Broken Memory (2 page)

The following Tuesday, Emma went to the market to sell fruit for a woman who worked in a shop and was looking for people to help her make a little extra on the side.

On the way there she noticed the strange boy, the one with the dented head. He was wandering around the way he did every day at this time of year, wearing rags spattered with mud, his head bent, his arms glued to his sides and his fists pressed to his stomach. As if he was holding himself together, afraid of seeing his body fall apart in pieces.

Emma had heard the rumors about him. He was a Tutsi like her. In 1994, he had lived in the west, near Kibuye, on the shore of the big Lake Kivu. His parents and their close friends had joined the rebels of Bisesero — families who, with nothing more to lose, refused to die like animals and had come together to fight back. But the rebels were suffering heavy losses, and one day the little boy was captured.

They said it was a blow from a machete that had dented his head. They also said that the killers had amused themselves terrorizing him, beating him and torturing him before they decided to make him sing.

His life in exchange for information about the rebels.

Emma had no trouble imagining it. She couldn't remember happy times, but cruel moments seemed to come to her easily. She could see every gruesome detail — his cheeks smeared with blood and tears, practically out of his mind, his mouth twisted in fear, fits of vomiting from the stench of the excrement that ran down his legs.

The little boy ended up talking. He told them what he knew about where the resistance was hiding. The others howled with satisfaction and one of them struck him with the machete one last time, thinking that would finish him off.

Emma wondered if he knew how many men, women and children had died because of what he had said.

Then she shook her head. She had enough nightmares of her own. She cringed and quickened her step.

The young boy saw her looking at him. He saw the way she hurried off. But he no longer expected anything from her or from any of the others. He bent over to pick up a crushed fruit that a vendor had dropped, then moved away while he sucked on the bits of red-veined yellow pulp clinging to the dried-up skin.

Emma was relieved to see the market — the women bustling about in the aisles, their colorful long skirts, the babies on their backs, other children clinging to their legs. Bananas, sweet potatoes, peanuts, passionfruit, cassava and beans blossomed on the mats lying on the ground, were passed from hand to hand, were tossed into the baskets on the heads of the traveling vendors. Customers tested, weighed, discussed, hesitated, then decided to pay. Money exchanged hands quickly, disappearing into pockets, bags or the folds of a skirt.

Emma found the daily bustle comforting. It was as if this group of women, the whole swaying, living mass of the market, took her by the hand and led her, thought for her, decided for her. Everything was simple. All she had to do was give in to it, just go through the same motions that thousands of women had gone through before her.

She pushed into the crush of people, determined to sell her bags of fruit. She clutched her bags and closed her eyes and allowed herself to be swallowed up by the crowd and to forget about her own troubles for one tiny sweet second.

“They are coming, Emma,” Mukecuru said, her voice almost a whisper.

They were sitting behind the house on the bench of dried earth, a big black pot full of cassava roots between them.

“Who?” asked Emma. She continued to peel the knobby roots with deft, practiced movements.

“The ones who did the killing in '94.”

Emma froze. The knife slid from her hand, clattering against the metal handle of the red bucket at her feet, where she was piling the peeled vegetables.

The old woman moved the pot and the bucket, slid closer to Emma and put her hand on her shoulder. Emma was trembling from head to foot.

“To be judged,” the old woman said softly. “Soon they will hold a gacaca court here, the way it was done in the past in the villages. After mass.”

“Why here?” Emma gasped, her jaw tense.

“So they can be identified by their victims.”

“But their victims are dead!” Emma's voice rose. She slumped down. The trembling stopped. “And the ones who survived, they might as well be dead, too,” she added weakly, not caring whether Mukecuru heard her.

The old woman folded Emma in her arms, held her close and rocked her gently.

“Hey, little one. Over here.”

Emma looked back, saw the woman turned in her direction and headed toward her, holding out the small bag of fruit that she hadn't yet sold. She'd done well that morning and she was in a good mood, so she didn't notice how angry the woman was until it was too late.

The woman leaned over without even glancing at the bag of fruit dangling in Emma's hand.

“They say you live with an old Hutu,” she said, her voice low and threatening. “What are you doing with her? She's one of them, one of the assassins. Don't you know that?”

Emma struggled to answer.

“She…she saved my life,” she mumbled, but that seemed to provoke the woman even more.

“And who's to say she wasn't denouncing others at the same time she was hiding you?” she went on, her voice raised. “It happened often.”

Emma flinched and said nothing, but that just made the woman angrier. She grabbed her arm and held her still.

“Be careful, girl,” she said, her voice low once again. “Look around. The murderers have come back.”

Locked together, they both looked at the prison truck that was carrying a handful of men dressed in pink. After the genocide, the prisoners had chosen this color to replace the black clothing that used to be required in the country's jails.

Suddenly the woman, herself a survivor of the genocide like Emma, was wrenched back to her own horrible memories. Clutching Emma's arm, she froze, torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to shake her a little harder. But now, even in her anger, she was surprised to find herself just as shaken as the frightened young girl.

Emma felt this sudden change in the woman's look and body language. She wrestled out of her grip and ran away.

Without even noticing, she stumbled past the boy with the dented head, who had been watching the scene from a distance. Finally she started to walk, gasping for breath, her body shaking with dry sobs.

She was just approaching the outskirts of town when the truck full of prisoners drew alongside and passed her. The tarp had been pulled up at the back, revealing the men inside.

Three of them were talking, and one voice in particular stood out. Emma didn't recognize it at first, but she felt an uneasy murmur rising around her, a mix of blows, insults and laughs.

It was when she heard her mother scream that she recognized the voice of the man.

A sharp pain cut through her chest. She tried to run, but she was suddenly horribly dizzy, and her legs wouldn't move.

Later, when the truck was far away and she could no longer hear the voice, her uneasiness grew. The real world faded around her as the roar of the assassins, their blows, the pain of her mother and her own terror took shape.

Then, just as she had done that night, she took shelter against a nearby wall, crouching down and burying her head in her arms.

A few women tried to lift her up, children poked her to make her react. But it was no use.

So little by little, life carried on around her, and her huddled figure eventually blended into the peaceful countryside at the end of an ordinary day.

“Where were you?” Emma could see the question in Mukecuru's eyes when she pushed open the door the next morning. But the old woman said nothing. She knew from Emma's body language and the desperate look on her face that this was no time for questions. She busied herself in front of the stove in the corner, then placed a bowl of porridge on the table.

Emma sat down and looked at her breakfast. She finally started to eat, slowly bringing the spoon to her mouth while she fidgeted with a torn corner of the plastic cloth that was glued to the old chipboard tabletop.

Mukecuru sat down on the other side of the battered table and began to peel sweet potatoes.

Emma stared at the dark hands of the old peasant woman. Her eyes followed every sinew, the bulging tendons of her arms, the pointy bones of her fists.

Then, leaving her spoon beside her barely touched bowl, she picked up a knife to help Mukecuru and let herself, too, be ruled by her hands.

And she thought about what had happened that morning.

When she finally came to, the boy with the dented head was sitting beside her, leaning against the wall. He was staring blankly straight ahead, so she was able to watch him for a moment. He had fine features and his skin, though covered with grime, appeared to be fairer than her own.

But he heard her stir. He glanced down at her — she noticed his eyes, bloodshot as if they were infected by some strange illness.

Then he got to his feet and headed off without a word.

Emma thought about calling him back, but she didn't know what to say. She sat up, leaned against the wall and watched him disappear down the road, his footsteps gradually growing fainter.

Then she tried to remember what had happened.

She could only recall bits and pieces: the market, the angry woman, the noise of the truck, and then…nothing. Or rather, yes, being overcome by gut-wrenching pain and a tremendous blackness that made her legs buckle. She also remembered the shelter of the wall against her back. That's where she fell asleep.

Later, on her way back to the house, she wondered about that strange boy and the amazing thing he had done. He must have found her and sat down to watch over her, probably when the sun began to set, when the shadows became threatening.

Emma shivered just thinking about spending that night outside.

“You're trembling.” Mukecuru's voice brought her back to the kitchen table.

Emma smiled. She cared so much for this gentle woman who knew how to read her silences, who just with her voice and a few words made her feel cared for each day. All that didn't protect her from the nightmares or the ghosts, but it did make her feel stronger and more able to face them.

“Thank you, Mukecuru,” Emma whispered, picking up another sweet potato.

A peaceful silence settled over the house, scarcely broken by the sound of knives scraping the vegetable skins.

As the morning passed and a pile of white, naked potatoes grew between the two women, the air became heavy and humid. Gray clouds swept over the horizon and darkened the windows that looked out onto Mukecuru's garden. The light lowered as if it were dusk.

Then the sky split open and heavy rain beat down on the house with a tremendous roar. The old woman and the girl raised their eyes with the same calm movement. They looked at each other for a brief moment without stopping their work.

Then Mukecuru lowered her eyes, and Emma did the same.

Emma slept a lot during the days that followed. On several occasions — sometimes in broad daylight, sometimes in the middle of the night — she would begin to tremble, her eyes filled with terror and her mouth open in a silent scream.

Sometimes Mukecuru stopped her from going to the market. She kept her busy as best as she could, gave her simple tasks to do, and quietly remained close by.

Those empty days were filled with nightmares, but in the end Emma recovered. She didn't remember much, but for a long time she felt a strange, heavy sensation in her limbs and a numb feeling deep in her bones.

The boy with the dented head was named Ndoli. Emma learned this from a neighbor who complained about seeing him too close to her goats.

“That strange kid Ndoli distracts the animals. He's evil,” she grumbled.

Ndoli wasn't always like this. But it was the beginning of March, and April and the anniversary of the genocide were fast approaching.

Every year at the same time, the young boy would lose a grip on reality. He stopped going to school, no longer went back home to his aunt, his only remaining relative. He turned into a kind of wandering monster, eaten up with guilt and madness that became a little more rooted in him each year.

Emma walked out of the house and glanced at the large tree at the bottom of the yard. Ever since the night he'd watched over her, Ndoli had taken to stopping there each day. Seeing him there, more motionless than the giant tree that spread its green branches overhead, she didn't know what to think. She felt uncomfortable, yet somehow reassured at the same time.

She went to gather up the washing that was scattered over the hardy shrubs lining the yard. The dry heat of early March had taken care of the dampness weighing down the laundry; now the clothes were threatening to fly away.

One by one she collected towels and items of clothing, then went back to the house, her nose buried in the clean clothes.

That's when she noticed the old man who had joined Ndoli under his tree.

It wasn't the first time she had seen him. She had passed him several times near the market.

He was strange looking. Not very tall, but his body was powerful and compact. He had no neck, and it looked as if his head had been screwed between his large shoulders. His frizzy gray hair was unbelievably thick despite the beginnings of a bald spot on top. He was the same size as Ndoli, but he took up all the space, making the shy, scrawny boy seem almost invisible beside him.

Emma saw the old man bend his head slightly and begin to speak.

She couldn't hear anything. She just concentrated on watching the old man's lips move. Scarcely daring to budge in case they noticed her, she slowly stepped back behind the hedge, her eyes fixed on his talking mouth.

The old man seemed not to have seen her. No longer uneasy, Emma found herself very curious about what was going to happen.

The old man spoke for a moment. Ndoli seemed to be in a trance. Then the young boy abruptly lowered his head, or rather his head dropped, as if a string that had been holding it up suddenly snapped. The old man moved closer to him, still talking. Then he left.

Emma was watching him slowly walk away when he suddenly turned around, looked directly at her and raised his hand.

She stood there, her mouth open, clutching the washing in her arms.

By the time she recovered from her surprise, he was gone.

She rushed into the house, forgetting about Ndoli, who was still standing motionless under his tree.

Mukecuru was at first startled by her loud entrance, then relieved to see the look of happy astonishment on Emma's face.

Emma put down the laundry and went to the window that looked out onto the yard.

Ndoli had started to move. He put one foot uncertainly in front of the other, obviously upset.

He glanced at the house. Emma pulled back, then carefully leaned forward again. She saw the young boy leave his post and go down the path, his back bent and his shoulders slumped.

She wanted him to leave. She also wanted the old man to come back. He had disturbed this strange ritual, these visits that Ndoli paid to her at a distance from beneath the big tree. But she was still curious and full of questions.

Why was the old man interested in Ndoli? What had he said that had upset the boy so much? What words had he used, she wondered, remembering the silent movement of his lips.

Emma knew that she, too, troubled Ndoli deeply. That night he had spent at her side had opened something up in him, had somehow broken through the fog of his existence. When that truck passed and she fainted, he had recognized the demons that were so similar to the ones that haunted his own days and nights.

At first he kept his distance, watching the women trying to revive her, stopping himself from chasing after the kids who pestered her. Then, when her outstretched body no longer interested anyone, he went over to her, sat down and did not move until morning.

At dawn, he had seen the same old man who had approached him today. The man had watched them for a long time before going on his way without saying a word. And now he had reappeared just when Ndoli was dreaming under the tree, waiting for time to stop…

“Bloody old man,” muttered Ndoli and, as Emma watched him from the window, he walked away, his steps unsteady.