Running the Rift (37 page)

Jean Patrick had been right in his prediction: on Saturday morning, Coach seemed determined to drive him into the ground one last time before Easter vacation. Fartlek training had been abandoned; the tire was back. Up and down the arboretum hills, its dead weight pulling Jean Patrick backward. Again and again in a cold mist until he doubled over, gasping for air.

“One more,” Coach said. Jean Patrick did not think he could do it, but at the last moment, Coach took off the harness, and Jean Patrick floated, weightless, on his sprint to the top. He reached the crest where the new guardhouse stood and flung his hands into the air. “I'm a bird!”

The new guard was a surly man, solitary and silent. The old guard had never returned, although once or twice, Jean Patrick thought he had seen
him around town. A few weeks after the burning, one of the women in the fields told Jean Patrick that the guard and his family had walked to Burundi. Jean Patrick prayed it was so.

Coach jogged up the slope, grinning from ear to ear. “When you get to Worlds, this is how the race will feel—like flying,” he said. Jean Patrick wasn't sure. The sensation was already fading, and he wondered if even Coach believed himself.

“I'll run easy with you for cooldown, then drive you back to your dorm,” Coach said. They looped together between plots verdant with new growth. It was Itumba, the main rainy season, bean plants hanging from their stakes, pendulous with pods ripe for picking. The fog thinned, and a pale sun broke through.

“I'm pleased,” Coach said. “This is a good time to leave for a break.” He stopped and faced Jean Patrick. “You said you'd be back on Tuesday?”

“Just for a couple of days. Then again to Cyangugu for the rest of vacation. Uncle is getting a new boat—a motorboat—and he needs my help.”

Coach took a toothpick from his shirt and put it in his mouth. “That's not possible. From Tuesday, you stay in Butare.”

It was a command, not a request. It made no sense; Jean Patrick was sure Coach had said that he would be away. He wanted to ask, but they were at the car already, and suddenly Coach was no longer in a mood to talk. They loaded the tire into the trunk. Coach looked off into the forest as if he had already left.

B
ACK IN HIS
dorm, Jean Patrick packed his clothes and books and a few gifts for the family. He picked up the photo of Paul Ereng. The backing still held, his Hutu card safely hidden behind it. His conversation with Coach had rattled him; this would be a good time to have the card. He was about to put it in his bag when Jonathan knocked at the door and the thought flew from his mind.

The instant Jean Patrick got in the car, he felt Bea's wrath. She greeted him with a cool hand and a slight tip of the chin. He puzzled over the previous evening, combing in vain through the smallest details to discover his offence. Then, while discussing Rwandan culture, she said in a loud voice, “Some of us have come into agreement with Western ways, while
others still believe a woman has no rights, not even the choice of where to spend a holy day.” Susanne made an amused uh-oh with her mouth, and Jean Patrick grinned, the answer suddenly clear. He could be patient. As surely as her temper had flared, it would burn out again, like a brush fire in dry grass.

Curious troops of colobus monkeys came out of the forest, and Bea sidled closer on the seat. When Jonathan passed the spot where Jean Patrick had kissed her, she brushed his leg with forgiving fingers.

Jonathan pointed out faults and folds, the mineral veins in the cliffs. “It absolutely shouts out geologic upheaval!” he said.

The roar of waterfalls echoed around them. They climbed out of the forest's shadow into the tea plantations, where the pickers appeared like swimmers, half their bodies lost in a green lake of leaves. The emerald flash rising from the land brought Jean Patrick home.

“Amazing,” Susanne said. She leaned out the window to take pictures, so far that Jean Patrick readied himself to grab her. A shaft of sunlight streamed through a cloud.

“It looks like the light around Jesus's head in paintings,” Jean Patrick remarked.

Susanne took a picture. “Or God's spirit,” she said.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Actually, its just a phenomenon called crepuscular rays.”

“Oh, come on!” Susanne said. “How can that
not
mean good luck?”

“I
GUESS THIS
is it.” Jonathan parked by the bus stop in Gashirabwoba. Jean Patrick and Bea got out.

“Come greet my family and have something to eat,” Jean Patrick said.

“We'd love to,” Jonathan said, “but it's going to be a long hike to the cabin in this slime.”

“In Rwanda, it's rude to refuse an invitation. We are always visiting, visiting. Our doors are never closed.”

“Especially if you bring Primus or urwagwa,” Bea added.

“In that case, we'd better come,” Jonathan said, opening the door for Susanne. “Although we have no alcoholic gifts this time. Next time we'll make up for it—promise.”

They climbed the path, mud sucking at their feet. Jean Patrick scanned the hillside. The moment his eyes distinguished the compound from the trees, smoke coming from the cookhouse, he would know his family was safe, and his heart could slow its racing tempo. He saw the smoke first, a thin blue ribbon, the eucalyptus scent sharp in his nostrils, and then the new addition, which was finished, a fresh coat of paint over everything. He took Susanne's hand to help her over a deep rut. “Can I ask you to take a picture of my family? I haven't had a new one for a long time.”

Susanne squeezed his fingers. “I'd be honored.”

Emmanuel noticed them first. Then a young man Jean Patrick barely recognized as Zachary walked through the door. Uncle shouted. Zachary whooped. They rushed toward Jean Patrick, and the three of them collided halfway.

Clemence and Baby Pauline tumbled down the hillside, tugging a goat behind them on a string. Baby Pauline was no longer a baby, reedy and graceful, but the name had stuck. Clemence leapt into Jean Patrick's arms. She had blossoms in her hair, and memory cut him. He saw Mathilde, copper skinned in the morning, reciting the taxonomic system as she struck at weeds with her hoe. Like Mathilde, Clemence had a dusting of henna in her feathery hair, and she had her same lively copper-flecked eyes.

The twins, Aunt Esther, and Mama came from the cookhouse and encircled Jean Patrick and Bea in a long embrace. From the affection obvious in their hugs, he knew they already saw Bea as his wife. He could tell by the smoke in their clothes and their hair that they had long been busy preparing food for Easter.

The girls swarmed Susanne, touching her hair, her skin.

“I'm Clémentine,” said Clarisse, giggling.

“I'm Clarisse,” said Clémentine, and left it up to Jean Patrick to tell Susanne the truth.

Clemence brought the radio outside, and they all sashayed across the yard. Uncle took the group on a tour of the land and then showed off his new addition to the house.

“Time for family portraits. Everybody squeeze in.” Susanne waved them together.

“Wait! Jacqueline is coming now,” Jean Patrick said. He watched her
pick her way up the path in high-heeled sandals. She had grown strong and solid like Uncle's family; the tall, skinny frame he had inherited from Mama had passed her by. He took her by the wrists and spun her around. “Movie star!” he said, touching her satiny sleeve. “Why all these glamour clothes?”

“I have a sweetheart,” she whispered.

“Me, too.” Jean Patrick took her hand. “Come meet Bea and my two friends. Susanne is taking our picture.” Before they reached the gathering, he stopped her. “There's something I need you to do.” He whispered in her ear, and she giggled and nodded.

He made introductions and joined the group beside Bea. She laughed, chin tipped toward the sky. Susanne clicked. Zachary looked out, somber and formal for the camera. Jean Patrick poked him, and his serious face fell apart. Susanne caught his laughter. Mama and Aunt Esther tittered, shy as schoolgirls. Another frame. Then a picture of Jacqueline and Bea, posing together beside the jacaranda. Pili came up from her nest to see what she was missing.

“You have a dog,” Susanne said. “He needs to be in the picture.”

“
She,
” Jean Patrick corrected. “Jonathan, you come, too.”

“Perfect,” Susanne said, and she took the picture. Then Jean Patrick traded places with her and got a shot with Susanne in the midst of the family. As he handed her the camera, he caught a bright flash like a glint of metal from the near ridge. It was so quick he doubted his own observation, but then it happened again. He scanned the ridge but saw no one, nothing. Stray lightning, he thought, although he could see no storm clouds.

“One more—a real family photo this time, a serious one.” Susanne pulled Jean Patrick back into the huddle and directed them into position. “Ready? One, two three: fromage!”

“Fromage!” The shutter closed just as Jean Patrick caught the flash at the periphery of his vision, and this time he knew his eyesight was beyond doubt.

J
EAN
P
ATRICK ENTERED
the cramped shop. Jacqueline had taken Bea for a long walk, as he had asked. The bell above the door jingled with a high, bright note. The shelves were crowded with appliances—electric
irons, radios of various sizes and shapes, a few small TVs. There was even an electric sewing machine on a broken wooden table. A row of glass cases displayed watches and jewelry. The jeweler pushed up his magnifiers and looked up from his work.

“Last time I was here,” Jean Patrick said, “I looked at a necklace, a gold cross. Do you still have it?”

The jeweler beamed. “I do! And I know who you are now. I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn't place you. The baker across the street told me. May God help you in your journey to the Olympics.”

“Thank you, muzehe. I believe He helps me every day.”

The jeweler took out a white box from behind the counter. “From the look on your face, I guessed you'd be back.” He held out a small cross on a delicate chain, freshly polished.

“It's perfect. Thank you.”

“I knew your father,” the jeweler said. “He was my son's teacher.” His gaze, pleased and distant, took in some faraway place. “Now my son is a father and a teacher himself.” Taking the cloth from the counter, he shined the cross one last time and placed it carefully back in the box.

“I'm glad my father's spirit lives on.” Jean Patrick took a sheaf of folded bills from his pocket and counted them. The day he brought Bea to meet his family, he'd begun saving—skipping meals, wearing socks until his toes poked through. He'd washed dishes at a restaurant when the boy who usually did them was sick. He was intent on finding a special gift for her, and when he saw the cross, he knew he had found it. Uncle Emmanuel gave him what he lacked. He asked for a loan, but Uncle wouldn't hear of it. The jeweler took a wooden box from beneath the counter and put the money inside.

“Aren't you afraid you'll be robbed?”

“Imana has taken care of me for seventy years. I believe He can manage for the meager amount of time remaining to me.” He patted Jean Patrick's hands as if shaping a loaf of bread. “May your wife wear this in good health. God bless you both.”

Walking out the door, Jean Patrick noticed a spiderweb of cracks that spread from a hole in the corner of the window. “What happened?”

The jeweler shook his head. “These young toughs. No job, no future. All they can think to do is cause mischief. They hit every Tutsi business
in town. In broad daylight. They got your friend the baker, too. He had to throw out a day's worth of bread and cakes, ruined from glass.”

On the way home, Jean Patrick walked through the market. He passed a line of women sewing on treadle machines. “Something for your miss for Easter?” Their feet pushed the pedals with a quick, steady rhythm.

“I have what I need,” Jean Patrick called out. Hungry, he picked out plump passion fruits from a hawker, and she put them in a sack.

From somewhere behind him, a voice called out, “Hey, you—Inyenzi.” Jean Patrick kept walking. “Nkuba Jean Patrick. I'm talking to you. What are you these days? Uri umuhutu cyangwa umututsi?”

The question struck Jean Patrick like a slap, and he whirled around. Albert's face, his zigzag scar, confronted him. He was sitting with a group of guys, drinking beer. “I haven't forgotten you,” Albert said, sighting down his finger. “Soon we'll meet again, and if I were you, I'd choose Hutu.” His smile curdled Jean Patrick's blood. “Something big is coming, and when it does, you won't want to be Tutsi.”

Jean Patrick took a passion fruit from his sack, split it with his teeth, and sucked the sweet juice. He spit out the skin, turned, and walked away. Drunken laughter followed him. His body tingled, every cell alert. He sensed them at his back but refused to look. Pushing through the tumult of noisy shoppers, he walked briskly through the market. He kept up his pace until the market din faded, replaced by birdsong in the bush. He sensed someone watching him, like a chilly wind on his skin. It was a familiar feeling, the same one he had when he was jumped in the alley, a knife appearing in Albert's hand. Somewhere behind him, a twig snapped, and then another. Whirling around, he crouched and readied himself to spring.

“Yampayinka data—don't shoot.” The shape materialized from the trees so quickly that Jean Patrick doubted his eyes for the second time that day. Then the man stepped from the shadow, hands up, laughing.

“Mistah Cool! You are always jumping at me from the bush. What if I
did
have a gun?”

Roger clasped him and held him firm. Jean Patrick squeezed back, inhaled his brother's scent of tobacco and sour sweat.

“In that case, Mr. Olympics, you'd be on the ground already, staring at heaven.” He took Jean Patrick's arm. “Let's stay off the trail—follow me.
We need to talk.” He took a small mirror from his pocket and flashed it at the sun. “I've been trying to get your attention all morning.”