Scholastique Mukasonga - Our Lady of the Nile

“ ‘Hurry,’ said Kagabo. ‘Do as she says and let’s go.’

“We ran and ran down the mountain and down the track. Clouds were massing, rising toward us. Thunder rumbled. Just as we entered the lycée gates, a torrential rain began to fall, and lightning ripped across the sky.”

The girls remained silent for a long while, listening to the obstinate beating of the rain.

“I think that Nyamirongi and the rain have much to talk about,” said Modesta finally. “This rain will never end.”

“She’ll end like she does every year, with the dry season,” said Gloriosa, “but tell me, Veronica, did Immaculée get her sweetheart back?”

“He came up to see her immediately. The folks in Nyaminombe saw a bike streak past, a huge one like they’d never seen before. It caused everyone to flee, and a little girl broke her pitcher, but of course her sweetheart didn’t turn up at the lycée. They’d arranged to meet in that abandoned shepherd’s shack, near the spring — you know what people do there. Immaculée followed Nyamirongi’s advice, perhaps a bit too closely, I fear.”

“You’re too curious, Veronica,” said Gloriosa. “It will get you into trouble, visiting witches like that. I bet you danced before that witch. Only a Tutsi would dance for the devil. I could tell on you, but I don’t want to cause any trouble for Immaculée. Her father’s a businessman. My dad says he’s generous to the Party, after all. But if that old woman can bring lovers back together, if she can control the rain, then I’ll go see Nyamirongi too: maybe she can take care of a few things in politics.”

“Listen, Virginia, there’s something I want to tell you. But don’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“You know we Tutsi never reveal our secrets, Veronica. We’re taught to keep our mouths shut. We have to, if we want to stay alive. You know what our parents tell us: ‘Your tongue is your enemy.’ If you think you’ve got a secret to share, you can trust me, I can keep a secret.”

“Well, listen carefully. You know how on Sundays I like to go for a wander up the mountain by myself. You all resent me for it, but I never feel like going to the boutique with the other girls, or to the tailor’s, to find out who’s ordered a new dress. I’d rather be alone, so I no longer have to see all those girls who hate us. When I get up into the mountains, I sit on a rock and close my eyes. There’s no one around, just the twinkling of beautiful stars beneath my eyelids. And sometimes I imagine myself in a happier life, the kind you only get in movies, I guess …”

“Is that all you have to tell me?”

“No, hang on. I’d gone a long way, toward the massive Rutare rocks, so far that I no longer knew where I was. Nobody lives up there. Suddenly, I hear the noise of an engine behind me, clanking like an old jalopy. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, there’s only one vehicle that makes that sound: Monsieur de Fontenaille’s jeep. And sure enough, the jeep overtakes me and screeches to a stop just in front of me. Monsieur de Fontenaille doffs his hat.

“ ‘Greetings, Mademoiselle, you’re so far from the lycée, are you lost? Jump in, we’ll take a little tour in my jeep and I’ll drive you back to the track.’

“I’m scared, my heart’s thumping like it wants to leap out of my chest, so I make a run for it, with the jeep racing after me.

“ ‘Hey, don’t be scared, I wish you no harm. And, anyway, I recognize you, I know who you are. You stood out from the other girls at the pilgrimage. I’ve done portraits of you. Come, I really must show them to you.’

“I’m so out of breath I can’t run any more, and the jeep stops beside me.

“ ‘Yes’, says Monsieur de Fontenaille. ‘Yes, it’s definitely you, the one I spotted, the one I’ve been looking for, the one I need. And it is She who has sent you.’

“He looks at me intently, as if fascinated by my face. I lower my eyes of course, but I sense that my curiosity will get the better of my fear.

“ ‘What do you want with me?’

“ ‘Nothing bad, quite the opposite. My intentions are all good, I swear. I won’t touch you, I promise. Trust me. Hop in, I’ll take you to see my house. Once we get there, you’ll see yourself as you were meant to be. The temple has awaited its goddess for such a long time.’

“ ‘Awaited its goddess?’

“ ‘You’ll see for yourself.’

“My curiosity won over, just as I’d feared.

“ ‘Okay, but you have to take me back to the lycée by six. And no one must see us.’

“ ‘I’ll take you back, discreetly.’

“Slope after slope, the jeep climbed then hurtled down, I don’t know how many times, as it jolted, squealed, and spluttered. A hell of a noise. Fontenaille laughed, watching me all the while. It seemed like the vehicle was driving itself. At last, we reached a dirt path and passed beneath an arch, a bit like on Rwanda Day, but this one was made of iron. I had time to read the sign that said FONTENAILLE ESTATE, and above the inscription, I thought I glimpsed another smaller sign with some sort of Holy Virgin wearing a hat with cattle horns painted on it, like the one Fontenaille showed me later inside his villa. We drove between rows of ill-maintained coffee bushes, then past a series of identical small brick dwellings that appeared to be abandoned. We stopped in front of the large house.

“ ‘Come on,’ Fontenaille says, ‘I’ll give you a tour of the estate and show you what could be yours.’

“I was still a little scared, and I still didn’t understand what he was saying, or what he wanted, but it was too late to back out and I was really eager to know what it all meant. Whatever happens, I thought, I could always find a way to get out of there …

“We crossed the barza and entered the large living room, where a servant rushed up to us with glasses of orange juice. He wore a white uniform with gold epaulettes. Fontenaille didn’t take his eyes off me as I drank my glass of orangeade. Myself, I looked at the antelope horns, the elephant tusks, and the zebra pelt hanging on the wall.

“ ‘Please, ignore all that bric-a-brac, the animal hides, I put them up for people who no longer visit me. These are all beasts I wish I hadn’t killed. Now follow me.’

“We took a long corridor that led to a garden. Behind the bamboo groves, there was a small lake overgrown with papyrus sedge and, farther back, a sort of chapel, but not like one of those missionary churches. It was a rectangular building with columns all around. As I got closer, I saw that the columns were sculpted: they looked like papyrus sedge. Inside, the walls were covered with paintings: on one side there were cows with huge inyambo horns, and warriors like our intore dancers, with an imposing figure in the foreground that must’ve been the King, with a crown of pearls like Mwami Musinga wore. On the other side was a procession of women, young black women who resembled the queens of old. It looked like they were walking behind each other, their faces in profile. They all wore the same tight dresses, bare-breasted; the dresses were transparent, and in the folds you could see the curves of their stomachs, and their legs. On their heads they had these wigs that didn’t look like hair, more like birds. On the back wall was a kind of large Holy Virgin, black as Our Lady of the Nile, dressed like the women on the wall, but painted full face and wearing a hat similar to the one I’d seen at the entrance to the estate: two cow horns and a disc shining bright as sunlight. I felt as if the Lady were looking at me with her big black eyes, like a living person. In front of her, on a dais, was an armchair with a very high back, and gilded like the one the Bishop sits on in the cathedral. On the seat lay the strange hat.