him by his Christian name--someone who must be more to him than a housekeeper. Who would hire a woman with only one arm to cook and clean? Chantelle was very smart-looking, even more attractive than the whores in the bar of the Mille Collines, women known for their beauty, many of them killed because of it.
Laurent told himself to be patient, Johnnie Walker wasn't going anywhere. Give the priest time to accept his mother's death, someone close to him but far away in America. He would be used to death close by, there in the church, less than one hundred meters away. Was he staring at the church, or in his mind staring at nothing? Or was he listening to Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers now doing "Beautiful Day," Ziggy's Jamaican voice drifting over the hills of western Rwanda. Laurent became aware of his body moving oh so slightly and made himself stand still, before the priest or Chantelle would notice.
The priest was turning to walk away, but then stopped and looked back at Laurent.
"You know a young guy named Bernard? A Hutu, wears a green checkered shirt, sometimes a straw hat?"
It took Laurent by surprise, thinking the priest was grieving the death of his mother.
"I know of him, yes. He came back from Goma, the refugee camp. Those relief people, they don't know the good guys from the bad guys. The RPA comes, the Hutus run, and the relief people give them blankets and food. Yes, I know him."
"He tells everybody he took part in the genocide."
Laurent nodded. "So did most of the ones he tells."
"He admits he killed people. In the church."
"Yes, I hear that."
"Why don't you pick him up?"
"Arrest him? But who saw him kill people? The ones who were there are dead. Where is a witness to come before the court? Listen, RPA soldiers hear of a person like Bernard, they want to take him in the bush and shoot him. But if they do, they the ones are arrested. Two soldiers have been tried and executed for killing Hutu suspects. All we can do is keep our eyes on him."
"But if a man, not a soldier," the priest said, "sees the one who murdered his family and takes revenge . . ."
The priest waited and Laurent said, "I would sympathize with him."
"Would you arrest him?"
Laurent said, looking into the priest's eyes, "I would report I made a search and was not able to find him."
The priest, nodding his head, held Laurent's gaze, then turned and was walking away when Laurent remembered the letter. He said, "Father," bringing the letter from his pocket, "I have this, also from your brother." Chantelle took the envelope from him and brought it to the priest, again resting her hand on his arm, Laurent watching them: the priest looking at the envelope and then speaking to his housekeeper, his hand going to her shoulder, Laurent watching the familiar way they touched each other.
Chapter 3.
CHANTELLE RETURNED TO THE TABLE as the priest continued toward the house.
"He invites you please to have a drink."
"Is he coming back?"
"He didn't say."
She sounded tired.
"With ice," Laurent said, approaching the table. "He surprised me talking the way he did. I thought he was looking at the church, the death of his mother reminding him of the dead inside."
They used English now, Laurent's first language.
"He wants to bury them," Chantelle said, "but the bourgmestre, the same person who told the Hutu militia to go in and kill them, said no, it must stay the way it is, a memorial to the dead." She handed Laurent his drink. "Explain that to me if you can."
"He calls it a memorial," Laurent said, "and you think the bourgmestre, Mr. Shiny Suit, is sorry now, look, he's showing remorse. But I think he keeps the dead in the church so he can say, 'Look what we did,' proud of it. You were here that time, in the church?"
"I tried to be here, but no, I was in Kigali," Chantelle said, "all day listening to the radio for news. The disc jockey tells the Hutus to perform their duty, go out in the streets and kill. He gives them such information as,
Laurent told himself to be patient, Johnnie Walker wasn't going anywhere. Give the priest time to accept his mother's death, someone close to him but far away in America. He would be used to death close by, there in the church, less than one hundred meters away. Was he staring at the church, or in his mind staring at nothing? Or was he listening to Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers now doing "Beautiful Day," Ziggy's Jamaican voice drifting over the hills of western Rwanda. Laurent became aware of his body moving oh so slightly and made himself stand still, before the priest or Chantelle would notice.
The priest was turning to walk away, but then stopped and looked back at Laurent.
"You know a young guy named Bernard? A Hutu, wears a green checkered shirt, sometimes a straw hat?"
It took Laurent by surprise, thinking the priest was grieving the death of his mother.
"I know of him, yes. He came back from Goma, the refugee camp. Those relief people, they don't know the good guys from the bad guys. The RPA comes, the Hutus run, and the relief people give them blankets and food. Yes, I know him."
"He tells everybody he took part in the genocide."
Laurent nodded. "So did most of the ones he tells."
"He admits he killed people. In the church."
"Yes, I hear that."
"Why don't you pick him up?"
"Arrest him? But who saw him kill people? The ones who were there are dead. Where is a witness to come before the court? Listen, RPA soldiers hear of a person like Bernard, they want to take him in the bush and shoot him. But if they do, they the ones are arrested. Two soldiers have been tried and executed for killing Hutu suspects. All we can do is keep our eyes on him."
"But if a man, not a soldier," the priest said, "sees the one who murdered his family and takes revenge . . ."
The priest waited and Laurent said, "I would sympathize with him."
"Would you arrest him?"
Laurent said, looking into the priest's eyes, "I would report I made a search and was not able to find him."
The priest, nodding his head, held Laurent's gaze, then turned and was walking away when Laurent remembered the letter. He said, "Father," bringing the letter from his pocket, "I have this, also from your brother." Chantelle took the envelope from him and brought it to the priest, again resting her hand on his arm, Laurent watching them: the priest looking at the envelope and then speaking to his housekeeper, his hand going to her shoulder, Laurent watching the familiar way they touched each other.
Chapter 3.
CHANTELLE RETURNED TO THE TABLE as the priest continued toward the house.
"He invites you please to have a drink."
"Is he coming back?"
"He didn't say."
She sounded tired.
"With ice," Laurent said, approaching the table. "He surprised me talking the way he did. I thought he was looking at the church, the death of his mother reminding him of the dead inside."
They used English now, Laurent's first language.
"He wants to bury them," Chantelle said, "but the bourgmestre, the same person who told the Hutu militia to go in and kill them, said no, it must stay the way it is, a memorial to the dead." She handed Laurent his drink. "Explain that to me if you can."
"He calls it a memorial," Laurent said, "and you think the bourgmestre, Mr. Shiny Suit, is sorry now, look, he's showing remorse. But I think he keeps the dead in the church so he can say, 'Look what we did,' proud of it. You were here that time, in the church?"
"I tried to be here, but no, I was in Kigali," Chantelle said, "all day listening to the radio for news. The disc jockey tells the Hutus to perform their duty, go out in the streets and kill. He gives them such information as,
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