Brief Encounters With Che Guevara_ Stories - Ben Fountain [72]
“Jesus, Pa.”
He was muttering something over and over, shaking his head as if resigned to the dreadful worst. They passed through the stone portals and followed Sawhey’s jeep toward the houses. Jill could see people huddled in the interior courtyard, a crowd of Africans sitting or crouching low. Something was off, she could feel it as the truck approached—the place was shabby, barely holding together, and that glimpse of the crowd had left her strangely unnerved. Pa parked in such a way that her view was blocked.
“Do you know this place?”
He shook his head, unable to speak just then. They glanced back and saw the rebels sauntering toward the fence, laughing and jeering as they crossed the field.
“I don’t think I’m gonna see my wife again,” Pa said.
Jill felt so wretched that she wanted to hug the old man. Sawhey and two of his men disappeared between the houses; the other soldiers formed a line among the jeeps and trucks. Soon Sawhey reappeared leading an older, heavy white woman by the arm, the woman sobbing, pleading with him in a guttural smear. She was a nun: bareheaded, dressed in men’s work clothes, but a nun nevertheless—after years in the relief business, Jill could spot them at a glance. The other soldiers came behind with two more nuns, both of them weeping as messily as the first. A handful of black women followed with quick, controlled steps, looking neither left nor right as they hurried toward the truck.
The first nun stumbled and fell to her knees. Sawhey launched into a complicated slapstick routine, pulling here, gathering there, straining to manage it all; after several seconds of this Jill jumped out of the truck and jogged toward them. As she cleared the corner of the nearest house the courtyard was gradually revealed to her, the crowd seething, roiling in place like a termite mound. Some were weeping, some babbling or laughing to themselves, others rocking back and forth or wringing their hands—the process of understanding was like a slow electric shock, a gathering jolt that finally brought her up short. She had the nun under the arm by then, but she wavered, undone by all those lunatic faces.
“Come on,” Sawhey gasped, “help me.”
Jill heaved, the nun lurched to her feet. The three of them staggered toward the truck.
“Do you speak Dutch?” Sawhey panted. Jill shook her head.
“They’re Dutch,” he managed between breaths, “there were supposed to be more.” The other women were climbing into the back of the Mazda. “I think everyone bolted but these.” With Pa pulling from inside, they managed to hoist the nun into the Mazda’s cab. Jill turned and started back toward the courtyard.
“Get in the lorry,” Sawhey told her.
“What?”
“Get in the lorry,” Sawhey repeated.
“What about them?” Jill motioned toward the courtyard.
“Our orders are to evacuate staff.”
Jill took a step toward Sawhey. “You’re going to leave them?”
“Our orders are to evacuate staff.”
“Good God.” Jill looked past the trucks—the rebels were strung along the fence like outraged crows, cawing, bending over to show their asses, rattling the steel mesh with their machetes. They knew the soldiers wouldn’t shoot unless attacked.
“Don’t you know what they’ll do to these people?”
“It’s out of my hands. Get in the lorry, please.”
Jill turned and ran back to the courtyard. She stopped at the edge of the crowd and went through the motions of making a count, though she knew there were far too many for the trucks. Physically they looked fit enough—they were well-fed, and most of them had decent clothes and shoes, but below that line of thought she was struggling, unsure what kind of claim