***
The next morning Father Robineau introduced the American to Jumma, who was to be his young Sudanese mentor as they shared a small breakfast of tea and dried biscuits with sliced fruit. He found the young African was polite, but inquisitive, fascinated about everything it seemed, particularly anything American. Hanley liked him immediately. Jumma told Hanley he had been at the mission at Mapuordit for almost six years and that his father, mother and brothers lived in Rumbek. The priest said Jumma was assigned to Hanley for the next few days at least. After breakfast, Hanley, Father Jean-Robert and Jumma walked the compound while Hanley was introduced to the workers and shown the other buildings.
“Tell me more about Sophie and her husband. I have not been back for more than two years. I know you said they are well and happy, but tell me of the last time you saw them,” the priest asked.
Hanley explained that his first trip to France was over two years earlier. He was attending the Paris Air Show for the first time. He stayed with Michael and Sophie at their home in Saint-Nazaire on the coast of southern Normandy. He was also their guest for two days when he stopped on his journey to Africa. He told the priest of the dinner with Father Bertrand during the first trip which brought a smile to the face of the priest. Jumma sat and listened, his eyes never leaving Hanley’s face for a second.
The old priest said, “My niece is a beautiful woman; not just physically, but in all ways. I’m certain you saw this, Mr Martin; everyone does. Her father is so proud of her. She is a doctor of psychiatry, did you know that? Yes? Then you know she does not practice and does not talk about it. Her experiences were bad and she quit her practice. She does not discuss it, nor does her husband.” Hanley knew about it, but no details. Michael Campbell mentioned it to Hanley years ago, saying only that it was her decision and that he honored it, as well as her request not to talk about it. Hanley had told no one.
“Where is Sister Marie Claire?” Hanley asked.
“Sister Marie Claire is in Yirol today gathering some supplies for us. She will return this evening. Perhaps you will meet her then,” Jumma said. The young African smiled upon hearing the name of the nun. Hanley wondered why her name brought the young man such happiness.
After the priest left them, Jumma began Hanley’s tutorial of the Land Rover.
“Pump the throttle three times quickly and then turn the ignition key, please,” Jumma ordered. With skin the color of a ripe walnut husk, Jumma’s immaculate white shirt shone like newly cleaned silver in the midmorning sun. Hanley’s lesson in starting the old Land Rover had just begun. Jumma was twenty years old, intense, with a wisdom only a childhood filled with unspeakable horrors can leave to one so young.
Modifying slightly what he was told to do, Hanley turned the engine over immediately. The smile on Jumma’s face told Hanley his young tutor was pleased.
“Jumma, years of starting airplanes such as the Beech has given me a feel for such things, but I could not have done that without your expert guidance,” he shouted over the rumble of the old engine. The young man beamed his delight and gave Hanley a thumb’s up. Two of the fingers on his right hand were missing. Seeing Hanley’s gaze lingering on his hand, Jumma explained, “My missing fingers are the result of torture by the Sudanese rebels. They wanted to know where my family had gone when we fled our village in southern Darfur. I was separated from my family during the flight and was picked up by rebel forces in a nearby village. I was thirteen.”
Hanley’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as he listened to Jumma calmly explaining how his father taught his children to mix the truth with lies, enough to keep the family safe. Jumma told his captors the family sought shelter in a village nine kilometers north of his home. “My father prepared his children well,” Jumma said. “Many nights I lay awake and practiced in my mind telling the rebels or the Sudanese soldiers what my family had done to make a living or where they had gone if they were forced to leave our village,” Jumma said. “After I was released and received medical treatment, I joined my family at Rumbek, at the Catholic compound, where we planned to meet should we become separated.”
To Hanley, Jumma sounded too detached when describing the experience. The inside of the truck seemed suddenly to close in around him, Jumma’s stories falling on Hanley like stones. The early morning heat combined with the faint smells of old oil, gasoline and the African dust, filling Hanley’s nose, a bitter taste on his tongue, its tip stuck to the inside of his front teeth. Rapid breaths filled his lungs with the dusty African air and he choked, coughed into his fist, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. Wiping his damp cheeks, Hanley wondered if Jumma thought of his future in days or weeks and not years as Hanley did when young. “Sorry, I need some air,” he said, stepping from the vehicle.
Reaching across the seat, Jumma turned the ignition to off. “Don’t worry, Mr Martin, the air around Mapuordit must be taken in with much care,” he told Hanley as
