***
“Well, how is my new aviator?” Sister Marie Claire asked Jumma as he walked past the mission chapel, carrying his notebook and an old backpack, one of his few personal possessions. Just having completed her evening prayer, the nun was waiting by the chapel entrance for one of the mission nurses, her evening’s dinner companion. She knew Jumma had just returned from Ethiopia with the American. “Did you enjoy your first flight?”
Stopping, Jumma looked at the nun, looked around as if afraid he would be heard and said, “Yes, in a way. Sister, when we were flying, when we were leaving the ground, Mr Martin did not look where we were going. And sometimes he would not steer the plane, would not even hold the steering wheel. If I am to fly with him, I would like him to be a more serious flyer. Maybe he thinks God is protecting him. But how does he know if God is protecting me?” the young man asked.
The worry in Jumma’s face was genuine. The nun saw this and, for a second, controlled her reaction, then tilted her head back and laughed. The laughter surprised the young man for a second, then a smile spread across his dark face. Taking his face in both her hands, she said, “I will talk with the reckless American tomorrow. This is not America, Jumma, is it? He had better watch where he goes in Sudan.”
“Yes, I think that would be better,” Jumma said.
12
The rash, now two days old, stretched from his ankle almost to his knee. With his pant leg pulled up, Hanley examined, then scratched the area lightly, making it itch worse than it had before. “You should have a doctor look at that,” Dr Dzyak said.
Sitting on the small porch near his room, Hanley watched as people moved about the compound, the Saturday evening air cooling quickly, white smoke curling above the fires around the mission, the smell of dinner lingering, children crying or murmuring as they played. The laughter of children in Sudan was different, Hanley thought; it had a subdued tone to it, still laughter, but not as free, not as freely given as the children in Indiana. He thought he heard Jumma’s voice nearby. He had not seen Jumma since early in the afternoon, when he and another young man took the Range Rover to Juba for bottled water. After dinner, Hanley and the older Slovakian doctor, Dr Dzyak, sat on the little box porch and drank Hanley’s whiskey from dirty glasses, smudged with prints after being twirled in their dust-covered fingers for almost an hour. Hanley was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol, the ringing in his ears now more pronounced, his neck muscles more relaxed, an odd combination, Hanley thought.
“When I was in America several years ago, I tried to find an America beer that tasted like real beer. There was one with a man on the label, a revolutionary. It was good, the rest not very, I’m afraid. America is a strange country. You have much, a lot, is that right?” Hanley nodded.
“And it is beautiful, what I saw of it. I have seen pictures of the western states, Utah, you know. And your government works well, well compared to most. But your people lack passion, it seems to me,” Dr Dzyak said. “I don’t mean to offend you, my friend. I mean, I am drinking your good whiskey. But Americans seem to always be sleepwalking or sleep-driving.” With his legs pulled up and his arms resting on his knees, the doctor sat, leaning against the wall of the barracks, looking up into the evening sky. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he said, “It’s dusty here, always much dust.”
Hanley said, “America has grown lazy, I’m afraid. We have enough to live our lives very comfortably, at least until we get older. Some Americans have way too much, more than they’ll ever need. We have lost our balance and certainly our sense of urgency. When our lifetimes were shorter, we valued our time more. When our children wanted, we wanted to give them more, we fought to give them more. Now, we spoil them and teach them that owning a car is more important than learning the rhythms of poetry. We’ve lost touch with ourselves, with what is truly meaningful in our lives. I’m sorry, I’m getting drunk.” Hanley’s head rested against the side of the building.
“Don’t apologize, I like Americans drunk, they’re more like the rest of us that way,” the doctor said.
Hanley’s first month at the mission in Mapuordit passed quickly with the flying and the other work he was taking on. Watching the daily operation gave Hanley a sense there was order to the work being done, but not efficiency. Knowing he could and should not involve himself in the medical or spiritual side, Hanley thought he might help with the planning and scheduling. A little order in a life never hurts, his aunt would say to him at some point each summer. It was one of those sayings heard in childhood that people carried to their graves. Perhaps he could be the mission’s efficiency expert. Many hospitals use them, he reasoned, why not a medical mission in Sudan. He though the whiskey might be getting to him.
“Doctor, I have the impression Sister Marie Claire runs this mission. I know that Father Robineau is the actual manager of the school and the clinic, but it sure seems to me she is in charge of most of the activities here,” Hanley said. He watched the doctor who was tilting the glass to his lips. The glass came away, leaving a drop of the brown liquid hanging on
