Running the Rift (21 page)

A second Interahamwe snatched the old man's glasses. He put them on and waved his arms like a political official working a rally. A gold chain glinted from his neck. The herder stood still, eyes blinking. Jean Patrick sensed the collective constriction in the mob like a boa squeezing its prey.

“Cut the Tutsi snake in two,” someone yelled.

“Shouldn't we do something?” Jonathan's voice quavered. “Where are the police?” In the backseat, Jean Patrick fidgeted.

“The police are busy counting their
contributions,
” Daniel whispered to Jean Patrick.

“Don't worry. Guys like this—they just want to scare him. They'll let him go in a minute,” Coach said. Jean Patrick looked to Daniel for confirmation, but Daniel merely shrugged.

For an instant, the road opened up, and Coach accelerated, managing a few meters before the gap closed again. He blasted the horn, and the herder swiveled toward them, fear ablaze in his eyes.

Jean Patrick checked his watch. If they didn't get out of there soon, he would be late. He could have pummeled the seatback with his fists, but instead his voice came out a whimper. “We need to hurry,” he said.

Coach rolled down his window. “Do you really want this muzungu to see what you're doing?” he shouted. At the mention of the word
muzungu,
Jonathan bolted upright.

“Fuck the muzungu,” the Interahamwe with the gold chain yelled in English. “Fuck all Tutsi cockroaches.” He pressed his face to the car window and leered at Jean Patrick, nose flattened against the glass. “Hutu Power! Umuzungu subira iwanyu!” He banged the glass with the handle of his machete. Spittle streaked a corner of his mouth. Then, reeling with laughter, he strolled back to his prey.

“What did that guy say to me?” Jonathan's shocked gaze locked with Coach's.

“He was welcoming you to our country,” Coach said.

“No. He said, ‘White man, go home,'” Jean Patrick said, unwilling to let this final humiliation stand.

Anger flared in Coach's eyes, but he said nothing.

The circle of the mob tightened. “Don't let the snake go; kill it!” The chant boiled in the already heated air.

“He's done nothing wrong—leave him,” a woman yelled. “Go back to your business.”

The Interahamwe scooped up the herder's hat and extended it toward him. When the old man reached for it, another Interahamwe pushed him full force into the mud. His staff flew from his hand. The man with the gold chain put a foot on the herder's back, leaned forward, and placed the blade of his machete on the old man's neck. A collective whoop rose from the mob.

“Please, no,” Jonathan gasped.

Jean Patrick squeezed Daniel's hand. The alley behind the old baker's shop, the glint of Albert's knife, the boys closing, all flashed through his mind. He understood fate's balance could tip either way.

The car stopped directly in front of the herder. Jean Patrick could have counted the wrinkles in his weatherworn skin. He saw the rise and fall of the thug's chest, heard his breathy excitement.

“Enough,” Coach shouted. “You've had your fun.”

The Interahamwe with the gold chain spun and pointed his machete at Coach. “I'll remember you, icyitso,” he said, but he stepped back. The cowherd struggled to his feet and collected his belongings. He limped off, one foot bare. Jean Patrick slumped lower, afraid the old man would see him sitting in the car, doing nothing to help.

The action over, traffic began to move. Uncapping a bottle of water with trembling fingers, Jean Patrick drank thirstily, greedily, as if the water would purify him, wash clean his slate. Shame burned inside him. But what could he have done, another tall, skinny Tutsi leaping into the fray while violence shimmered in the air like petrol fumes? Any small struck flame could have ignited it. Jean Patrick had a race to run.

A
FTER THAT, THEY
rode in silence. Only Coach spoke, pointing out a hotel here, a landmark there. Jean Patrick's nerves sizzled. He felt peeled bare, an insect specimen pinned on a card. Not until he saw the walls of Nyamirambo Stadium, the hawkers by the gates with their cigarettes and sweets, could he focus on the task at hand. In this meet there would be no prelims or semifinals. Only one race, one chance.

Jonathan's camera came out. He captured the ragged children, the women's bright parasols, the men balancing jerricans of urwagwa, sacks of sorghum, on their heads. He snapped photos of an athlete in silver shorts, her head full of plaits, her legs all muscle and shine. But when he aimed at the soldiers, Coach quickly covered the lens.

J
EAN
P
ATRICK WATCHED
the runners while he loosened up on the grass. “I don't see those Hutu boys who gave me trouble in Butare,” he said. Reflexively he ran his tongue across the edge of his chipped tooth and relived the slow-motion fall down the steps of National University.

“You might see two of them at Worlds,” Coach said. “They've gone to Kenya to train.” He pointed toward the field, where a stocky boy in red shorts did kick-outs and side-to-sides on the grass. “There's your rabbit, the new star on the École Technique team. He's a hundred-meter runner but doesn't know it. Goes off like a rocket, then detonates before the second lap.”

“How do you know about all these runners?” Jean Patrick asked as the boy blazed past the Burundi runners.

“My job is to keep track of your competition; your job is to beat them.” Coach licked his lips. “Aye! If I could get my hands on him, he'd be joining you at the Olympics.” Jean Patrick gave him a look, and he chuckled. “In the hundred meters, of course. Look at him. He'll be exhausted by the time he has to race.”

Jean Patrick noted the boy's pained expression. “I hope he has enough energy left for me to chase him.”

“I want you right on his heels for the first lap. He'll pick up the pace with pressure, and that will destroy him. Turn it on as soon as you notice him fading.”

“I feel great today. I don't think I need to follow anyone.” The morning's tension had transformed into the desire for full-out speed.

Coach grabbed Jean Patrick's wrist. “When will you learn to listen? I'm counting on you to do as I say.” He released his grip. “Now go warm up with your Burundi friends; you're no mystery to them anymore.”

Ndizeye waved Jean Patrick over. “We hear you ran a qualifying time for the Olympics,” Gilbert said. “Congratulations!”

Jean Patrick settled into an easy pace beside them. “Yego. If I can keep running them, I'll be seeing you in Atlanta.” He watched them and committed their strides to memory. Maybe when he played back the tape in his head, he would find some weakness to exploit.

D
ANIEL WAS WAITING
at the start line with a bottle of water. “Our president is waiting to greet you.” He saluted Jean Patrick.

The front section of the stands had filled with dignitaries and the Presidential Guard. Habyarimana stood in their midst, a pair of binoculars trained on Jean Patrick. It seemed to him that the president had merely stepped from his photograph and come to life. The space he carved out for himself extended far beyond the boundaries of his body.

“Mana mfasha,” Jean Patrick whispered. God help me.

Daniel led Jean Patrick toward the stands. “There are the TV cameras. You better look fast. They're here for you.”

Jean Patrick caught the bright red
B
of Jonathan's baseball cap just to the president's left. His legs quivered, and it took every fiber of concentration to keep a jerky hip-hop from his stride. He took deep breaths to calm his pounding heart. Habyarimana extended his hand. Jean Patrick stepped close enough to count the beads of sweat on the president's forehead. Cameras clicked away.

Habyarimana beckoned. “I am flesh and blood,” he said.

A firm hand pushed him forward, and over his shoulder he saw a dour-faced man, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses. “He won't bite,” the man said.

Habyarimana yanked Jean Patrick to his side and spun him toward the cameras. He squinted into the sun to face the bank of lenses. “This boy is Rwanda's future,” the president boomed, his smile candescent. “We are here to help him achieve his dream.” He patted Jean Patrick firmly on the back as if he were in the midst of choking.

It took Jean Patrick a minute to realize the flash in the corner of his eye did not come from a camera. It came instead from the glint of bangles caught in a ray of sun. He blinked and focused. Bea was on the steps below, arm outstretched to hail someone in the crowd. She had on the same tea-leaf-green skirt he had followed up a stairwell, the same gold blouse. She supported her husband as he negotiated the steep stairs.

“T
HERE'S THE GIRL
I want to marry,” Jean Patrick said. He was warming up with Daniel along the edge of the field. Crews set up hurdles on the track for the first race. “Over there in the gold blouse.”

Daniel jogged backward. “With the long hair, standing next to the old man?”

“Her husband.” Jean Patrick watched the girl with the plaits and silver shorts who had taken up a roll of Jonathan's film. She was practicing her kick for hurdles.

“You're crazy. That grandfather? Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“Well, maybe she has a younger sister.”

“I don't want her sister. I only want her.”

Daniel hummed softly. “Then you must break her husband's heart.”

A pistol shot sent Jean Patrick diving to the ground. The echo reverberated from the walls, and the stadium erupted in cheers. Slowly, Jean Patrick opened his eyes. The hurdlers had cleared the first hurdle. The girl in silver shorts led the pack, plaits flung wild.

Daniel held his side. “Hey-hey! Haven't you heard a starter's gun before?”

Jean Patrick brushed grass from his track pants. “Mana yanjye, I thought that Interahamwe guy just shot me.”

“Wa muturage, weh! You are still a country bumpkin. Do you think at World Championships or the Olympics they will bang two blocks of wood together?”

The girl cleared the eighth hurdle with no one else close. That was how he wanted his race to go. But then, in a moment too brief to capture, her foot caught the last hurdle, and she went down. Pain twisted her face. A runner passed her to capture the win. Jean Patrick felt a twinge of fear; how easily a path could veer from good fortune to bad.

T
HE EIGHT HUNDRED
was the last event of the day. Photographers rushed onto the field to photograph Jean Patrick stretching.

“How do you feel?” Coach zeroed his watch. Jean Patrick's internal timer kicked in.

“Like nothing can stop me.”

The boy in red shorts trotted onto the track, and Coach nudged Jean Patrick. “Tell me again—who's that guy?”

Jean Patrick observed the densely muscled thighs. “My rabbit.” He searched for a flash of gold and green in the stands but found only the glare of the president's binoculars aimed at his chest. The announcer called the runners to the track, and his heart tripped into high gear.

He had lane five, flanked by Gilbert and Ndizeye. The rabbit had lane seven, near the outside. Jean Patrick swayed from foot to foot, shook out his legs and fingers. Gilbert and Ndizeye slapped their hamstrings, and Jean Patrick copied them. The rabbit jumped up and down in place and punched the air.

The runners crouched. The starter fired his pistol, and light blazed in Jean Patrick's head.

As Coach had predicted, the rabbit exploded off the line, arms pumping madly. Jean Patrick tucked in behind and sailed on the rabbit's air. He expected Gilbert and Ndizeye to flank him, but they hung back, a shadow's length behind. The rabbit set a furious pace. Jean Patrick ran at his heels and matched him acceleration for acceleration. He felt good; he felt unbeatable.

They passed the start line, and the bell clanged for the final lap. “The first four runners shatter the Rwandan record for four hundred meters!” the announcer shouted.

But as quickly as Imana had extended His hand to Jean Patrick, He snatched it back. The rabbit did not fade, and coming out of the turn, Jean Patrick wondered if he could push the pace much faster. He sensed Gilbert and Ndizeye at his heels. His lungs felt strained to bursting. The image of the hurdler flashed in front of his eyes, but it was his body, not the girl's, that he saw crash to the ground. Then, miraculously, on the back straight, Coach's prediction came true: the rabbit faded. Gilbert and Ndizeye surged. Now, when Jean Patrick ran on faith and hope alone, the race began.

Gilbert and Ndizeye fell back, leaving Jean Patrick to run unaided in front. From somewhere, he found the energy to maintain his lead. He imagined the president watching through his binoculars, envisioned the flash of Bea's bracelets as she shaded her eyes to see. Two shadows flanked him. He started his kick, but stones weighed down his legs. Metal bands
squeezed his chest. Gilbert and Ndizeye glided beside him. He gritted his teeth and pushed. Fifty meters to go. While his stride was choppy, off balance, Gilbert and Ndizeye maintained their long, floaty kicks. Jean Patrick felt the first twinge of a cramp in his calf. He would not let it happen; he would not.

The Burundi boys dogged him as he had dogged the now forgotten rabbit. He dug deeper. Thirty meters. Black dots danced in his vision. The finish line blazed white, impossibly far away. In Coach's magazines, he had read about the wall. Now he crashed into it full force. They will not pass me, he repeated in his head. With ten meters to go, it became his chant.

He had a chance; all he had to do was hold on. But he couldn't, and first Gilbert, then Ndizeye, sailed past him. Riding the wave that had flung him off its crest, they stroked to the finish. Jean Patrick passed the line in a desperate lean. Even gravity defeated him, and he fell to the ground. It was only when Ndizeye shook his shoulder that he heard the announcer shout, “One forty-five forty-nine. Nkuba Jean Patrick breaks his own record!” Coach and Daniel bolted toward him, fists pumping the air.