have called ahead, but
…”
“Welcome, Mary Dorsey,” Ackroyd said, still shouting above the sound of the rotors, which had slowed but apparently weren’t
stopping. She watched as soldiers off-loaded the helicopter, moving the crates and boxes onto hand-drawn carts. To one side,
she saw a group of people, waiting on stretchers, she guessed to be medevaced.
“Would you like me to take you to Dr. Chaline?” the young man asked her. “I think he’s in the infirmary. It’s a bit hard to
find unless you know where to go, particularly after dark. Can I carry your bag?”
“I’ve got it. Thank you,” MacKenzie said, following him.
“Watch your step,” he said. “I left my flashlight in my tent because we’re low on batteries. We’ll get there sooner if we
take the path instead of the road.”
She’d seen the sun set a deep blood red as she flew. The sky was now dark, the Milky Way streaming like a vivid river of light
across the heavens. There were few lights in the camp, a candle here and there but no electricity save for a floodlight up
ahead where, she assumed, they were going. The smell was overwhelming, a stench of human waste and vomit, and yet as she walked
she heard children laughing and mothers singing lullabies to their babies. She saw huts made of sticks with corrugated tin
or fiberglass roofs, shelters made of plastic sheeting, huts made of woven grass mats, World War I-era canvas wall tents and
nylon tents and Mongolian yurt-style tents, solar-powered cookers, a windmill, and women carrying water cans and cook pots,
blankets, hoes, children in flip-flop sandals several sizes too big for their feet, young boys in hand-me-down T-shirts with
the logos of American sports teams on them, men examining ration cards to make sure people had eaten, or that nobody had eaten
twice, people living in doorless, engineless cars, and monkeys picking through trash heaps.
“Believe it or not, this is one of the nicer camps—in Gula, Zaire, in 1994 after the massacre in Rwanda, we had 1.2 million
people cross the border into Zaire in forty-eight hours. What exactly does the Women’s Health Initiative do?” Ackroyd asked,
once they were away from the helicopter and no longer had to shout and could speak in normal voices. He was a good-looking
man, Mack thought, a bit on the thin side and more soft-spoken than most of the men she met, but that wasn’t a bad thing,
gentle-featured, with thin lips and long sandy brown hair that hadn’t been washed in weeks, judging from how it shone, and
it kept falling in front of his eyes even though he kept pushing it back under his Red Sox cap. He had a patchy stubble of
beard on his face that made him look even more boyish for its lack of thickness. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a
plaid long-sleeved shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, the end of his belt hanging down below his shirt.
“I’m here on a fact-finding mission,” she told him, keeping to the story that had been prepared for her. “I’ll be making a
report to the UN when I’m done on the status of women and how they’re being treated in the conflict. How about you—what brings
you here?”
“I’m a writer,” he told her. “I’m doing a story for
Men’s Journal,
but I think it’s going to be a book too. My agent thinks she can sell it. Where are you from?”
“Dublin,” Mack said. “How about you?”
“I’m from the States,” he told her, as if she hadn’t surmised that. “Near Chicago. Evanston. Near where Al Capone was from.”
“I know where Chicago is,” she told him. “I come from Coldwater Road. Bono, from U2, went to my high school. The nuns and
the priests didn’t know what to make of him.”
“Oh,” Ackroyd said. Now was his chance to mention David Letterman. He didn’t. “Do you know Evelyn Warner? Do you get the BBC
in Ireland?”
If she’d had the time to prepare her own identity, or study the one that had been
…”
“Welcome, Mary Dorsey,” Ackroyd said, still shouting above the sound of the rotors, which had slowed but apparently weren’t
stopping. She watched as soldiers off-loaded the helicopter, moving the crates and boxes onto hand-drawn carts. To one side,
she saw a group of people, waiting on stretchers, she guessed to be medevaced.
“Would you like me to take you to Dr. Chaline?” the young man asked her. “I think he’s in the infirmary. It’s a bit hard to
find unless you know where to go, particularly after dark. Can I carry your bag?”
“I’ve got it. Thank you,” MacKenzie said, following him.
“Watch your step,” he said. “I left my flashlight in my tent because we’re low on batteries. We’ll get there sooner if we
take the path instead of the road.”
She’d seen the sun set a deep blood red as she flew. The sky was now dark, the Milky Way streaming like a vivid river of light
across the heavens. There were few lights in the camp, a candle here and there but no electricity save for a floodlight up
ahead where, she assumed, they were going. The smell was overwhelming, a stench of human waste and vomit, and yet as she walked
she heard children laughing and mothers singing lullabies to their babies. She saw huts made of sticks with corrugated tin
or fiberglass roofs, shelters made of plastic sheeting, huts made of woven grass mats, World War I-era canvas wall tents and
nylon tents and Mongolian yurt-style tents, solar-powered cookers, a windmill, and women carrying water cans and cook pots,
blankets, hoes, children in flip-flop sandals several sizes too big for their feet, young boys in hand-me-down T-shirts with
the logos of American sports teams on them, men examining ration cards to make sure people had eaten, or that nobody had eaten
twice, people living in doorless, engineless cars, and monkeys picking through trash heaps.
“Believe it or not, this is one of the nicer camps—in Gula, Zaire, in 1994 after the massacre in Rwanda, we had 1.2 million
people cross the border into Zaire in forty-eight hours. What exactly does the Women’s Health Initiative do?” Ackroyd asked,
once they were away from the helicopter and no longer had to shout and could speak in normal voices. He was a good-looking
man, Mack thought, a bit on the thin side and more soft-spoken than most of the men she met, but that wasn’t a bad thing,
gentle-featured, with thin lips and long sandy brown hair that hadn’t been washed in weeks, judging from how it shone, and
it kept falling in front of his eyes even though he kept pushing it back under his Red Sox cap. He had a patchy stubble of
beard on his face that made him look even more boyish for its lack of thickness. He was wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a
plaid long-sleeved shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, the end of his belt hanging down below his shirt.
“I’m here on a fact-finding mission,” she told him, keeping to the story that had been prepared for her. “I’ll be making a
report to the UN when I’m done on the status of women and how they’re being treated in the conflict. How about you—what brings
you here?”
“I’m a writer,” he told her. “I’m doing a story for
Men’s Journal,
but I think it’s going to be a book too. My agent thinks she can sell it. Where are you from?”
“Dublin,” Mack said. “How about you?”
“I’m from the States,” he told her, as if she hadn’t surmised that. “Near Chicago. Evanston. Near where Al Capone was from.”
“I know where Chicago is,” she told him. “I come from Coldwater Road. Bono, from U2, went to my high school. The nuns and
the priests didn’t know what to make of him.”
“Oh,” Ackroyd said. Now was his chance to mention David Letterman. He didn’t. “Do you know Evelyn Warner? Do you get the BBC
in Ireland?”
If she’d had the time to prepare her own identity, or study the one that had been
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