***
The old priest’s knees ached, as did his arms. No one else will do this, he thought. Just me, the one that everyone waits for. There would be no water if I refuse to fix this fucking pump. Now I must also wait for the American. He’s not coming, I think; saw the folly and stayed home to drink bad beer and watch American football. A joke, American football-helmets and padding.
Father Jean-Robert Robineau crouched beside the water pump, the various parts and pieces of which lay scattered about his scuffed boots, one with its heel glued on. The pump was essential to the mission. The water, whenever available, was produced by the vigorous and, for the priest, tiring pumping of its handle. Its surface was a mosaic of black paint, red primer paint and rust. At sixty-seven years of age, the priest was at least as old as the pump and worked about as well.
The box-wrench he pushed on slipped, his finger scraping against a flange in the middle of the pump shaft. A thick piece of knuckle skin curled back, allowing blood to well and then run around to the other side of the forefinger on his right hand. The priest felt the sting of the scrape, but did not stop, only put the wrench back on the nut and pushed again.
The pump was leaking water near the base. In Sudan, water was too precious to waste and so it was time to attempt an overhaul. The priest was aware when he started that he would be forced to improvise once he discovered the problem; a worn seal, a broken bolt perhaps. On his knees, his lips pursed, the priest stared at the pump. Over the past twenty years, he had experienced most of the failures the old pump managed to produce.
He scraped muck from the inside of the main shaft, a slight sewer stink coming from the filth. As he worked, he heard the two-way radio inside the compound’s office building bleat static and then a voice began calling contact information for someone to hear. The priest’s head snapped up and he got to his feet. The tingling of his thickened blood working back into his legs joined for a few moments with the arthritis in his knees to render him immobile. Again, his condition reminded him of Saint Francis of Assisi, who considered his body the weak, useless relative of his brilliant mind. “Brother Ass” was how the saint referred to his weak body. The priest could relate.
It must be Mr Martin, the American. He was due today, the priest believed. The priest could not remember the exact time. Too many things to remember, too many unimaginable things were happening now. It was not as bad here as in Darfur, but who knew where it would lead. The priest walked as fast as his tingling legs could manage, stumbling into the office and to the radio. He sat heavily onto an ancient wooden chair, picked up the microphone and answered, “This is the Mapuordit mission station. Is this Mr Martin, out?”
“Affirmative. This is Beech T806D on approach to the Akot airstrip. Who am I talking to?”
“This is Father Robineau Monsieur Martin. I will leave now but, it will take me about one half hour to get to Akot. It is about fifteen kilometers from here. We expected you today, but did not know your exact time of arrival. Please be patient.”
The American acknowledged the response and said he would wait. What else could he do, the priest thought.
Hanley Martin would be bringing news of Father Robineau’s family. The old priest was excited to hear about his niece Sophie and her English husband. The French priest did not think himself to be prejudiced, but, like many of the French his age, he was not especially fond of the British; or Americans, for that matter. He did not see anything wrong in feeling this way. Everyone did. He tried to remain contrite when it happened.
Sophie’s father and mother had been concerned when she first mentioned Michael Campbell, thinking it was a temporary thing, a fling of sorts. After a while, their concern grew. When finally they realized this was a serious matter, Sophie’s parents consulted Jean-Robert, first by mail and then when he had returned to France for a visit and some study. Eventually, the three conferred with their other brothers and sisters, discussing various ways to intervene. In the end, nothing came of it and, once married, all welcomed Michael to the family. When he thought of his niece’s husband, he thought of him as the Englishman.
The plane must be getting close. It was almost dusk. The runway might be difficult to see. Finding the keys to the old Land Rover, the priest picked up his hat and walked to the truck to make the drive to the airstrip. He was mildly aware that there was some danger being out after dark, but if all went well, he and the American would be back soon enough.
The finish on the old English vehicle was a dark green and dull, its faded swirls and cloud patterns covered the larger, flat areas of the hood and doors. The roof was white, a hedge against, but no real match for, the Sudanese sun and the heat they suffered through almost daily. The spare tire on the hood was soft and probably useless. He needed to patch it and spend the hour or two it takes to pump air into it by hand.
With an old rag kept under the front seat, he wiped the windshield of its thin dusting and then the driver’s side door window. Getting in was hard for him. Crawling into the seat, he started the truck, found first gear and moved forward. Smelling of old grease and used
