All Over the Map - Laura Fraser [75]
The atmosphere in Butare is so grim that Helen and I both want to leave as fast as possible; I take a bus back to Kigali for a flight the next day, and she is sorry to see me go without her. By then I have my story, including interviews Alice helped me get with some genocide survivors who are growing coffee and a long list of other sources. I tell the group over our last dinner together that it seems like it could be a good business story, maybe for the New York Times—an example of economic growth and reconciliation in a poverty-stricken, landlocked African country, still simmering with ethnic tensions but moving forward nonetheless—and though the women in the group make encouraging noises, the sociology professor gives me a skeptical look. I am a women’s magazine writer who wrote a memoir about sex and food in Italy, for God’s sake. Lightweight.
At home I procrastinate for a while and think about sending the article to the local paper. I hate the thought of proposing the story to the Times and having it ignore my e-mail, which is probably what will happen. I’d feel like a total loser. But I am hardly the point: the story deserves a wider audience, and it isn’t as if an omniscient editor at the Times knows I’ve been to Rwanda and have a good piece and is going to call me up and ask me to send it in. I have to risk feeling like an idiot, the person the sociology professor mocked, and so, what the hell—I’m a grown-up, I’m forty-five—I pitch the story to the business editor of the Sunday Times. He e-mails back one line: “How fast can I say yes?”
I spend three more weeks reporting on the Rwandan coffee industry, get a quote from everyone including President Paul Kagame, and the piece sails through the Times editing process, handled by some of the most cordial professionals I’ve ever worked with. It ends up on the front page of the Sunday business section, with a beautiful photo of Rwandan women sorting coffee cherries, and shortly thereafter, the coffee group, whose funding had been endangered, receives a new grant, thanks in part, the director tells me, to the reporting. The check from the Times just covers my expenses for the trip; I use it to send Alice winter clothes and a computer for graduate school in Canada, to which she received a scholarship. (Helen and her partner, who are childless, have since supported Alice like parents, and I’ve done my best to be a big sister.)
The story lifts me out of my funk, wakes me up, and, just as my friend Trish guessed that day over coffee, gives me a wider perspective on the world and the work I could be doing. It’s not the kind of experience that’s easy to duplicate, but it raises the bar, expands the possibilities.
When I get home, I get the news that Maya has passed away. That seems impossible to me, because she was just here, maybe ninety but with such a strong spirit. I go to the ranch and can hardly stand to be there without her; I keep expecting to come upon her soaking in the hot tub or reading a book in her big kitchen. At her memorial, hundreds of people arrive, telling tearful tales about her impact on their lives, through politics or friendship or as a grandmother. She lived a full life, and at the end, along with her family, had a huge circle of friends for companionship. I stay on a few days at the ranch, in her quiet house, but I miss her offering me a glass of wine and asking if I’ve written my thousand words yet today. The day I leave, I pick up the mail from down the dirt road, walk back to the house, and find my postcard from Rwanda.
Midway through my forty-sixth year, with no more campaign to try to fix my life by a deadline, I feel less urgency to try to settle down with someone. It’s not that I want companionship and stability any less, but I have more of a sense of calm,