Running the Rift (29 page)

Jean Patrick poked the wiry growth on Roger's chin. “Is this supposed to be a beard?”

“It is.” Roger poked back. “Tough guy, eh? I saw you pull that tire around the track. Me, I remember when you fell in the dirt trying to catch me.”

“You saw that? Mana mfasha. You are always spying on me from the trees.”

Roger lit a cigarette and threw the match onto the wet earth, where it sizzled. “More than you know, Little Brother.”

They had reached the bathroom. Students pushed and shoved along the path. Roger stood close to Jean Patrick, and with a shock Jean Patrick realized he was nearly a head taller than his older brother.

“Your water will be boiled away,” Roger said. “There is a small restaurant called Aux Délices. Do you know it?” Jean Patrick shook his head. “It's on a small dirt road just up from the Ibis. You have to watch for the path or you will miss it. It's quiet there—private. We can talk. Can you meet me in forty-five minutes?”

“If I have to crawl.” Jean Patrick squeezed Roger's arms, his unyielding biceps. “They keep you fit, eh? I am waiting to hear your news.”

“And you.” Roger returned the squeeze, but the mischievous joy that had always spilled from his eyes was gone. He turned on his heels in the same military way Jean Patrick had come to know in Coach, and veered toward the woods. He disappeared on a small, hidden path as if he were a student and walked the trail every day.

A
UX
D
ÉLICES WAS
just a few tables in the back of a store. By the shabby front door a tethered goat, most likely doomed for dinner,
walked the circumference of its rope and complained loudly. Jean Patrick found Roger drinking a Primus at a table in the corner. Again the sight of his brother startled him: the angled face, the restless eyes half-hidden by his cap.

Roger stepped free of the tiny table and embraced Jean Patrick. At least now they could hold each other, stand together cheek against cheek. Roger touched Jean Patrick's forehead. “You're burning up.”

“Just a cold. It's become an old friend, overlong in my company.”

The storekeeper came by, and Roger ordered two Primuses, rice and peas, brochettes with chips and bananas. He must have seen Jean Patrick's raised eyebrows because he held up his hand. “Keep away from your pocket. I'm buying. In celebration of the end of your first term, which I can guess was brilliant.”

“Some things went better than others.”

“Ah. Sounds like a girl is involved.”

“Finished. Past tense:
was.
” He unwrapped the remaining candy from Daniel and put it in his mouth. The thought of Bea left a sour taste in his mouth. The storekeeper brought their beers and poured.

“Was it you or she who said good-bye? Cheers.”

Jean Patrick and Roger clinked glasses. “Cheers.
She
left
me,
but she'll be back.” It was wrong to ask Imana favors, but Jean Patrick let his prediction float skyward, toward Imana's listening ears.

“You sound confident.”

“You know me.”

Roger drank deeply. “Yes, murumuna wanjye, my brother, I believe I do.”

After the beer had loosened his tongue, Jean Patrick spoke his full and aching heart. “I can't say why I think such a fancy Hutu girl could like me. Her father, Niyonzima, is a professor at National University and a well-known journalist, writing for many journals. He was schooled in Britain.”

“Niyonzima Augustin?”

“You've heard of him?”

“In the RPF, we know who our friends are. Niyonzima Augustin is a very good one.”

Jean Patrick knew Roger was circling around the reason he had risked
so much to come. He also knew that when his brother was ready, he would speak his mind.

A group of soldiers came into the store and sat down at a nearby table. They were dressed in green uniforms, green military caps. Roger nodded to them, and they nodded back. “RPF,” Roger said. And then, in a low voice: “They are stationed in Mulindi, as I am now.”

“You are in Mulindi and I am just now hearing it?” Jean Patrick could have danced an Intore step to know his brother was back in Rwanda, just sixty kilometers north of Kigali.

Roger pushed the last brochette toward Jean Patrick and laughed. “Those guys are here for a volleyball game against the Rwandan Army. A friendly competition. It's all official—see how they wear their uniforms proudly in the open air? Arranged by the government.” His lips curled into a smile. “One of the few positive developments to come from the Arusha peace talks. The various parties decided we should get together and work things out eye to eye. I guess they see volleyball as a first step.”

Jean Patrick watched the soldiers as he had watched Isaka and the others in the forest in Cyangugu—with a twinge of envy. Roger ordered more beers, and when they arrived, he leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. “Does your coach ask after me?” he said.

“Every once in a while. He keeps track of me, knows each time I move my little toe. I just try and change the subject so he's not asking, asking.”

“And he doesn't press you? Do you think he suspects?”

Jean Patrick shrugged. “What can he do?” He sneezed twice in rapid succession. Roger gave him the customary blessing—urachire, be rich—and Jean Patrick responded in turn—twese, all of us.

“Did you know Rutembeza was Rwandan Army?”

“He told me—one of the few facts Coach has ever revealed about himself.”

“My commander served with him. He said he was extremely tough—cold blooded but fair. You better watch yourself with that guy.”

“Your major was Rwandan Army?”

“He was. He saw the way the army was going and fled to Uganda to save his life.” Roger tapped the table. “I mean what I say; never sleep with
both your eyes at the same time when Rutembeza's around. Are you hearing me?”

“I hear you, my brother,” Jean Patrick said. But what choice did he have? He couldn't just leave Coach and train with someone else. “In this country, many people have served in the army. It means nothing. Anyway, that is all the past. Ejo hashize: yesterday.” Done with his lecture, Jean Patrick wiped his mouth, crumpled his napkin, and put it on his plate. “Is this what you came to tell me?” Heat rose in his face. His head was not right, and if he didn't take care about what he said and how he said it, talk could boil up quickly.

“Not only that.” Roger shook a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and let the match burn nearly to his finger. “Our friend Isaka—One Shot—stepped on a mine.” Jean Patrick's throat constricted. Before he could ask, Roger said, “By some miracle he's alive, but his leg is gone below the knee.” At the next table, the RPF soldiers laughed at some joke, whooping and drumming their palms on the plastic cloth. Roger glanced in their direction. “But he said now you will have to compete for him as well, so you better start training for the marathon.”

“Isaka!” Jean Patrick smiled sadly and shook his head. “Too much he liked to talk. Sometimes we would go for a run, and he would tell me about his neighbors and cousins in Bisesero who stood up to the Hutu with bows and arrows if they came with mischief on their minds. He could run forever. Even me, he tired me out.” Jean Patrick swallowed the last of his beer. “You know, the marathon is a very long way to run, but you tell One Shot that for him, I will do it.”

A
BLUSTERY RAIN
fell as Jean Patrick and Roger left Aux Délices. They had remained far after everyone else had left, and they made their way toward the university, leaning on each other for warmth and stability. Jean Patrick's clothes clung to his skin. He tried to control his drunken sway, but the walk did him in. In the shadow of a tree, he vomited until the contents of his stomach lay at his feet. He began to shiver and could not stop.

Roger led him to a doorway, helped him out of his soaked jacket, and
rubbed warmth back into his skin. A truck approached, the headlights momentarily pinning them. The window opened, and a bottle sailed out. It exploded in a spray of glass against the building where they stood. The wheels spun in the mud as the truck accelerated, leaving in its wake a rusty rooster tail.

“Let's wait here and see if the storm lets up,” Roger said. He stripped to his shirt. “You really are sick. Stand next to me for warmth.” Jean Patrick pressed against his brother. “Nearer still.” The friction of Roger's hands took the edge off his shaking. “Don't be afraid. Pretend I'm that girl, the one you are chasing,” Roger said.

“Bea,” Jean Patrick said between chatters.

“OK. So I am Bea.” He made kissing sounds. “Umukunzi wanjye, come and kiss me.” They both laughed.

Jean Patrick saw Roger in the high forests of the Virungas, drenched to the marrow and no fire to keep him warm. “Were you with Isaka when it happened?” Slowly his brother's heat penetrated and spread through Jean Patrick's body.

“Like slow motion, I saw the whole thing. His leg extended, his foot ready to step, his head turning to slap at a bug. We thought we had cleared the area, but apparently we had not. I've witnessed much death, but this was different.” As he told the story, he rubbed Jean Patrick's arms and shoulders. “One Shot was my brother. As close as I could get to you.”

A river coursed through the center of the road. If he could have, Jean Patrick would have wept. Not just for Isaka, but for the children in Kigali, the women murdered behind the arboretum. He would have wept for Anastase, the confident, smiling woman from Bugesera whose memory lived in a photograph and in a flame that must still burn in Roger's heart. “If it happened to me,” he said, “I'd wish for death. I could not live if I couldn't run.”

“Don't ever say that.” Roger held him at arm's length. “You never know until fate hunts you down and finds you. One Shot is a soldier. Death and injury lay down with him at night, and when he wakes, they are there to kiss him good morning. He will find a way to overcome, as you would.” He shook out Jean Patrick's jacket and helped him into it. “May God never put you to the test. This rain is here to stay, eh? Let's go.”

With his stomach cleansed of alcohol, Jean Patrick felt better. Roger was right. Jean Patrick couldn't compare himself to a soldier, but for every blow he suffered, he found a way to adjust, to seek a new equilibrium. “Where are you staying tonight?” He looked at his watch; it was nearly curfew. The lights and noise of town grew faint behind them. Rain and darkness stretched before them.

Roger shook another cigarette from the almost empty pack. “Just like a little boy: always questions, questions. I will walk you to school, and then I will leave you.” He chortled. “Eh—I saw your picture with Habyarimana. You looked terrified, but don't worry—only a brother could notice. I showed the whole unit.
Look,
I said,
what a star my brother is.
”

If Jean Patrick hadn't seen the proud smile on Roger's face, he would have thought he mocked him. “They gave me a big party in Kigali, with hamburgers from Belgium.”

“Imana bless us.” Roger flicked his cigarette into the road and took Jean Patrick's arm. “Luxury meat while your brother eats rats in the jungle.”

“Rats? True?”

“Next you will ask if Inkotanyi women sleep with the devil. You shouldn't believe everything you hear—that's a habit you need to break for your own safety.” Roger's mood turned serious. “Remember that with your coach, and when you shake Habyarimana's hand.”

“What can I do?” Jean Patrick said. “I have to get to the Olympics. Coach has been good to me. He treats me like his son.” Jean Patrick's voice echoed too loud inside his head. Did he want to convince himself or Roger? But he had seen a look, fleeting, at certain moments. It was not a father's love, but it was something close, something to do with pride. “Coach needs me. Habyarimana needs me. I'm their example for the Europeans. Coach told me that.”

“Need is a funny thing. Sometimes you can need someone, but when he is all used up, you toss what is left into the bush, like garbage.”

“What kind of story are you telling me?” Rage boiled up in Jean Patrick.

“The story I am telling you is what I see with my two eyes. Time and time again.”

They reached the university. The storm had worn itself out, now merely an inconstant sprinkle. Jean Patrick's clothes clung wetly to his body.

Roger placed two fingers against Jean Patrick's throat. “You must learn to read Rwanda's pulse. These Arusha accords are only to please the West. The government preaches peace but prepares for war. Something unimaginable is coming. I'll try to get to you if I can, to our family, but if you feel a sudden quickening of the pulse and I am not here, you must run. Alone if you have to.”

“I don't understand what you are saying.” Jean Patrick felt weak and dizzy. His eyes only wanted to close.

“Now go. Dry off and get warm.” He pressed his face to Jean Patrick's, then disappeared into the bush. “May God keep you in his hands.” Roger's blessing floated out, disembodied, from the darkness.

Faint strands of music carried from the guardhouse. The guard peered out from his shelter, eyes blurry with sleep and age. “Not two minutes to spare,” he said with a chuckle when Jean Patrick presented his card. “Run home with Imana's blessings,” the old man chanted, and he waved him through.

Jean Patrick wanted to chase after his brother, to hold him until he explained. It was too much. The whole evening had been too much. The news about Isaka, the strange warnings. What about the children? he wanted to shout. Who will protect them? Who will tell them to run when the time comes? Who will protect Isaka, now that he is all used up?

D
AWN, DIRTY AND
gray, invaded the room. Rain hissed on the roof and battered the window. Jean Patrick awoke with his fever still keeping him company. Glass splinters cut his throat when he swallowed. The onslaught of noise from Daniel's direction was like blows to his head. A balled shirt sailed past him and hit the wall. “Are you planning to greet Pascal from there?”