Mark Lee - The Canal House

Halfway through the film, Daniel remembered that a young woman had just died and her body was still lying in a building less than twenty yards away. Most of the people around him were going to die within the next two years, and Paul, Tobias, and Joan had perished in the plane crash. All this was true and yet he was laughing. Everyone was laughing.

It was hard to sleep that night. Three of his ribs were cracked and whenever he coughed, it felt like a bone was jabbing into his right lung. Daniel thought about the plane crash and all the things that had happened afterward. He had a fantasy that he would go to sleep, then wake up and his unpleasant memories would be gone forever.

In the morning, he stood in line to get his bowl of ugali and a cup of milk. The cattle boys were driving the herd out of the thorn-walled corral. There was a lot of dust and shouting, but they seemed proud that they had such an important job.

Daniel learned from Ann Gawara that there were definite rules at Boma Mission. Do your fair share of work. Unmarried men and women in separate dormitories. No fighting. Alcohol was only allowed on Friday nights when they drank some homemade beer made from millet. Everyone was allowed to fill up their bowl with beer and it caused a lot of singing.

Father Lokali was fairly disorganized and things got done only because Ann and two older women took charge of the food and the nursing. A mechanic named Gabriel was responsible for the mission truck and now he was in Kampala picking up more patients and supplies.

While Daniel ate his porridge and cleaned his bowl, he watched Father Lokali. The priest never seemed to have a casual conversation. Whenever he spoke to anyone, even the children, he concentrated on them completely, as if they were the most important person in the world.

Daniel heard the sound of a truck engine and saw red dust rising up from the northern road. By now, Father Lokali’s messenger had reached the outside world and someone official was coming to get him. He returned his bowl and cup to Ann and went back to his room. A few minutes later, Father Lokali appeared in the doorway.

“The police are here from Kitgum. The district captain wants to talk to you.”

They walked back outside. The policemen had arrived in a Land Rover and a pickup truck. They were parked near the blue dormitory, next to three plywood coffins.

The district police captain was only in his twenties, but very stern and proper. There were creases in his blue uniform and he carried a swagger stick. Daniel spoke to him briefly, answered a few questions, and the captain went off to give orders to his men.

Father Lokali stood beside Daniel as the policemen picked up the first coffin.

“Thank you for everything,” Daniel said. “You saved my life.”

“Your life had already been saved when the boys found you.”

Daniel coughed a few times and tasted blood in his mouth. He didn’t want to leave the mission. It felt like the plane crash was merely a prelude to a more terrible danger.

“You’ve got to tell me what to do.”

“Go to Kitgum and give a full statement to the police.”

“I mean, what do I do now that I’ve survived?”

One of the patients approached with a problem, but Father Lokali shook his head slightly. He wasn’t finished with Daniel.

“When I took my nursing course in Rome, my language teacher had us read the Divine Comedy . Just inside the gates of hell, Dante has placed those people who lived neither for good nor evil, but only for themselves. Because they believed in nothing when they were alive, they are lost forever in shadows. They follow a flag back and forth, back and forth, over a dark plain, never finding comfort, never finding the right way.”

“So pick sides and make a decision.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Father Lokali looked pleased. “The moment will come to you, as it does to all of us. Then make a choice, without hesitation.”

The police took Daniel to Kitgum and Paul Rosen’s father arrived there a few hours later. When Mr. Rosen learned his son was dead, he cried and pounded his fists on a table. He wanted words of comfort, an explanation for what had happened, but Daniel didn’t know what to tell him. Daniel had always been able to come up with the right phrase for any situation, but now his mouth felt dry and the words seem to stick to his tongue. Back in Kampala, he sent out his articles from the American embassy, then got on a plane to return to home. The journey made him feel even more disoriented.

When he got back to the farm, Daniel took some pills and slept for a couple of days. His broken bones seemed to be healing, but he felt restless and sick to his stomach. He drove back to Rome, withdrew half his savings, and wired it to Father Lokali’s friend at the Canadian embassy in Kampala. That made him feel good for a few hours, but the restlessness came back again. He began to wonder if the wrong people had died in the crash.

“THAT’S WHEN I started living here at the convent,” Daniel said. “I thought it would help me being here, but I’m even more lost than in Africa. I feel different, Nicky. I feel changed. How can I go back to work and pretend like nothing has happened? Maybe I should stop being a journalist and do something different with my life. Maybe I should sell Bracciano and give everything away.”

“Don’t make any quick decisions,” I said. “You survived a bad accident. It takes some time to recover.”

“We don’t have enough time. Not really.” Daniel turned and stared at me as if I could help him. “So what am I supposed to do, Nicky? Can you tell me?”

I didn’t know howto answer any of Daniel’s questions. Instead, my first reaction was to get him out of the garden and buy him some lunch. A few blocks away from the convent, right off the Piazza Santa Maria, we found a restaurant with only four tables. No one greeted us when we arrived so I went into the kitchen. A massive woman wearing a white smock was there, drinking wine and glaring at a dead rabbit lying on a chopping board. I had the feeling that the rabbit had somehow offended her sense of dignity.

Using my fractured Italian, I said that il mio amico was feeling somewhat precario and that he required a meal that would give him ottimismo and coraggio . The cook fired off a lot of questions, most of which I didn’t understand. Finally she asked me if Daniel was suffering from un amore interrotto .

“Sί, signora.”

The cook took a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator, handed me two glasses, and pushed me back into the dining room. She served us stuffed mushrooms and onion soup, then homemade ravioli. A few more customers came in, but she kept bringing us dishes. Fried cod. Rabbit stew in a thick cream sauce. A spinach salad. Baked pears sprinkled with brown sugar.

I kept filling Daniel’s wineglass and distracting him with questions about obscure countries like Uzbekistan or Chad. The food, the wine, and my constant chatter pulled Daniel back into the present and he began to relax. We got up from the table around five, sedated from the feast. The cook came out from the kitchen and scrutinized Daniel like a doctor who had just performed surgery. She pinched his cheek, gave us a parting shot of grappa, and sent us on our way.

Outside the restaurant I tried to act casual. “You know, I’ve only visited your farm in the summertime. What’s it look like in the fall?”

Daniel hesitated for a few seconds, but the fried cod and the grappa, the talk of old news stories, and the bright blue truck roaring past us kept him from walking straight back to the convent garden.

“It’s beautiful, Nicky. It really is. Why don’t you come out and see?”