Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 32
“You think her and that Japanese doctor are…?” Trevor smiled, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head.
“I’m impressed you didn’t say her and the French doctor,” Ainsley interjected, rolling her eyes again.
“Oh, shit… I didn’t even… oh man, that would be so hot,” Trevor salivated.
Preston let it drop. Despite the level of education of the group, they would never be able to see past their own perspectives. While Trevor’s was clear, why Ainsley disliked Meredith despite them both having so much in common was, like many of the inner workings of the female brain, a mystery to him.
“You better go, college boy,” Sergeant McCoy interrupted, looking at his watch. “I’m not sure a dude like Major Frey, despite his bad music taste, is a guy you want to make wait for food. You’ve seen what he does to people who hold us up.” McCoy let out a macabre chuckle. Everyone in the convoy had seen the pile of bodies the major had left in the road in Lenge, or more precisely, what was left of them. By the time Preston’s LMTV, the last in line driven by McCoy, had passed them, they were little more than remnants.
Preston took that man’s advice, realizing he was probably right, and began walking towards the aid station. Despite everything going on around him, for the first time in weeks he felt peace. In this remote village nestled between these two hills along a tiny river, he felt the mysterious allure of Africa that he had heard so much about. After the initial honeymoon, he had hated Africa when he first arrived in Zambia. It was dirty and loud and the people, for all of their protestations, seemed indifferent to both the help of the Americans or improving their own lives. He had considered quitting and going home, but that was around Christmas time, and he wondered if there was any home to return to.
And maybe that was it. As long as there was an America in his rearview mirror, pulling him back to the life he knew, maybe he could never embrace this place. The endless days in the back of the truck had given him plenty of time to ponder both his own existence and existence in general. He had no ties to this place, and as far as he knew, no ties anywhere else now either. Baltimore, with its port and proximity to Washington, DC, would have been a prime target for anyone attacking the United States. When he was a child, his family had spent Christmas at the lodge up in the mountains, but as they had gotten older, they had all gathered at the penthouse by the harbor. They would have been there Christmas Eve, and Preston just hoped they had been together when whatever happened, happened.
But here, in this tiny African town, he felt something pull him. A strange tug at his soul that he could not explain. As he walked past the groups of Americans sitting together, he wondered if perhaps they all belonged here. Like fate had brought them to this village to live forever, safe from the war that awaited them when their journey together ended.
He didn’t even realize Lieutenant Betz had joined him until the lanky Montanan reached out to open the aid station’s door for them. “Go ahead, man,” he said, with an affable smile, pointing into the building’s interior for Preston to lead the way like it was a store back home.
Preston nodded, gave a quick thank-you, and walked in. He knew Betz was likely around his own age, but the gulf between their lives was immense, bordering on the insurmountable. It had taken World War 3 to bring them together, but despite their differences, getting to know both Frey and Betz had changed his opinion on the military. Frey was a thinker in a way that had shocked Preston, and Betz was as far from the image of a soldier as one gets while still maintaining a high level of physical fitness. If you took him out of uniform, Preston could imagine Mike Betz fitting right in at a rodeo out west.
“Are you looking forward to this? A week is the longest I’ve ever eaten MREs. This is going to be great,” Betz said as the pair worked their way through the small aid station, towards the back entrance where the table was. They carefully avoided the clinic where the wounded Congolese, those that had survived this long, lay recovering. They had saved about half of them, and their screams still gave Preston an uneasy feeling in his stomach. But still, that stomach was empty.
In addition to the seemingly endless supply of fuel and water, the aid station was stocked full of food. Everything from rice to canned vegetables and meat. They had also procured fish, chicken, and fresh fruits from the villagers in Mutanga, and the entire convoy had feasted all day. This dinner was Ambassador Brown’s idea. He had invited the leadership of each group, plus the resident staff, to a dinner prepared by the chef. As the group gathered around the long wooden table, Preston noticed for the first time that Lieutenant Betz had put on a clean uniform for the evening. Everyone in the convoy had availed themselves of the aid station’s showers, and that, in addition to the fresh food, had been enough to boost morale.
The sun was starting to set over the hills, and a strand of what looked to be white Christmas lights were hung on the outside dining area’s ceiling. The generator hummed dutifully somewhere off stage, no doubt powering the lights, the overhead fans, and the chef’s unseen kitchen. From the ceiling hung large screens which had been stapled into the vertical wooden struts supporting the patio. They were there to keep the mosquitoes and the flies and the infinite menagerie of insects away from the people and food within. He could already smell the food, and the odor, once so common but lately so foreign, made his mouth water. It wafted through the open air and filled the space in a way that made Preston wonder if the smells had a mind of their own and came right for him.
At the far end of the table, the Freys sat opposite Ambassador Brown and his wife. Preston hesitated, wondering where to sit, when a tug at his elbow got his attention.
“Go on young man, you go down there by the ambassador and the other important people,” Ms. Jones, the ambassador’s executive assistant told him. She was so short that if he hadn’t glanced down, he would have looked right over her head, but she pushed him towards the end of the table with a “You leave us working people down here at this end.”
Preston nodded to the two couples as he sat next to Major Frey. To his left sat Meredith, with John, his long and muscular frame across from him. Gabrielle, the French doctor, took a seat at one head of the table and Riku, her colleague from Japan, sat at the other end next to Ms. Jones. The table was narrow, and not as long as one might expect, but after the week in the back of the LMTV it was, at least to Preston, downright spacious.
The dinner passed quietly, everyone’s mouths too occupied with the amazing meal Chef had prepared to waste even a second filling it with oxygen rather than food. Preston noticed that in addition to Chef who, after the food was served, sat with them, a few Congolese teenage girls were working at the aid station and had taken the role of waitresses. Dressed in white blouses and long blue skirts, they scurried around the table, bringing more food and clearing away empty plates and silverware. They were also responsible for the music, and had selected some version of a Congolese album which blended tribal chants and modern pop to play from the speaker in the corner.
The entire dinner was a blur of food and relaxation. He had felt Meredith close by all night, but she had shown little interest in him since their arrival. He could not blame her; they had never had anything formal. No promises exchanged. But he couldn’t help feeling a tinge of sadness. He had noticed John’s eyes had, on more than one occasion, given Meredith more than just a casual passing glance. His gaze, like most things Preston had seen John do, conveyed more than just a single purpose. It was thoughtful, as if the woman who sat across from him was a mystery he wanted to unravel. Preston felt like she had averted the man’s gaze, but her lowered eyes made it seem more embarrassment than disinterest. He could admit that John, despite being around a decade and a half older, could be considered a very attractive man. Personable, athletic, tall, and intelligent, Preston admitted there were worse men to lose a romantic partner to than John.
As the last two plates were cleared, Gabrielle summoned one of the Congolese girls close with a beckoned finger and whispered something in her ear. She nodded dutifully and returned with a wooden crate. Opening its lid, she pulled out a bottle of red French wine and set it on the table in front of Gabrielle.
“Enfin,” she said, screwing off the bottle’s cap. “Our apologies for the quality but, with the humidity here, bottles with corks do not last as long as one would hope, so we are forced to resort to this most embarrassing of American habits. The wine, however, is still French.”
Preston watched Lieutenant Betz shoot a nervous look at Major Frey as the Congolese girl set a bottle and a glass in front of him. Preston, and everyone else, knew that Frey had forbidden alcohol until they reached their destination.
“What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” the major asked, seeing Betz’s hesitation.
“Are we…?” Betz asked nervously.
“Why wouldn’t we?” Frey asked, finishing his last piece of marinated chicken and handing his plate to the Congolese girl.
“You said no drinking, sir, back at the embassy before we left.”
“Is that what I said?” the major asked, before pouring himself a glass of wine.
Betz searched his commander’s face, even more puzzled than if Frey had just made an exception. He was saved by John who, sitting next to him, had already taken the bottle from in front of Betz and unscrewed its cap.
“He said, no one gets drunker than me.”
Frowning, Betz cocked his head. “Sergeant Major Sweeney has been saying—”
“And that is the sergeant major’s prerogative, how he wants to enforce my rule, Lieutenant. To be quite honest, I’m not sure I would trust a bunch of nineteen-year-old Marines or borderline alcoholic National Guardsmen to manage their liquor either,” Frey said.
The ambassador stood and held up his glass. “I suppose this is my time.” The voices around the table fell silent and all eyes turned toward him. He wore a light blue button-down shirt, the kind designed to look formal but were built to be worn into the field. It gave him a look that would have passed for rugged except for the major sitting in front of him.
“I wanted to take this opportunity to reflect on what we have accomplished, and all of the adversity we have overcome. We are only a few days from our goal, and I don’t want to jinx anything, but I hope the hardest days are behind us.”
Heads around the table nodded in agreement, and the ambassador carried on. “When I think of all of the roads that brought us all together, when I think of all of the things that had to happen to let us make it this far, I am grateful for both our old friends and our new.”
To Ambassador Brown’s left, Nala took a large drink, nearly finishing the glass.
“I want to take this moment to remember those we have lost, and those that have sacrificed to help get us here. Everyone prays differently, but I think it would be appropriate for everyone to take a moment and think of Juaqim, and Colonel Artigas and his men, all of the souls lost yesterday and those still injured inside.” He bowed his head quietly, and was joined by the rest of the table, except John, who used the opportunity to look around the table.
The momentary silence was far from peaceful. The screens might have kept the wildlife physically from the table, but their hum of noise seemed like a roar in the silence. The ambassador continued after the brief pause.
“I wanted to thank our hosts, and to commend you for the work you have done here. I am sorry that we brought such terrible news, and could not have met under better circumstances. So, to us, old friends and new, and to those we leave behind, but will always be in our hearts… I look forward to our next days together, and I welcome our three new companions to our group. Cheers.” The ambassador’s toast was echoed by the rest of the table, and as the raised arms went back down, Preston tasted the fruity nectar of the red liquid. It went right to his head, and his eyes watered briefly.
“Forgive me, Ambassador, what do you mean by that?” Gabrielle asked as the ambassador sat. “That we are, your new companions?”
“I mean, Dr. de Lacoste, that given all you have learned, I assumed you would be coming with us.”
The doctor sat back in her chair at the head of the table, shaking her head. A smirk crossed her face. She wore a blue and white dress, and her dirty blonde hair was cut short, but still managed the pretense of style even given the limited resources of the Congo.
She looked around the table, then continued. “Americans. Always telling people what should and should not happen. Tell me this, Ambassador Brown, why should we leave this place?” Her accent was heavy, almost purposefully so, but it revealed a level of English proficiency that had not come from the standard European school exposure to the language. Preston wondered if she had lived in the US or perhaps even studied there.
“We came here for a purpose,” she continued, “and we are to abandon this purpose because your country couldn’t play nice with others?”
The stance stunned Preston. He glanced to his left to see what Meredith might say, but she was staring down at the red wine in her glass, as if an answer was hidden beneath its surface.
“From what we have heard, all of Europe has been attacked as well, ma’am. We are in this together,” Ambassador Brown replied. Preston watched the rest of the table. Amanda Frey was sipping her wine and watching Dr. de Lacoste. The two had spent hours together trying to save as many of the victims from the bus as they could. It did not surprise Preston that, given the existing tensions between the Freys and the Browns, that Amanda would side with the French doctor.
“Yes perhaps, but we are not in Europe, are we? We are in Africa. If Europe and the United States have been destroyed, we are still in Africa. This is what you Americans have never understood. You cannot simply make Africa—or Afghanistan or Vietnam—America, you have to become one of them. You have to lead them to something better.”
The other conversations at the table came to a halt as all eyes turned towards the Browns. Nala Brown’s opinions on Africa and America were no secret. Everyone had tiptoed around the topic for months, and there had been more or less a detente, but this young, white, French doctor was pushing the buttons everyone in the convoy had been afraid to. All eyes turned to watch the drama unfolding at the end of the table. Everyone except John and Meredith, Preston noted. The blond man was still staring at her, and she had that same embarrassed look on her face.
Nala spoke, her voice maintaining control over the fury Preston knew was bubbling inside of her. “What do you know about Africa? You are barely out of college. It is people like you, pretending to know Africa, that have destroyed it.”
Smiling, Gabrielle sat back. The straps of her dress clung tightly to her shoulders as she laughed once again. “People like me. You mean, white people?”
“Yes, white Europeans and Americans, coming to Africa to destroy it.”
Eyebrow cocked, Gabrielle glanced at Amanda. Preston could see a smile cross both women’s faces, as if they shared an intimate secret privy only to those who had fought against death together. “Go ahead,” Amanda said simply.
At the far end of the table, Dr. Tanaka coughed, trying to head off his colleagues’ response. Preston had spent a month in Japan with his family one summer; he knew manners and politeness were paramount in their society. He had also spent long enough one summer in France to know that the French shared no such proclivity. The song on the speakers changed from a wordless Latin jazz to a song Preston recognized as an Ella Fitzgerald cover of “Blue Moon.” The long and sorrowful notes seemed to him to signal a shift, from the lighthearted mood of dinner to something more introspective, something sad and painful.
Gabrielle, as Preston sensed she would, ignored her colleague. She turned towards the Browns sitting to her right. “You think because you are black you have a monopoly on knowledge of Africa?”
Nala tossed her head. “I think that for centuries, Europeans have exploited Africa and Africans have paid the price for that, both in Africa and abroad.”
“Violence did not start with the whites, Mrs. Brown. Africa is the birthplace of humanity, and as such, it is also the birthplace of the most human trait of all—war.”
Nala was not used to being challenged on this topic, and her anger mounted. “You cannot deny that Europeans have made Africa worse!”
“Worse? Worse, you say?” Gabrielle laughed again, this time making no effort to hide her scorn. “You think because I am white that I know nothing of Africa. My grandfather was born in the Congo Français, my father grew up in Brazzaville. When he was a child, he watched his brother and his mother murdered at Kowelzi. Black Africans slaughtered hundreds of Europeans that day. Women clutching their babies were hacked to death by machetes. My father hid under his mother’s body for a day. He was six years old. He lay there, in the sun and the heat, listening to people being murdered while his mother’s blood ran over him. Who do you think came to save him? Do you think the proud Congolese Army came? No. It was French parachutiste…” she hesitated, looking at Major Frey for the word.
“Paratroopers,” the major replied, sipping his wine again. Preston knew Major Frey did not speak French, which meant he must have known the background of what Dr. de Lacoste was talking about.
“Yes, thank you, paratroopers. It was French paratroopers of our Foreign Legion that saved hundreds of people, black and white. Just like it was South African mercenaries that saved hundreds of people at Stanleyville from the Simbas. Even the American CIA sent Cubans to help. You may say that Europeans have done bad things in Africa. No one denies this. This is also true of Africans. But we have also done good things, and rarely can Africans, especially their governments, say that. This was not a century ago. It was in 1978. In 1978. My father lived through it. His mother’s blood is soaked into the soil of Africa. Where is your mother’s blood?”
