A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali by Gil Courtemanche

Volvo, since the truck that had brought them had left to get another wooden box.
    Near the mosque on the way out of Nyamirambo, some young men of the Hutu militia were running about among the cars and minibuses trying to sell one of the many extremist rags whose publication the regime encouraged. Lando stopped and bought a copy of Ijambo.
    “What are our killers saying today? ”
    And he handed the badly printed little weekly to Father Louis.
    “They’re talking about Raphaël, who owes his advancement only to his sisters who he’s put into the bed of the White manager of the People’s Banks. And about you, Lando, who, to thank the manager, Raphaël and Méthode for the credits you’ve been given by the Banks, have provided them with rooms in your hotel for entertaining prostitutes … Tutsis, of course.” 8
    “Gentille,” Lando said, “you’ve got yourself in a heap of shit. You can’t go home, not for now anyway.”
    Gentille said not a word because she was busy letting Valcourt know discreetly that if her thigh was pressed against his it was not because of the car’s cramped space, any more than the fact that her elbow had gradually slipped into the bend of his arm. Valcourt was not a fool. He was living in this country partly because he had often waded blindly into murky waters for no more than an insistent thigh or an innocently nestling elbow. He had got carried away for a lot less— a glance, a smile, a way of moving. In Montreal he had followed one of those dancers who float almost on the surface of life all the way down into the black hole of heroin. He had fled successfully in time, but had remained bruised and broken in the most vital of a man’s possessions, confidence in the object of his love. How warm was this thigh! How fragile and delicate this elbow! But Valcourt had not left his country in order to live more or better. All he had craved was the right to drowse in peace. And here he was being woken, jolted like a child being told he’ll be late for the party. He had promised, of course. He would not abandon Gentille, he would keep her with him, protect her, a little like an adopted daughter. This was the lie Valcourt told himself, paralyzed by the fear of re-entering life fully, and perhaps even more of being unable to give those breasts the caresses they expected, or that sex—whose scent and taste he had already invented—a sex that could satisfy it. He was sweating huge drops and shivering at the same time.
    “Are you all right?” she said, taking his hand.
    He said nothing but did not withdraw his hand, which she squeezed gently. He squeezed hers, closed his eyes, rested his head back against the seat. God was offering him the most beautiful of his daughters. Never had he felt so old, so close to the end, but at the same time so free. This scared him more than anything. He had always believed that absolute freedom was a prison. Never had he been so afraid of the acts he was going to perform, for he was having forebodings about them already. He was measuring the depth of the happiness promised him, and of the pain into which he was willingly, knowingly, rushing headlong.
    He squeezed Gentille’s hand a bit tighter, then looked straight into her eyes for the first time. She gave a shy little smile with her moist lips. He closed his eyes, hoping that everything would freeze then and there, that life would stop at this precise moment. Then his body relaxed. Muscle by muscle. He could have described the exact sequence, as if a twisted skein were undoing itself before his eyes, each thread taking its proper place in an orderly, harmonious tapestry.
    They did not say a word all the way to the hotel. Lando, with a sad smile, had observed the whole scene in his rear-view mirror.
    “Come on, friends, we’re all going to celebrate Méthode’s life. You’re my guests. My goat brochettes are better than the European buffet at the Mille-Collines, but they do have a more sophisticated wine