Endangered (14 page)

The man smiled with a hint of pride. “It's what keeps us alive. No combatants will come near. AIDS is the only thing that scares them.”

I'd heard whispering, but it cut out when I approached the door. Against the far wall were a dozen stricken-faced boys, from probably ages three to nine. Some had bloated stomachs, others were lying down without the strength or will to look back at me. As I stood staring at them, one coughed, a deep rattling sound. He covered his mouth, eyes wide, as if he'd done something he should feel guilty for.

“Hello,” I said. No one answered back. They stared at me as I crossed the room.

The man led me to the back porch and offered me a ladleful of grass tea from a cast-iron pot. As we sat, Otto squirmed out from beneath the poncho and sat in my lap. The man took a long look at him, then went back to stirring his tea. “This is a school as well as an AIDS clinic, and those are my students,” he said. “The combatants seek out boys to fill the ranks. They make them take turns beating one another to death, and the ones who are willing to kill their friends they take as soldiers. They were all once boys like these. I did not want the combatants to take mine, so before the fighting came to the school's door, I painted that sign in front.”

“What about their families?” I asked. “Are they all orphans?”

He shook his head. “This is a boarding school, and the boys are from the capital. Not a single parent has made it here since the attack started.”

“So the capital …”

“The combatants are streaming in from the east, thousands a day. They've looted everything. There are bodies in the street. At least, this is what the
radio trottoir
says.”
Sidewalk radio
was the popular phrase for the word on the street.

“And the airport?” I asked, scared that even posing the question would make my fears true.

“The combatants were smart this time,” the teacher said grimly. “They started there, bombed holes into the runways. No one can fly in. They want to have their government installed before the UN or whoever else cares to help can get here.”

“And they want to kill anyone who supported the president?”

“Yes. They thought he was a traitor to Congo and an ally of the West. That he's a puppet to American mining companies.”

Companies like the ones my dad had worked for. “I assume that by loyalists, they mean Tutsis?”

He nodded grimly. “Anyone who looks like a Tutsi or a foreigner. I hear they're being very effective at searching them out.”

“I look like both of those,” I said, dazed.

“Where are you coming here from?” the teacher asked, apparently weary of the topic of the war.

I took a deep sip of tea to be polite, even though my stomach groaned at the taste of liquid leaf. I was desperate for bread, meat, anything that wasn't green. To distract myself from my queasiness, I dived into my story.

As I did, Otto got down from my lap and began to wander. He walked through the yard, slipping on a loose piece of bark, picking himself up and stomping on the treacherous thing, then sniffing the ring of ashy stones where the man's teakettle had heated. When he returned to the porch, he froze. Two of the boys had come outside to check Otto out. He hid between my legs, but resisted when I tried to pull him onto my lap; he was too curious to fully hide away. When the boys shyly neared, Otto stepped toward them, then sat down and watched them. The boys sat down and watched him. Otto stood up. The boys stood up. So it continued, a slow courtship on both parts, until within a few minutes, Otto was grooming them, the boys giggling as he ran his fingers over their scalps.

The man interrupted me while I was sharing my story. “I have to tell you how nice that sound is. I haven't heard laughter in weeks. Sorry, continue.”

“What do you think I should do?” I asked. The question brought with it an unexpected feeling of release. It was a relief not to have to make my next decision alone. “Do you have a phone or a computer?”

The teacher shook his head. “I've got a cell phone upstairs, but the rebels have taken out the networks.” He paused, scratching his chin. “Look. You can stay here as long as you like. But I don't think it's wise. As you see, we have little to eat, and I don't know how long the AIDS sign will keep the combatants away.”

I told him where the abandoned manioc field was, and he thanked me. “I don't dare leave the boys alone to go there myself, but maybe I will send two of the older ones tomorrow. To answer your question — the combatants are not just trying to cause trouble, they are trying to set up a new government. The worst region is no longer far away in the east. It's right here near the capital. You should leave. Alone you have a chance of sneaking out of this area, and you should while you can. I think you should also leave the ape behind.”

I rubbed my head. “That's not an option. Where do you think I should go?”

“The roads are so terrible that, unless they get fuel for airplanes, the combatants can't easily get around the country. Which means the revolution is happening only in the towns and cities that they happen to hit. The old government wasn't in touch with the rural areas, anyway — there, life is probably going on as though the attack never happened. Some of them probably think we're still Belgian. Some of them probably don't even know the Belgians ever
came
. Any undeveloped region would be safer than here in the middle of the revolution.”

Revolution.
A momentous new word for all of this.

Otto shrieked when one of the boys roughhoused him, then mounted a counterattack by standing on his hands and falling into his new playmate. They tumbled to the ground, the boy laughing and Otto making his pleased raspy sound as he got a gloppy handful of mud and smooshed it into the kid's thigh.

I watched, but my mind was far away. Four hundred miles away, to be exact.

“I think I know where I have to go,” I told the man. “I know someone who's on an isolated island in the middle of the Congo River. About as far from roads and cities as you can get.”

“That sounds perfect,” the man said. “Who is this person?”

“My mother.”

 

I stayed there four days, leaving the man to care for the boys each morning while Otto and I brought the two eldest to go harvest manioc from the abandoned fields, carrying it back in groaning bamboo-and-liana crates the man kept behind the clinic-school. By the time those four days were over, we'd built them up a good store of food. The man's fire pit was a blessing, and I ate manioc with a gusto I would never have thought I could muster. It didn't hurt that we roasted it with whole bulbs of fragrant wild garlic pulled from the yard. The combination of manioc and garlic and well water and a forest antelope caught in the man's snares made for the first balanced meals I'd had in weeks. By the second or third day, my insides were running normally, and I no longer had that bloated feeling from my greens-only diet. Otto ate a piece of the duiker, which surprised me since I'd always thought of bonobos as vegetarians. But I guess the circumstances were extraordinary for all of us. He enjoyed sleeping in a bed with me, and his lingering cough finally cleared up.

During a quiet moment it struck me that Congo was an easier country to survive in than most during a time of war. In peacetime the teacher couldn't afford to buy food at the markets, which meant he had a field, and snares for wild game, and a well for water since the government had never run pipes out here. I tried to imagine getting by if the same thing happened in Miami and couldn't. When a country was as primed for civil war as Congo was, when it came apart, the pieces weren't as heavy.

It was wonderful to linger in bed in the morning, listening to the sounds of Otto playing with the boys downstairs. I thought a lot about Songololo, and debated whether it would be a good idea to fetch the other bonobos and bring them here. Though I made sure during the manioc gathering never to go near the spot where I'd left them, because I wanted to keep their location a secret, I often scanned the jungle line for them. Only once was I successful, when I saw a distant Mushie and Ikwa lounging and grooming in the clearing of the burned-out house. I missed them so much at that moment and was struck through with concern for their well-being.

But I thought better of bringing them to the plantation house; they had a much better chance of staying alive in the abandoned village, away from people. It seemed unlikely the schoolteacher and his boys would turn to eating bonobos — they treated Otto reverentially, the old man once even calling him “our national heritage” — but if things got worse and they began to starve, everything could change. And there were those duiker snares. They were designed to capture antelopes, but I'd seen bonobos at the sanctuary with hands or feet missing from snares like those.

On the morning of the fourth day, I told the schoolteacher that I was leaving. He sighed, but didn't try to convince me to stay, and helped me pack my duffel with bottles of well water and garlic-greasy hunks of roasted manioc wrapped in their own leaves. My bag was heavier now than it had ever been, so I hesitated on the
front step, debating whether to ditch anything. I could get rid of some of the water, but I was dreading going back to drinking from the river — I'd been fortunate that Otto and I hadn't gotten sick so far, and I didn't want to press my luck. The schoolteacher saw me wavering at the front porch and came over. “Come around here. I have something to show you.”

He led me around the corner to the side of the plantation house and drew back a tarp. Against the wall rested a bike. No, not just a bike — it had a motor attached. Granted, a motor that looked the right size to run a home aquarium, but a power source nonetheless. “This is how I used to get to the school,” the man said. “It's not like I'll be able to leave without the boys, so I want you and Otto to have it.”

“Really?” I asked. “Are you sure you won't need it?”

He shook his head. “It's the least I can do — that manioc you pointed us to will keep us going for a while.” He jimmied the bike so the plastic tank sloshed. “There's probably a third of a tank of gas in there. It won't get you all that far, but it should be enough for you to get to the river. Then maybe you can find a fisherman to take you upstream in a pirogue. You could offer the bike as payment. It might be enough.”

“I don't know what to say,” I said. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“Let them know about us,” he said. “If you find help, come here and get these boys out. Or get us antiretrovirals. Please.”

I nodded solemnly. “I promise.”

“I've got a wooden crate upstairs,” the man said. “I could lash it to the back, and you could transport Otto inside.”

“No!” I said quickly. “No, thank you. He'll ride on me.”

The man looked bemused. “People first, Sophie. People first. Then you can help Otto.”

I thanked the man, strapped my duffel on my back, and mounted the bike. Otto stood on my head, slapped his hands on my forehead to keep his balance, and murped at the boys, who had lined up in front to wave good-bye to their new friend. One of the younger kids ran forward, crying, and stroked Otto's foot. Once he was out of the way I kick-started the bike and nearly jumped off at the sound. The motor was ragged and loud — I was riding something the sound and speed of a lawn mower.

We puttered across the lawn, the boys screaming their goodbyes. Otto got spooked at all the noise and wrapped himself around my skull. I peeled his long toes off my eyes so I could see where we were going, and we noisily putted off, to the
SIDA
sign and into the world beyond.

The way I figured it, getting out of the Kinshasa area would be my toughest challenge. I hoped that if I kept to the narrow trail-roads running between villages, I could avoid any soldiers until I reached the river. The motorbike helped me, because I could get to the river in half a day. It also hurt me, as it restricted where I could safely travel because the noise broadcast my location.

When I was near the spot where I'd seen the lone soldier, I cut off the motor, sat Otto down on the seat, and walked the bike. The day was hot and dry, and I felt a headache forming behind my eyes. I didn't see anyone along the road, though the horizon was wavering, which made it hard to distinguish anything. “You ready, Otto?” I said as I lifted him up and got back on the bike. Otto climbed onto my front, and I started the motor. He barely startled — he was becoming such a hardy little bonobo. The whir and roar beneath us was the only sound in my ears — riding the bike was the only time I couldn't hear the constant insects and birds of Congo.

I was feeling something more than fear as I rode: It was fear with a purpose, fear devoted entirely to the task of being alert. It was fear that, in the context of survival, was doing what fear was meant to do; all my edges were left sharp. When I finally got off the bike in the late afternoon, the trembling in my legs and arms from the vibration was the only evidence that any time at all had passed since I left the plantation house. I had no memory of what I'd ridden by, except the concentration hangover.

I came back to being Sophie when the trail joined up with an abandoned railway and began to parallel the airport road. I could see people not thirty feet off through the foliage. A lot of people. I dismounted to see a sluggish train of women and children and the occasional man, slogging through the mud in their best clothes. Everyone was carrying something: Some women had massive nylon-wrapped packages on top of their heads, and some children had large plastic bottles — the thick dented type you usually see containing gas or chemicals — dangling from their hands. They were all heading toward the airport. The runway had been bombed out, so what were they hoping for? But the answer was another question, one I shared: What better option did they have to hang their hopes on?

They must have decided to dress up in hopes of increasing their chances of getting on a plane. One mother was in a gorgeous red-and-green
pagne
wrap, her sons drowning in suits whose shoulder pads hung around their elbows. I watched the elegant and bedraggled refugees drift along and wondered whether to join them.

Maybe there
was
some hope of salvation at the airport, some way out that all these people knew about. I could join the group, find out what was going on. But what would I do with Otto? To me he was a treasured traveling companion; to them he was food. As we sat there, eating a snack of cold greasy manioc followed by the slimy leaf in which it had been wrapped, I debated what to do. I could put Otto under my poncho like before and hope no one noticed, but if they did … if the mob wanted to take him from me — to eat, to sell — then they could. Not to mention the motorbike. It didn't have much fuel left, but that wouldn't stop them from taking it if they decided to. I had more to lose than the people in the crowd. I wasn't the same as them, not yet.

I decided I'd wait until there was a gap in the flow of refugees, then dart across with Otto. A dozen people stopped in their tracks
and stared at the half-white girl emerging from the wilderness, wearing a bulky poncho in the afternoon sun and pushing a motorbike.

I smiled meekly and pointed to the far side of the road, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Otto shifted on my back as I lugged the bike over furrows and puddles. The walkers didn't do anything to make my passage easier as I neared. As I got halfway across, a teenage boy stepped in front of my path. “Bonjour,
la blanche
, where are you going?”

I didn't answer, only continued moving forward.

“Did you hear me,
la blanche
? I asked where you were going.”

I had about twenty feet to go. Nineteen. Eighteen.

“The airport is not that way,” another voice said. Now there was a crowd around me. I didn't dare look up to find out how many, but I could feel them surrounding me, on every side but forward. They weren't blocking that yet.

“If you are headed for the river, a bike won't help you,” said another man. “You should give that to me!”

Now people were in front. But I couldn't let them stop me. I bumped into shoulders, said “excuse me” as I tried to push through. These were refugees, not fighters, and most kept a polite distance, but nevertheless hands were on my neck, and then a tug on my poncho became a yank and I fell on my back, right on top of Otto. I heard him cry out and felt him scramble against the plastic and squirm his way out from under me. The bike was ripped from my hands and passed into the crowd, instantly gone, and then the hands were back and voices were shrieking and the hands were on Otto. I tried to get up and slipped, and saw him pulled away from me. His fingers were in mine and then they were not, as simple as that. His eyes filled with terror, and then the crowd came between us and he disappeared.

I lunged in the direction Otto had gone and unexpectedly I had his three-fingered hand back in mine, and held on tight to his wrist as I felt him do his best to grip on to mine. The opposing force pulled harder, and on the other side I saw the teenage boy who had called me
la blanche
. Finally I found words. “Why are you trying to take him?” But the boy didn't answer. He was a creature who had nothing, trying to get something.

Then a woman was between us, scolding the boy in Lingala. Under the onslaught of her fierce, wagging finger he released Otto, who pressed himself against me, shrieking in terror. The woman and her three small daughters circled us protectively. They linked their arms to shield me, even the littlest girl. A group of boys faced us, but as more women joined my side, the males faded into the crowd. My attackers might have been gone, but the horde of onlookers remained. There was no ground to see; there were only people in every direction. I might be safe inside this line of women, but there was no escape. I held Otto tight against me.

The mother tried to get people to move along by shouting and shooing, but they held tight. Finally, she tugged our little circle over to the edge of the road. The same side I'd started from — I'd gotten nowhere. The smallest daughter found the process of moving as a group hilarious, giggled, and kept her dancing eyes trained on Otto.

Now that we were out of the center, most of the women started moving again. The mother released her daughters' arms and examined me head to toe.

“Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?”

“I'm okay.”

“You are not Congolese.”

“No,
mama
— I am Congolese,” I said.

“You can get out,” the mother continued resolutely, pointing
to the skin on my arm. “Look at you! The UN is here. They can get you out!” She had plump powerful arms and a vivid yellow dress. She was a third of the way to being my mom, and my heart ached.
Tell me what to do
, I prayed.

“Where is the UN?” I asked.

“Not at the airport. You do not want to go with the crowd if you can help it. The blue helmets have abandoned the capital, but they made a base near here to help the
mundeles
. They have cut a square of trees out for their blue helicopters to land and take them away. The helicopter landed this morning and is here — we heard it come in. They will not allow us near, but you they will. I can show you! Do you want to go there?”

I nodded, eyes wet.

The woman pointed to three men in the crowd. “Take this girl to the UN guard.” They stared back sheepishly, reluctant but cowed by the woman's forceful manner.

“Please,” I asked her, “couldn't you take me?”

The woman looked at her three daughters, indecisive. The youngest, no more than eight, said, “What's your monkey's name?”

“Otto. He's very scared right now, but if he weren't, I know he would love to meet you.” Otto was hugging my front, pressing into me with everything he had, as if hoping to disappear into my rib cage. The girl extended a hand and gave Otto's foot a pat. Emboldened, another daughter patted Otto's other foot.

“Fine,” their mother said. “We'll go with you.”

The men, relieved, started back on their march to the airport.

“Stop! Didn't you hear me,
papas
?” the woman asked. “We need you to take us to the UN station.” That maternal fire. I recognized my mother in her again, and a touch of the Pink Ladies, and it about made me burst with happy and sad.

The men unenthusiastically escorted us against the gaping crowd. Just as she'd said, there was a turnout a little ways along.
The mother and her daughters stopped before I reached the blue-helmeted guard at the end of the short path. “They don't want to see us,” she said. “We have already tried. But go ahead. The blue helmets will take care of you.”

“Thank you so much,” I said. “Really.”

“Ask them to remember us. My family and many others will be living at the airport.” I thought of the Kinshasa airport — dark unlit hallways, one steel hangar — and shuddered. She gave me her name and, one by one, so did each of her daughters. “Good luck,” she said.

I didn't know yet what I hoped for from the UN. But I knew they would at least give me advice and something to eat and drink. This woman and her children had a long way to go, with nothing to sustain them. “Here,” I said. “I want you and your children to have this.” I handed her the limp duffel. Inside there was still manioc and clean water.

The mother didn't protest. She took the bag and was on her way, the youngest daughter staring at Otto over her shoulder until the crowd poured in between us.

Once they'd left, Otto and I headed down the path to the UN.

We were stopped at the chain-link fence. The guard lowered his gun to block me and Otto as I neared. The sharp sight on the muzzle pressed into my arm.

“Bonjour, monsieur,”
I said. “My name is Sophie Biyoya-Ciardulli. I was supposed to be rescued.”

“You … were … supposed …?” the man stammered, obviously unused to French. He looked Indian. I repeated myself in English. The man let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Good lord!” he said. “The evacuation was weeks ago.”

In this case, a lie was far more believable than the truth. “I was trapped. I couldn't get free, and the van left without me. It took me this long to get back here.”

“I have very simple orders,” the man said. “And I'll tell them to you like I've told everyone else. Until the Refugee Commission is here, I'm afraid no one can help you. There is one helicopter, and four hundred things that have to be done with it. There is no space for you.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked. I hadn't expected I would be turned away, not after what the mother had said. My thoughts went to my supplies, that little bit of food and water, so important to keeping me alive, that I'd just given away. Those little girls needed them, but I, I —

“Join them, go to the airport, try there,” the guard said, waving me away.

“I'm an American citizen, does that matter?”

“No,” he said flatly. “Not anymore.”

I couldn't believe what he was saying. I was on my own. Really on my own. I didn't really believe it until now.
Of course, if things get very bad, someone will swoop in to help me.
Not true.

“I can't…. There's no way out at the airport. So there's no way out at all,” I said. I sat down in front of the man. Otto got off my back and stood at my side. He was holding my hand but staring at the man, chirping worriedly, wondering what was happening that was making me react like this.

“Move along!” the man barked, peering at Otto nervously.

“I'm sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes. I thought I could get up then and walk away, but my legs wouldn't do it. I tried again. Otto climbed into my lap and started punching my chest; I didn't know why, and he probably didn't, either. I cried out.

Seeing me and seeing Otto, another soldier came over and said something to the first that I couldn't hear. The Indian guard replied, “But look at her — she's black.”

The second guard rolled back some of the chain link and waved me through. “Why don't we see if we can work something
out?” he asked me, resting a hand on my shoulder, then rapidly pulling it away when Otto bared his teeth at him.

I stood up. Otto leaned into my calf, his finger in his mouth. “Can he come with me?” I asked.

“He's a bonobo, right?” the second guard said.

The men looked at each other. “Another bonobo?” the Indian one said. He shrugged in resignation. “Why not, sure.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant, but then the second guard shouted for an officer and we were moving. I pulled Otto up and into my arms. We skirted around the helicopter and up to two large white makeshift offices the size and shape of shipping containers. Gas-powered generators thrummed at the end of each, and air conditioners hung out of the windows. On every face was emblazoned
MONUC
. The man opened a door and led me up two steps and inside.

Outside had been warmth and chaos and color, but here was the crisp sharpness of a newly split block of ice. The air-conditioning was strong enough that papers on the desk flapped and curled. Otto and I sat in a chair while the man behind the desk checked something in a binder. The only decoration on the pure white walls was a big map of Central Africa. Two flags were on the desk, the blue UN flag and another country's flag that I didn't recognize, maybe where the guy was from. He looked South American.

A minute ticked by. I was grateful to be away from the crowd, but I wondered what I would say to the man when he looked up. The UN had already told me once they couldn't bring Otto out of the country. I guess I was hoping that in the new upheaval they'd break a rule for me. And if not … it struck me that I'd leave. Without Otto. Now that the attack had happened, what I wanted most was another chance for someone to tell me I
had
to leave Otto behind, for a reasonable adult to make the decision for me and lead
Otto away and save my life. It was both the worst and best thing that could happen.