City of Saints & Thieves(25)

I skip past more legal mumbo jumbo and read,

She is widowed. Her husband was killed in an attack on her village—

Widowed? That’s not right. I look at Michael. “This is a little personal. Do you mind?”

He squirms. “I’ve already read it all anyway.” He shifts back to sitting on his bed and picks up his laptop.

I look back at the file. My mother never married. The only thing she ever said about my dear old papa was that I should be glad not to know him. I don’t think she married, anyway. She definitely never said anything about a husband in front of me, and she hadn’t called herself a widow.

I go on reading. Other details are off. “We’re from Kasisi, not Walikale,” I say under my breath. Are these mistakes or did she lie to the UN? Why would she do that? Confused, I plunge on, reading feverishly.

Her village was attacked many times throughout her youth, both by various ethnically based groups of antigovernment militia including Mayi-Mayi and the M23 group, as well as by government soldiers. Rebels and government soldiers alike would raid her village for food and livestock to feed their troops. Often they would hurt or kill villagers in the process. Villagers were abducted and forced to join the militias or act as slaves for them . . .

So far, so normal. That’s a story everybody from there knows. The unpaid government soldiers are bad, and the militia groups are just a little bit worse.

On the material day, the applicant’s village came under severe attack, whereby she was forced to flee with her small daughter. Her husband was killed in the attack. Together with her daughter, she fled the same day to Bukavu—

I stop, reread the paragraph, trying to see if I’ve missed something. “That’s not right,” I mutter. “They left out the whole thing about . . . Or did she not tell them . . . ?”

“What?” Michael asks.

I start when he speaks. I’ve almost forgotten he’s here, I’m concentrating so hard on trying to match what’s on the page with my few memories. I glance up at him, then go back to reading.

“You’re driving me crazy, here, Tina. What are you mumbling about? Spill.”

Do I tell him or not? Finally I just say, “They got our village name wrong.”

“That’s it?”

I look back down. “Yeah.”

Why explain that what I remember and what’s here are two different things? I can’t trust Michael, and besides, this probably has nothing to do with Mama’s murder.

Michael isn’t buying it. “Tina, if you see something that might help us figure out—”

“You got kicked out of school, didn’t you?”

The abrupt question surprises him, like I hoped it would. “That’s why you’re in Sangui, not in Switzerland, isn’t it? This isn’t a holiday. I checked to make sure you wouldn’t be here.”

“I-I didn’t get kicked out. It’s just a suspension.”

“For what?”

He pauses, his jaw working. “Fighting.” Then, “You’re changing the subject.”

“Beating people up, huh? Like father, like son,” I say, scanning the rest of the page. There’s not much more in our persecution history. Details about us coming to Sangui, but no mention of Mama finding work with Mr. G. The notes just say she was supporting herself on handouts from a church and sometimes earning money by watching other people’s children and washing clothes. The interview must have been before she went to work for him. Or maybe she left that part out too.

“The other guy called me a mulatto.”

I look up. The mask is off. It’s obvious what Michael is thinking: He’s pissed. For some reason I blush and look away, like it was me who called him a name. “Fair enough,” I say.

Michael sighs and shuts the lid of his laptop. “Let’s call it a night, okay? It’s almost three in the morning, and my parents are supposed to be back early. They’ll be here for breakfast before church.”

A chill runs down my neck. I’d almost forgotten that in a few short hours I’m going to have to come face-to-face with Mr. Greyhill. Before I can suggest that I just hide in the closet and hope the maids don’t come cleaning, Michael says, “Here’s your story. I’ve got it all worked out: I’ll tell my parents I ran into you at the airport on my way back.”

“The airport? Why? I’ve never even been to the airport.”

“You were on your way back from boarding school.”

Now I have to laugh. “Boarding school? Michael, I didn’t make it past primary. I only know how to read because I steal books from rich people.”

“You’d rather explain what you’ve been doing hanging around Sangui all this time?”

“I’ll say I’ve been, I dunno, living with cousins or something?”

“This will all be easier if you’re cleaned up and respectable. Nothing like a European boarding school to impress Mom.” Michael looks me over. “You’ll have to cover up those tattoos, though. And we’re going to have to tell Dad first. He’ll want you to stay, and he’ll make Mom agree.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why would he want me to stay?”

Michael gives me an exasperated sigh. “Because he was worried when you left too. He cares about you and Kiki.”