Scholastique Mukasonga - Our Lady of the Nile

Virginia was suddenly awakened by the creaking gate. It made her jump. The killers? The ringing of the wake-up bell reassured her. This new day was beginning like all the others. Her head was full of the memory of her dream. She took refuge in it, felt herself wrapped in an invisible protective force. She repeated the name of the cow from her dream like an incantation: “Gatare, Gatare.” She would have liked to remain forever in that dream.

The new statue of Our Lady of the Nile arrived in a tarpaulin-covered van. She was immediately surrounded by a crowd of lycée girls. But they were disappointed. The statue was enclosed in a wooden crate, which the lycée hands heaved onto their shoulders, according to Father Herménégilde’s anxious instructions, and carried into the chapel. The chaplain shut himself in with Gloriosa and forbade entry to anyone. They heard the hammering of the lycée hands as they dismantled the crate. “She’s beautiful,” said Gloriosa as she came out of the chapel, “very beautiful, really black, but no one must see her until the lycée’s fit to welcome her, and Monsignor to bless her.” The girls rushed inside the chapel anyway, but all they saw was a shapeless form in front of the altar, wrapped in a huge Rwandan flag.

Virginia looked for Veronica, but in vain. She wasn’t in class, nor did she appear for refectory. The twelfth graders acted as if they hadn’t noticed their classmate’s disappearance. Only Gloriosa remarked — loud enough for Virginia to hear: “Don’t worry, Veronica’s not gone far, I know there are some among us who know where she is. I know too, and from a reliable source,” she added, looking at Modesta. As everyone rushed upstairs to the dormitory, Modesta managed to whisper a few words to Virginia: “Whatever you do, don’t go to that old white guy’s place, find another way out, but above all don’t go there.”

All through the night, Virginia wondered how to warn Veronica. Seeing the statue arrive, Veronica must’ve gone to seek refuge at Fontenaille’s, since that was her only plan. But it was no longer a secret at all, everyone knew her hiding place. Virginia squeezed back tears of rage and anguish so no one could say to her in the morning, laughing: “See, despite your pretty name, we’ve succeeded in drawing a few tears from you.”

Despite the growing chaos that had engulfed the lycée, the teachers still held their classes as usual. The timetables, and the teachers’ presence and punctuality, were the only regulations Mother Superior still managed to enforce, as long as she shut her eyes to the repeated absences of some of the pupils. One day in class, Monsieur Legrand asked for a pupil to go get the exercise books he’d collected for marking, and which he’d left in his pigeonhole in the staff room. Immaculée beat everyone else to it. When she returned, she handed out the exercise books. Upon opening hers, Virginia found a small square of paper. She read: “When the JMR arrive, apparently it’s tomorrow, don’t flee with the others. Try to go up to the dorm, go to my room and wait for me there. Trust me, I’ll explain. Destroy this note, swallow it if you must. Immaculée Mukagatare.”

Virginia read and reread the small piece of paper she held in the palm of her hand. Immaculée’s plan might be ingenious, but should she trust her? Immaculée wasn’t really her friend. Of course she wasn’t part of Gloriosa’s gang. She appeared to laugh at politics, and particularly Gloriosa. All she seemed interested in were her looks. So why take so many risks to save a Tutsi? Hiding in Immaculée’s room meant placing herself entirely in her hands. And what would she do then? But there was Immaculée’s name, her true name, the one her father gave her, Mukagatare. Gatare, was that what her dream meant, Gatare, that which is white, that which is pure? Again, she felt in the grip of some invisible protective force. Yes, she’d follow the plan suggested to her by Immaculée, Mukagatare, what did she have to lose?

When it happened, it was pretty much as Virginia had predicted. Two minibuses sped through the gates and halted right in front of the steps at the main entrance. Young men — extremely young men — got out brandishing huge clubs. Immediately, the Tutsi girls rushed into the corridors in a desperate attempt to flee. The other pupils went in pursuit but were unable to catch them. Virginia spotted an empty classroom. She entered and hid under the teacher’s desk. The horde of pursuers ran past shouting. When she was sure the corridor was deserted, Virginia couldn’t help looking out of the window onto the yard. She saw Gloriosa giving her instructions to the man who seemed to be the leader of the militants. She had no trouble understanding the plan Gloriosa had hatched: the pupils were to hustle their Tutsi classmates into the garden, where the JMR gang and their clubs lay in wait. Virginia opened the door a crack. There was no one in the corridor. She tiptoed down it. In the empty classrooms, the Belgian teachers sat at their desks, clearly seeking the appropriate demeanor in such a situation. The French teachers huddled together, plunged in deep, animated discussion. As if protected by a halo of tranquility, Virginia went up the stairs to the dorm, without meeting anyone, and reached Immaculée’s room. She made sure that in the event of danger, she could hide under the bed. She waited, attentive to the slightest sound. Shouts and screams came from behind the building, from the garden she thought, shuddering. Soon, she heard steps, and threw herself under the bed.

“Are you there?” asked Immaculée.

“Is that you? Immaculée, what will you do with me?”

“Now’s not the time to explain. Listen to me. There’s a wraparound for you on the bed, put it on. You’re going to hide at Nyamirongi’s, the rainmaker. I’ve arranged everything. I sent Kagabo to ask her. According to Kagabo, the rainmaker accepted without a fuss. Nobody will come looking for you there. I’ll send Kagabo when there’s a car to take us, I’ll take you in the trunk if I have to. Hurry up. Kagabo’s waiting, you’ve nothing to fear from him, I’ve given him enough money, and anyway, witches don’t like having anything to do with the authorities. I’ll go ahead to warn you of any danger.”

“At the market,” Immaculée had said. “He’s waiting for you at the market.” By that time of the afternoon, the market had long finished. A few scrawny dogs were squabbling with crows and vultures over small piles of refuse. From behind a barricade of old, rusty metal drums, she heard a quiet: “ Yewe , this way.” She found Kagabo crouching by a bundle of dry wood. He looked her up and down somewhat derisively.

“Your wraparound’s much too new to pass for a poor farmer, give me that.”

He stood up, took the wraparound, roughly scrunched it up, and rubbed it about in the dust, and in the delta of fetid rivulets that streaked the ground.

“All right, that’ll do, take off your shoes and come over here.”

He took Virginia’s face between his hands, reddened with earth, rubbed her cheeks, and gave her a piece of filthy cloth to cover her hair.

“So, now you look like a poor farmer. Take this bundle of sticks, put it on your head, and walk slowly, very slowly, like a real farm woman. There’s nothing to be scared of, everyone’s afraid, they don’t understand what’s going on, they don’t dare go out, the traders have all closed shop. And remember, I’m here to protect you — it’s not wise to approach a poisoner.”

When Virginia entered the smoky hut, she saw only the shifting play of shadow and light caused by the leaping flames in the hearth. From the dark interior, by the foot of the woven-straw vault that the fire didn’t reach, came a feeble voice: