Three Weeks in December (9781609459024) by Audrey Schulman Page A
Authors: Audrey Schulman
Ads: Link
factories assembled and farms plowed, clothing worn and punctuality taught, the Christian god worshipped. Onto this wilderness would be mapped the straight and exacting lines of money and steel.
In a few years, he thought, little in this land would remain the same. He was glad to have the privilege of residing here now, experiencing it in all its beauty.
In the early darkness, he spotted something by the tracks. Seventy yards ahead, a tangled lump lay in the ditch at the bottom of the embankment, as though the passenger train were already running, and this was trash tossed from the window by some careless traveler.
As he approached, a creature slunk away from the debris, dragging a piece after it and wiggling effortlessly into the nyika. In the darkness it was hard to be sure of the animalâs size: fox, hyena, or something larger.
As he halted Patsy, she shivered as though cold. Laying his hand against her neck, he could feel that her breathing seemed a trifle heavy from their walk. She must be acclimatizing to the heat here. He would give her an extra dose of oats tonight.
It was at this momentâhis hand against his horseâs neck, his thoughts on oatsâthat he registered the trash was actually a corpse.
From the way the Indianâs body was tangled up in the sheet of the unraveled turban, it appeared it had been rolled down the escarpment into the ditch.
Five, perhaps six, seconds passed. Jeremy exhaled through his mouth.
Swinging an unwilling leg over the saddle, he dismounted. His Grandpapi would do this without blinking, pick the corpse up, lay it across the pommel of the saddle, and ride back into camp with one hand grasping the seat of its pants, his jowled face revealing no emotion.
Standing here beside the body, Jeremy took a moment to look up at Patsyâs familiar profile. In the darkness, the star on her forehead gleamed as clear as a light. To touch this body, pick it up, he would have to concentrate on something else, as he did at the dentistâs while the manâs pliers nosed about in his mouth searching for the rotten tooth. Numbers had always offered him a certain reassurance.
The Metric System
, he recited from memory,
is derived from units of ten. Tera equals ten to the twelfth. Giga is ten to the ninth. Mega, ten to the sixth.
Crouching down, reaching for the right arm, he noticed something was wrong with the face. He forced himself to breathe slowly. The skin was darker than normal above the mouth, stained perhaps by a birthmark or injury.
Deci, ten to the negative one. Centi, negative two. Milli, negative three.
He closed his hand on the bony wrist. Human flesh, chill to the touch. This close, he could see the mouth was propped open, something clasped between the teeth. For a moment he wondered if the man had choked on his dinner; that would explain the smell of cooking.
Micro, negative six. Nano, nine. Pico, twelve.
Reaching for the other wrist, he realized the object between the teeth was glowing. A live coal. The mouth charred. Sweet smell of meat.
Into his mind flashed an image of the accounting book, the neat row of negative numbers cribbed beneath each manâs name. With an intuitive jump, he comprehended the railwayâs penny-pinching imitation of a Hindu cremation. He fell back on his buttocks.
The bush near him rustled. Perhaps the animal that had scurried away.
Scrambling backward up the embankment, he flailed, slipping onto his side, mud coating his hip. Fumbling upright, he scanned the brush near him, his rifle finally at the ready.
SIX
Kigali, Rwanda
December 9, 2000
A s the airplane pulled into the Kigali terminal, an announcement was broadcast, requesting in three different languages that the passenger known as Dr. Max Tombay deplane first. The flight attendants herded her down the aisle. Stepping out the door, into the sunlight, she saw at the base of the airplaneâs stairs twelve officials in suits smiling up at her and holding up a
In a few years, he thought, little in this land would remain the same. He was glad to have the privilege of residing here now, experiencing it in all its beauty.
In the early darkness, he spotted something by the tracks. Seventy yards ahead, a tangled lump lay in the ditch at the bottom of the embankment, as though the passenger train were already running, and this was trash tossed from the window by some careless traveler.
As he approached, a creature slunk away from the debris, dragging a piece after it and wiggling effortlessly into the nyika. In the darkness it was hard to be sure of the animalâs size: fox, hyena, or something larger.
As he halted Patsy, she shivered as though cold. Laying his hand against her neck, he could feel that her breathing seemed a trifle heavy from their walk. She must be acclimatizing to the heat here. He would give her an extra dose of oats tonight.
It was at this momentâhis hand against his horseâs neck, his thoughts on oatsâthat he registered the trash was actually a corpse.
From the way the Indianâs body was tangled up in the sheet of the unraveled turban, it appeared it had been rolled down the escarpment into the ditch.
Five, perhaps six, seconds passed. Jeremy exhaled through his mouth.
Swinging an unwilling leg over the saddle, he dismounted. His Grandpapi would do this without blinking, pick the corpse up, lay it across the pommel of the saddle, and ride back into camp with one hand grasping the seat of its pants, his jowled face revealing no emotion.
Standing here beside the body, Jeremy took a moment to look up at Patsyâs familiar profile. In the darkness, the star on her forehead gleamed as clear as a light. To touch this body, pick it up, he would have to concentrate on something else, as he did at the dentistâs while the manâs pliers nosed about in his mouth searching for the rotten tooth. Numbers had always offered him a certain reassurance.
The Metric System
, he recited from memory,
is derived from units of ten. Tera equals ten to the twelfth. Giga is ten to the ninth. Mega, ten to the sixth.
Crouching down, reaching for the right arm, he noticed something was wrong with the face. He forced himself to breathe slowly. The skin was darker than normal above the mouth, stained perhaps by a birthmark or injury.
Deci, ten to the negative one. Centi, negative two. Milli, negative three.
He closed his hand on the bony wrist. Human flesh, chill to the touch. This close, he could see the mouth was propped open, something clasped between the teeth. For a moment he wondered if the man had choked on his dinner; that would explain the smell of cooking.
Micro, negative six. Nano, nine. Pico, twelve.
Reaching for the other wrist, he realized the object between the teeth was glowing. A live coal. The mouth charred. Sweet smell of meat.
Into his mind flashed an image of the accounting book, the neat row of negative numbers cribbed beneath each manâs name. With an intuitive jump, he comprehended the railwayâs penny-pinching imitation of a Hindu cremation. He fell back on his buttocks.
The bush near him rustled. Perhaps the animal that had scurried away.
Scrambling backward up the embankment, he flailed, slipping onto his side, mud coating his hip. Fumbling upright, he scanned the brush near him, his rifle finally at the ready.
SIX
Kigali, Rwanda
December 9, 2000
A s the airplane pulled into the Kigali terminal, an announcement was broadcast, requesting in three different languages that the passenger known as Dr. Max Tombay deplane first. The flight attendants herded her down the aisle. Stepping out the door, into the sunlight, she saw at the base of the airplaneâs stairs twelve officials in suits smiling up at her and holding up a
Similar Books
