He learned that morning the first flight he would make would be to Kenya for medical supplies and to bring a surgeon to Mapuordit to assist in a complicated procedure designed to correct the birth-defected foot of an eighteen-month old Cic boy, the Cics a clan of the Dinkas. The next day, he would then fly the surgeon back to Kenya and return with more supplies. A gift from a Swedish charity allowed all this to happen, including the fuel for the flights. Hanley would refuel in Kenya and have a significant amount left when he returned to Mapuordit.
Kenya would be interesting, he knew. As a boy, he had read stories in magazines about exotic animals, big game. Stories about Teddy Roosevelt and Stanley and Livingston. In college, he read Isak Dinesen and Hemingway. The mystery of Africa and Kenya in particular were not lost to him. It was important that he notice, that all the beauty and misery around him mean something, have it sink in, allow it to find a place in his consciousness and rest there, be nurtured and take root. Understanding Africa and Sudan was necessary if he was to stay safe, do his job and understand its people.
Soon, he would meet Sister Marie Claire. He must control the feeling that was growing in him, the anticipation and excitement. He was a bit afraid of his reaction, that trapdoors in his head would spring open, questions and fears spraying over the nun, popping forth like confetti from a can, his insecurities fluttering to the ground.
In the distance, he could hear the faint rough humming of a vehicle approaching. A small bit of fear, ice pressed against the bottom of his heart, shortened his breath. Were there government troops in this area or was it the boy? Squinting, Hanley looked toward the sound through the thick brush, squat bushes with small yellow flowers mixed with dead scrub and tan grass, a slight breeze shifting and mixing it all through which he soon saw a light-colored vehicle approaching from the southeast. Bumping up and down over the rough, Jumma’s white shirt shone through the dusty glass of the windscreen. The engine strained, the volume of its noise marking the boy’s command over its progress. It raised dust shifting in the wind, a sheet falling and sliding away from the truck, replaced by another. Hanley smelled the grass and the brush, a baked smell, compressed by the heat of the day, unable to float for long, pushed for a while by the breeze, driven quickly to the ground by the heat.
Jumma was now driving the old Toyota Land Cruiser. Its paint was a faded cream color, but it was in remarkably good shape for its age, Hanley thought. Rolling to a slow stop, the engine cut off and the young Sudanese slid from the driver’s seat. Smiling brightly, Jumma said, “Sister Marie Claire will not be back until tonight. Father Robineau said I should tell you this.” They loaded Hanley’s belongings into the rear and started back.
“This old machine’s in good shape. Just how many vehicles does the mission have?” Hanley asked.
“We have three trucks; this one, the English one and a bigger truck for hauling supplies. It is German, I think. Sister Marie Claire drives the big truck. She can drive as well as any of the men, better than some, I believe.” Jumma smiled slightly after saying this.
Hanley said, “I suppose she has never driven off the road and always pays strict attention when she drives.”
“So you know of Sister Marie Claire?” Jumma asked. “Is she known for her driving in America?”
“I know of Sister Marie Claire, but not for her driving,” Hanley said.
“How is it you know of her then?” Jumma asked.
“She has a friend, another nun, in America that is also a friend of mine. They met in college before becoming nuns. They were exchange students, visiting each other’s family while studying abroad. They’ve been friends since then. Our mutual friend’s name is Sister Mary Kathleen.” Hanley pursed his lips and looked at Jumma. He asked, “Jumma, do Father Robineau and Sister Marie Claire like each other? I have the impression Father Robineau finds the good sister a bit difficult at times. Is that so?”
Jumma’s face went blank and his eyes grew large, startled. “I cannot say,” he said softly, barely audible against the racket of the truck.
“Have I made you uncomfortable, Jumma?”
Jumma looked at Hanley, shook his head and said, “Sister Marie Claire wants Father Robineau to be stronger, stronger for the people we help. The good Father tells her she can only be as strong as the church allows her to be. I have heard this. The Sister says that is not strong enough. She says, if the church will not be strong for the people, then she will be strong for them. That if the church will not help her, she will find the help by herself.”
“What help does she need?”
“You must ask her that yourself,” Jumma said. Picking up the wooden box Hanley filled with his belongings, the young man turned to load the box in the old truck.
***
In his room, Hanley discovered he overestimated the amount of space available for storing his
