“I am not certain of what you may be thinking. How could I be? What I do, what I am, what I have become are what I must live with. I made a decision some time ago, a difficult one. I may have put my soul at risk. It is so hard to tell, the lines are always blurry it seems. Finding a way to help these good people has become my calling. It may seem that is how it has always been but that is not so. The church is committed to saving souls and helping the poor along the way. Politics, especially the politics of Africa, make the church’s approach different. There is a different level of commitment in Africa. Frankly, it infuriates me. Doctrines of prejudice are not the doctrines of Christianity,” she said. Her face, now darker than before, her blue eyes wide, she sat completely erect, the rigidity an extension of her anger. Another moment, an exhalation and she relaxed, the back of her hand brushing the hair from her forehead.
The man in the Fiat had driven off toward Juba. There were still wisps of acrid smoke from its exhaust hanging over the stones of the road.
“Are you ready?” Hanley asked
“Yes, we should go back now. Thank you,” she said. A gift, a small smile, was given to the American. It lasted a second and then she turned away to look at the cloud on the horizon.
Starting the old truck, Hanley turned a broad turn across the road, off into the greening ground bordering the track and back on again. It will be a long ride back he thought.
14
Tearing the sheet of paper from his notebook, Jumma read the single paragraph it contained, smiled and folded the sheet over once, running his thumb along the edge to sharpen the crease, the paper pressed to his bare leg, the contrast of the paper and his skin a reminder of the differences in his life.
The right engine of the Beech was spinning as Hanley prepared to depart for Kenya; Hanley and Jumma were returning a French doctor to Nairobi. The physician was strapped into the jump-seat behind Jumma. Working through the checklist, they paused as the engine warmed up, giving Jumma a chance to read the paragraph he wrote the night before. The note was a snippet of his short life, the words, written in the French language, as best he could, were remembrances, small pictures, he liked to think, allowing him to glimpse a past now glazed with time. Tucking the folded sheet into the notebook, Jumma placed it into the pocket on the wall of the cockpit beside his seat, finding his place on the checklist.
“Why did you tear the sheet from your book?” Hanley asked.
“I will send it to my father in Rumbek,” Jumma explained. “It is of something I remembered. We took a walk together, he and I, when I was small, very little. We held hands and I remember seeing a dog, an old dog, carrying a stuffed animal in its mouth. This was in our village, Uwayl, which is not a village, it was larger. Our home is near the edge, near a large field where vegetables and wheat grew. From there, it was the bush. The dog walked along the street, carrying the toy. When he came to the street he must cross, he stopped, put the toy down, looked for traffic, both ways he looked, then picked up the toy and crossed the street. My father’s laughter could be heard everywhere, everywhere. I remember that laugh always. My note will remind him of the dog that made him laugh.” Telling Hanley this while looking at the checklist, he smiled broadly, the sound of his father’s laughter in his head, a moment of contentment, a small pleasure he could hold, like a cool stone in his hand. Then they continued through the list, checking the various functions that came into the play of putting the plane into the air.
Once airborne, and after many minutes of monitoring the plane’s condition, rechecking the charts and the weather, Hanley keyed the small red button on the yoke, asking Jumma, “Was the dog that made your father laugh your earliest memory?”
“No, my earliest memory was being chased by a snake, a brown and red snake. That may have been a dream. It seems to be odd to think that a dream and a memory may be the same. What do we believe?” he asked.
“Listen, I’ve known a lot of people who dream their way through life.”
A small crack from his headphone announced an air traffic controller in Nairobi was contacting the Beech. Hanley responded, leaving Jumma to think. Turning to the window beside him, he watched the faded brown and green of southern Sudan pass slowly below them, the patterns irregular, natural, showing little influence on the land other than nature’s. The land where Jumma was borne was different, so brown and dry, his memories of the green plots of produce were among the clearest.
These memories were a mix of comfort and torment. They led to daydreams of what might have been, which were worse than the memories themselves. He thought of his memories as a landscape; his yesterdays were his yard, his village, his youth the mountains in the distance. No matter how long he gazed at those mountains, he could not see them clearly, could not remember what he had hoped, only remembrances of little security and true peace. There were impressions of times of happiness with his family, their love, which he longed for again. There was something else he longed for;
