Running the Rift (10 page)

J
ACQUELINE CAME HOME
from school in Gitarama in the morning, the family complete for Easter once more. Jean Patrick marveled at her long, straight hair, its iridescent sheen. As she walked up the path, the breeze lifted it from her ears and blew spidery strands across her face. Like Anastase, she wore Western slacks and a smart Western blouse.

On Easter Sunday, they joked and ate the afternoon away, sharing news in a constant onslaught of noise. A stream of neighbors and cousins filled the house. Jean Patrick traveled back through the years, carried on the steam from pungent dishes, all his favorites. For that moment, his worries seemed small and far off. He remembered the morning he first arrived, how he and Roger had stood on the hillside above the compound and quipped about Uncle's family. How much this book of life changes, he thought. And we are not the ones to write the pages.

W
HEN DAWN BROKE
on Wednesday, Roger was packed and ready to leave. “Stay one more day,” Jean Patrick pleaded. “Mama is so happy with you here.”

Roger hoisted his pack. “That will only make it harder when I leave.”

Jean Patrick had noticed the way Roger lingered at the table and held Mama's arm as if afraid he would never touch her again. In the mornings, he stood at the door and inhaled deeply, looking out toward the lake. Jean Patrick imagined the land absorbed into the tissue of Roger's lungs so that when he marched through the mountains, cold and hungry, it would warm him at will.

“Did you tell her your news about becoming RPF?”

“That is for your ears, and your ears alone.”

“Then what will you tell them when you disappear into thin air?”

“That I am going to Kenya with a friend to work. Make some good money.”

“I'll walk you to the road and wait with you for the bus,” Jean Patrick said. “Uncle won't mind; there's nothing to fill our nets.”

Mukabera met them on the path, a machete balanced on her headscarf. “I am going to harvest my three beans.” She laughed, hoarse and hearty, showing her large brown-stained teeth. “I wish you the peace of God.” She waved and walked on. Dust swirled at her feet.

A
T THE BUS
stop, Roger bought two ears of corn from a vendor stooped over a charcoal grill. They moved into a private corner of shade to eat. “Are you going to the Virungas?” Jean Patrick asked. “Everyone knows RPF is hiding there.”

“You'd be surprised. We're everywhere.”

“Will you finish the school year first? You will never be forgiven if you don't.”

“Don't worry,” Roger said. “I'll finish.”

“What about National Championships? Will you come to Kigali to watch me win?”

Roger picked a kernel of corn from his teeth. “So many questions.” He smiled in his familiar way, wrinkling his nose. “I'll try.”

A pang that felt like hunger twisted Jean Patrick's insides. He embraced Roger a final time. “I better get back, in case Uncle needs me,” he said.

A civet hurried out from the bush, a mosaic of shadow and light falling across its body in the same crazy patchwork as its fur. It froze, stolid and doglike, a bristled ridge of hair on its back. Its sweet, dungy scent hung thick in the air. Roger motioned as if to strike it, and it bared its teeth. “That's the spirit: brave and stubborn,” he said. He stomped, and the creature retreated toward the undergrowth. “Don't worry about me. I'm like him. Listen for Radio Muhabura and think of your brother.” He pulled his beret out of his pack. “We're getting stronger every day.” He saluted and jogged off toward the approaching bus. The civet surveyed the scene warily from its haven, as if it, too, found this small occasion worthy of committing to memory.

O
N THE DAY OF
National Championships, Jean Patrick felt strong and confident but, he had to admit, a little nervous. He put down his running magazine and flipped onto his back, head dangled over one side of the bed and feet over the other. He poked Daniel's shin with a toe.

“How long to Kigali?”

“The same as when you asked me yesterday and last week and ten minutes ago—maybe six hours. I don't think it will change.”

“Aren't you going to class?”

“There's nothing to do but review for exams,” Daniel said. “I'd rather wait with you.”

Jean Patrick peered out the window. “Do you think Coach has a wife?”

“Coach? A wife? Mama weh!” Daniel roared. “He's too mean.”

“Maybe he had one and killed her.”

Daniel grabbed Jean Patrick's jiggling thigh. “Be still, eh? If this is what Championships does to you, maybe you shouldn't go.”

Laughing, Jean Patrick pushed his hand away. “Why don't you come with me?”

“If it was three weeks later, I would. Then you could come to my home and meet my mama and my sisters.” Daniel aimed his finger at a noisy bird beyond the window. “Papa could teach you to shoot.”

“Aye-yay. What do I need a gun for? Me, I fight with my legs.”

“When Hutu Power gets guns, you better have one, too—and know how to use it.”

“Always your serious talk.” Jean Patrick covered his ears. “Let me rest now, eh?” He threw his magazine at Daniel's head, flipped back over, and closed his eyes.

J
EAN
P
ATRICK WAS
still asleep when Coach burst in, jingling his keys.

“Ready?” A camera hung from his neck. “We have a long drive.”

Jean Patrick pointed to his gym bag. His Nikes, now more rust than green, peeked from a side pocket.

Daniel grabbed him in a headlock. “Pretend I'm chasing you, and you'll run fast.”

“What? If you chase me, I can walk.” Jean Patrick followed Coach out the door.

On the walkway, Coach stopped suddenly and pulled Jean Patrick into an empty classroom. “Stand beside the board,” he said. Jean Patrick had a fleeting vision of an execution. Coach aimed the camera at him. Light flashed in his eyes as the shutter clicked.

“Is that for the newspaper?”

Ignoring the question, Coach half jogged to the car. He pointed to something shiny on the seat. “For you.”

It was a tracksuit with
GIHUNDWE
in large letters on the jacket. Jean Patrick passed his hand over the slithery cloth. He slipped on the jacket, pleased with the crackly sound it made when he moved. He ran the zipper up and down, up and down. “Now I am ready for the Olympics, eh?”

Coach squinted through the windshield. The engine sputtered and then whined into life. “Not yet.”

E
VERY POTHOLE SENT
shock waves through Jean Patrick's skull. Without room to stretch his legs, he fidgeted to find a comfortable position. Coach honked at farmers, cars that drove too slowly, trucks he roared past while navigating blind curves. In the valley below, a woman paused to wave. The laundry she spread over the shrubs formed a tapestry like bright flowers. The green dazzle of tea plantations disappeared from the rearview mirror, and the blue haze of Nyungwe Forest rose before them. Out of the forest's shimmer, the first checkpoint appeared.

A bored-looking officer sauntered to the car. “Indangamuntu,” he said. A crumpled five-hundred-franc note from Mama fluttered to the floor when Jean Patrick took his identity card from his pocket. The officer
peered at the picture and then at Jean Patrick. “Step out.” A second soldier opened Jean Patrick's door and motioned to him. “Open the trunk,” the officer said. While the soldier poked at bags and blankets, the officer studied their papers. “What is your business, Mr. Rutembeza?”

“We're going to National Track Championships in Kigali,” Coach said. “I'm this boy's coach. Remember his name, Sergeant. He's Rwanda's finest. Our Olympic hopeful.” His smile could have cut through stone.

The officer hooted, showing off several gold-capped teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean Patrick saw the second soldier pocket Mama's five-hundred-franc note.

“You can go now,” the sergeant said. “Make sure that Inyenzi wins. I'm going to place a bet on him.”

Coach started the car and accelerated slowly. The soldiers' trailing laughter left a sour taste in Jean Patrick's mouth.

“Soon Rwanda will win the war,” Coach said, rolling up his window with swift, certain strokes. “And then this nonsense will be over.” He looked intently at Jean Patrick. “Don't you ever wish for a Hutu card?”

Jean Patrick was sweating in his jacket, but he didn't want to take it off. He closed his window, then opened it again. What was the proper answer to such a question?

“You'll get malaria,” Coach said, aiming a toothpick at Jean Patrick.

“How can I?”

“From the wind.” Coach popped the toothpick between his teeth. “Isn't that what villagers believe?”

“I don't know.” Jean Patrick left the window down. “That soldier took my money,” he said, focused on the blue-green river of scenery that rushed by. “It was all I had to buy food in Kigali.”

“This would never happen in Butare or Kigali. I'm known there. And never mind about the money; I can feed you.” Coach attacked the horn and sped past an old farmer pushing a cart loaded with sorghum. “Nothing but bumpkins around this place.” He rolled down his window and flung the toothpick in the farmer's direction. In an instant of revelation, Jean Patrick saw that Coach, too, had been humiliated, and it was because of his shame that he turned on Jean Patrick, the old man, the countryside.

“T
HERE ARE TWO
runners—and only two—I want you to pay attention to tomorrow,” Coach said as they crested the hill. He smiled easily again, as if he had left all his anger on the farmer's cart. “They're on the Burundi national team. Stick to them like a tick—if you can.”

Jean Patrick ran his tongue over his chipped tooth. “What about those Kigali boys?”

“They have a new coach to keep them in line.” Coach smirked. “He's Tutsi.”

Jean Patrick laughed, imagining Crooked Nose and his friends taking orders from a Tutsi. “What about the running part? I haven't raced against them in a while.”

“You've already shattered their times.” Coach grinned. “Tomorrow you'll be the best eight-hundred-meter runner in Rwanda. Ever.” He was looking at Jean Patrick, taking a corner too fast. Until Jean Patrick shouted, he paid no attention to the branches set across the road to warn of an accident. Bark and leaves flew into the air, scraped against the skidding tires. They barely missed the truck sprawled on its side across the road, wheels still spinning, the wooden sides of the truck bed shattered.

Jean Patrick tried to look away, but he couldn't. A dark stain spread on the asphalt. Already a crowd had gathered, some gesturing wildly, others collecting pieces of wood and spilled cargo. With a sigh of relief, he saw the barefoot truck driver stagger by the side of the road, arm held close to his body, hand dangling at an odd angle. A stream of curses poured from his mouth.

This is how it must have been with Papa, Jean Patrick thought. Trying to slow his runaway heart, he thought how life was decided by the most inconsequential decisions: a second here to get a drink, a minute there to stop and stretch your legs, and either you arrived at the turn at the same out-of-control moment as the truck, or you saw the branches and came to a stop, the catastrophe already in the past.

T
HE SUN HAD
started its quick descent toward the horizon when they entered the sugarcane fields and marshes along the Nyabarongo River. Jean Patrick closed his window against the fetid, sulfurous air. Birds flitted in the papyrus and umunyeganyege. In the dusky light, the hills ringing Kigali were like flared pleats of a dancer's skirt.

At the edge of town, Coach stopped at one of the many small kiosks by the roadside and bought two Fantas. The cold and the sweet went straight through Jean Patrick's chipped tooth and into his eye. Coach chuckled, the tension gone from his face. “You look like you've never left your rugo before, staring like that.”

They were in the thick of Kigali traffic. A jumble of sound filled Jean Patrick's ears: car horns, radios, shouts, and whistles. His nostrils burned with the odors of exhaust, charcoal, the stench of rotting garbage. But beyond the noise and the reek, there was also a sense of excitement that quickened his heart, and he marveled that Daniel had grown up with the pulse of such a place in his veins.

“W
E HAVE ARRIVED
. École Technique Officielle. Do you want to see the track?” Coach honked, and a rheumy-eyed man opened the gates. He was thin and bent, like an ancient tree whose trunk no longer supported the weight of its branches.

Coach hooked Jean Patrick's arm and guided him down the walkway. A group of girls coming from a classroom split and walked on either side of them. Jean Patrick called out a greeting, and they turned around and giggled.

The Burundi runners were the only ones on the track. They wore red, green, and white jerseys, Burundi's colors, and on the back was the Burundi flag. They moved together with long, stretched-out strides, as if they had been fashioned from a single piece of clay and split into two. One was at least as tall as Jean Patrick; the other, shorter, a wiry bundle of muscles and bone. They talked as they ran, gesturing and laughing. Jean Patrick visualized running beside them. Comparing his pace to theirs, he didn't think they would be that hard to beat. The first tease of victory tingled his lips, and he quickened his pace.

“Where are you going?” Coach tightened his grip on Jean Patrick's arm.

“To greet them.”

“Stay here and watch instead. Keep them guessing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Psychology. To you, they have become human, but to them you are still a mystery. Stay here and watch; learn their pace, their stride. Let them worry about you.”