8
Hanley wanted to see the plane; he needed to see the plane; he needed to see and touch something that made him feel normal. This feeling was certainly not normal. While planning for his move to Sudan, Hanley had thought that, at his age, he would be better prepared to handle what he knew he would see here. Now, as he sat in the old truck in the heat of this awful day, he knew he would never be prepared. He was soaked in his own sweat, the sweat of being near murder. It was strange that he was shocked but not surprised by what happened. He was also disappointed that he did not handle it better. Now his reaction was homesickness. It was a need to be back in Kokomo, to see Elizabeth, to hold Rocky, to walk his old dog. He was scared. Fear, his fear, of anything, was always a disappointment. Hanley most feared his weaknesses. Could he handle this, day after day for months? In his mind, he had always assumed he would be there for a year, maybe longer. Now, he questioned if he could stomach that kind of commitment. The thought of climbing into his plane and flying home had entered his head and while, at first, he liked it, the thought soon frightened him as much as the girl’s murder. Giving up this soon was unacceptable. It would make a mockery of those he left behind in Kokomo, those people he loved who supported his decision, those whose lives he had disrupted. It would cheapen the effort of those who were working here, those who would stay, who were dedicated to helping these people. He could not leave, he knew that; it wasn’t homesickness; it was wanting to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
After Sister Marie Claire turned away from Hanley and sent one of the other nurses for a doctor, Hanley saw Jumma leaning against the wall of the clinic. With his rear pressed against the block, the young African leaned over with his hands just above his knees, his legs straight down to the ground; his eyes were fixed on his sandals. Hanley noticed Jumma was shaking slightly as he approached his young friend. “Where were you when the gunshots started?” Hanley asked.
“I was near the front of the large truck when I heard the first shot. It sounded closer than many of the shots we hear but then I heard a scream. I fell to the ground to wait for more shots. You see, Mr Martin, we never know if these are bullets just passing through on their way to somewhere else or if they are meant for us. We never know, it seems strange to say that but it’s true.”
Jumma straightened up and started to move away from the building toward the truck. Hanley said, “I want to check the plane; will you go with me?”
Turning slightly toward Hanley, the young man said, “Yes, I will meet you at the old Land Rover in a few minutes. I want to put some water on my face before we go. Please wait for me; I would like to go with you.”
In the truck, Hanley stared dumbly at nothing, unfocused, unsettled. He came around to again notice the driver’s side mirror was cracked. The edge of the mirror casing had a half-moon shaped gouge in it; a bullet had cut through the edge of the metal and cracked the mirror. Hanley began looking around the old truck; at buildings, trees, vehicles even rocks; everywhere was the small round stamp of war; the pockmark of that human disease, that scar peculiar to man and his ways. He had not noticed before but now worried he would see them everywhere. Someone approached.
Jumma got in and sat still for a moment, then said, “These are the times when I think I will never see what is beyond the horizon. I will never know what I might become because soon life will have no more time for me. That girl, she thought she had time, everyone thinks they have time. I don’t think that way, not any more. I think I will never see Paris. You have been there, tell me about Paris.”
Water hung from his ears and sat in tiny round disks on his cheekbones. He was still shaking slightly and stared at the dashboard of the truck, his eyes now unfocused.
“I know little of Paris.” Hanley said. “I can tell you it is beautiful; different. I can tell you there are places on this earth, cities, mountains, canyons, that, when you see them, you know they are special places. There’s just something, you feel it in your chest as well as your eyes and in your brain. That’s Paris. You know that no matter where you look, wherever you go in that city, it will be special; and that, if you don’t look, you’ll regret it. I know because I didn’t look and I wish I had. That’s all I can tell you.”
“That is enough. Thank you. It is what I hoped you would say.” He wiped his brow with an old handkerchief, the water and his sweat now simmered to a blend by the day’s heat. Hanley started the truck, turned around in the grass of the compound and set off down the track in the direction of his
