and whisper a question to the other side before she unlocks it to let his father in. Sometimes Guillome comes in carrying a loaf of bread, sometimes a chocolate bar, which is carefully shared between the boys. At night when his father and mother think he is asleep, he hears them talk about curfews imposed in Kigali, shops being looted, the neighbourhood emptying as each day dawns. His father says pretty soon they will be the only ones left.

  The long day comes to an end. His father says they are going home and his mother scrambles around the house packing suitcases with clothes and what remains of the food.

  “Turi mu rugo,” Séraphin says. We are home.

  “No, Séraphin, to our family home. In Gisenyi.”

  The Rwandan countryside is a blur of green as they drive westward towards the family farm in his father’s sturdy Pajero. On the side of the road there are long lines of people walking, carrying bundles on their heads. He thinks they look like ants carrying leaves.

  The family farm is another out-of-focus vignette of rain in the afternoon which pours on the land in earnest. Wrinkled women hug him and his brothers. At night, in the long house, there are stories which are told under the amber light of a paraffin lamp. They are lively when he, his brothers, and his young cousins are around, but as they start to doze they become sombre. The month-long stay on the farm is peaceful for the most part but the westward sweep of disaster is inevitable.

  Accompanying the women to the nearby river to do their laundry, Séraphin and some younger boys are allowed to splash in the shallows where they can be monitored. They frolic in the cool water while their mothers wash their clothes with bars of carbolic soap. One day, while the boys are playing, pushing each other into the water, upstream a scream pierces the air. The boys scramble out of the water and run to their mothers, who stop their washing. Séraphin wonders about the source of the commotion, but he does not have to wonder long because it rounds a bend in the river: a bloated mass of black
and blue, dressed in tattered clothing. Everyone scrambles up the riverbank, abandoning their laundry. They dash towards their homes. A woman carrying an infant child screams “Bya tugeze ho! Bya tugeze ho!” as she runs. Only Séraphin stands on the riverbank and watches the ghastly floater pass by. When the corpse vanishes from sight he runs home, telling his parents about what he has seen in excited bursts. The news does not seem to impress his parents or the rest of the extended family. Their wails are a sound of pure, unadulterated distress which fill his eardrums and nightmares for days to come.

  It has reached us! It has reached us!

  Bya tugeze ho!

  “What has reached us, Mamma?” A question is asked. An answer is never received.

  That same day the Pajero is loaded once again. There are quarrels between Séraphin’s parents and their family about staying or fleeing. For Guillome and Therése, the decision is simple. They must leave.

  The partings are sore, the promises to make contact and to see each other soon are rushed.

  Tuzabonana.

  The Pajero is angled towards the Zaïrean border. The three kilometres to the border are clogged by hooting cars and desperate human traffic. The wait to cross over is so long Séraphin falls asleep in the late afternoon and wakes up on the floor of a dark living room in Goma.

  “Mamma?” he calls out to the darkness.

  “Shh, Séraphin!” His mother materialises out of the darkness and sits next to him, pulling him close to her and rubbing his head gently. “Sinzira, Séraphin,” she says quietly.

  A cough alerts Séraphin to the presence of other life forms in the dark. As his eyes adjust he sees other prone figures lying on the floor. The whole room is full of sleeping figures.

  “Why can’t we go back home?” he asks his mother. In the low light he does not see her tear up.

  She says, “Soon we will go home, Séraphin. Soon.” His mother tries to coo him into sleep.

  Before he does so, his father’s figure materialises out of the dark and squats next to his mother. “Birakomeye cyane, Therése. Nago dushobora gusubira inyuma.”