the country for Kinshasa in 1973. We came back after the end of the war in 1994 like most of the exiled Tutsis. Weâd at least been tolerated there before the war, but after the victory of the FPR, we had to get out fast. But Iâm boring you with my stories. Youâre falling asleep. Tomorrow, if you like, I can show you your house.â
âIs someone living there?â Emma asked, awkwardly trying to pull herself out of the sofa while she tried to replace the doilies that she had rolled into a ball on her knees without even noticing.
âOh, no. Itâs nothing but a ruin now.â
28.
The next day Emma went through the necessary formalities to get the document that proved that she really was the daughter of Paciï¬que, a young Tutsi woman murdered during the genocide at the age of twenty-two.
After that she found out how to get to her house. She went alone and had no trouble ï¬nding it. It lay in ruins below the main road on a hill overlooking the valley.
Emma had escaped right after her motherâs murderers left. She didnât know whether the killers had returned to destroy the house and ï¬nish their work, or whether looters had come by later. Whatever had happened, they had gone at it with a vengeance. And time had done the rest. Ten years had passed.
She walked down toward the ruin. She was both dreading and hoping to uncover her buried memories. Had she really once been four years old and living here with her beloved mother?
She looked at the rubble, circled the trees, scanned the horizon, the hills. Then she ran her hands over the stones and took off her sandals so she could walk in the grass in her bare feet.
Her eyes, her hands, the soles of her feet â would they be able to remember?
She walked around for a long time before she dared to turn her attention to the inside of the crumbling house, though she knew she would not ï¬nd her motherâs body there. After the genocide the dead had been gathered and taken to an ofï¬cial memorial to the victims.
Emma tried to concentrate, but she couldnât think straight.
Coming here had been a mistake. This place was so familiar and yet completely strange at the same time. She couldnât get hold of it, couldnât get hold of her past. She couldnât ï¬nd the courage to walk into the ruins. She was too afraid of stirring up the old nightmares.
But before she gave up and left, she tried one last time, casting her eyes over the rocks piled inside the entrance to the house.
She suddenly noticed a piece of blue plastic inside the rooï¬ess walls. She hesitated for a moment, then carefully placed one foot on the rubble and tugged on the tarpaulin.
It wouldnât budge. It was bigger than it looked.
Finally throwing caution to the wind, Emma crouched down and frantically started to clear away earth and stones until she managed to lift up the old plastic. Underneath was a small pile of books weathered by the damp.
The girl sat down, stared at the old books, then timidly brushed her ï¬nger over the faded covers. Her heart raced. All this had belonged to her motherâ¦
Feeling bolder, she grabbed a book that was larger than the others, the soft cover bending between her ï¬ngers.
Her slender brown hands turned the illustrated pages, and suddenly, she was there. Holding her breath, Emma raised her eyes and, for the ï¬rst time in ten years, she saw her mother bending over her, her eyes ï¬lled with an unanswered question.
When she came to her senses, her cheeks were covered with tears. In each hand she was holding a piece of the big book, which had fallen apart under the pressure. She glanced at the pages scattered on the ground, then at the ones she was clutching in her hands.
Thatâs when she noticed the photograph pinned under her right thumb. The paper had yellowed, the edges were frayed. Emma saw the questioning eyes of her mother and smiled back weakly.
Her search was
âIs someone living there?â Emma asked, awkwardly trying to pull herself out of the sofa while she tried to replace the doilies that she had rolled into a ball on her knees without even noticing.
âOh, no. Itâs nothing but a ruin now.â
28.
The next day Emma went through the necessary formalities to get the document that proved that she really was the daughter of Paciï¬que, a young Tutsi woman murdered during the genocide at the age of twenty-two.
After that she found out how to get to her house. She went alone and had no trouble ï¬nding it. It lay in ruins below the main road on a hill overlooking the valley.
Emma had escaped right after her motherâs murderers left. She didnât know whether the killers had returned to destroy the house and ï¬nish their work, or whether looters had come by later. Whatever had happened, they had gone at it with a vengeance. And time had done the rest. Ten years had passed.
She walked down toward the ruin. She was both dreading and hoping to uncover her buried memories. Had she really once been four years old and living here with her beloved mother?
She looked at the rubble, circled the trees, scanned the horizon, the hills. Then she ran her hands over the stones and took off her sandals so she could walk in the grass in her bare feet.
Her eyes, her hands, the soles of her feet â would they be able to remember?
She walked around for a long time before she dared to turn her attention to the inside of the crumbling house, though she knew she would not ï¬nd her motherâs body there. After the genocide the dead had been gathered and taken to an ofï¬cial memorial to the victims.
Emma tried to concentrate, but she couldnât think straight.
Coming here had been a mistake. This place was so familiar and yet completely strange at the same time. She couldnât get hold of it, couldnât get hold of her past. She couldnât ï¬nd the courage to walk into the ruins. She was too afraid of stirring up the old nightmares.
But before she gave up and left, she tried one last time, casting her eyes over the rocks piled inside the entrance to the house.
She suddenly noticed a piece of blue plastic inside the rooï¬ess walls. She hesitated for a moment, then carefully placed one foot on the rubble and tugged on the tarpaulin.
It wouldnât budge. It was bigger than it looked.
Finally throwing caution to the wind, Emma crouched down and frantically started to clear away earth and stones until she managed to lift up the old plastic. Underneath was a small pile of books weathered by the damp.
The girl sat down, stared at the old books, then timidly brushed her ï¬nger over the faded covers. Her heart raced. All this had belonged to her motherâ¦
Feeling bolder, she grabbed a book that was larger than the others, the soft cover bending between her ï¬ngers.
Her slender brown hands turned the illustrated pages, and suddenly, she was there. Holding her breath, Emma raised her eyes and, for the ï¬rst time in ten years, she saw her mother bending over her, her eyes ï¬lled with an unanswered question.
When she came to her senses, her cheeks were covered with tears. In each hand she was holding a piece of the big book, which had fallen apart under the pressure. She glanced at the pages scattered on the ground, then at the ones she was clutching in her hands.
Thatâs when she noticed the photograph pinned under her right thumb. The paper had yellowed, the edges were frayed. Emma saw the questioning eyes of her mother and smiled back weakly.
Her search was
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