Remember the Nightingale is set in a village three hours south of Kigali, Rwanda, Remember the Nightingale tells the story of Evariste and Gaeton. In April 1994, Evariste is a fourteen-year-old reveling in young love. She is the daughter of cattle herders: they have 12 head of cattle, making them both legally Tutsi and also wealthy. She loves to dance, she’s inquisitive, and she is smart. Gaeton is three years older than Evariste and the son of a farmer. He is a Hutu. He dreams of being treated fairly; of earning respect. Most of all ,he loves Evariste. This is how their love is tested when the One Hundred Day massacre breaks out, and how to forgive a betrayal that destroys innocence.

***

“One day, I’m going to be a teacher. I’m going to own my own school; it’ll be filled with girls twirling on their toes to beating drums. People will come from the forests, and all the villages, to watch us dance.” Evariste’s face shines as she lifts one leg, resting her foot along the inside of the other, and spins, raising her slender arms above her face. She touches the inside of her wrists together and the setting sun sits between her palms, its golden embers casting her into a shadow.

“You’ll bewitch us all,” Gaeton warns, watching her from his seat on the grass. From here, they can see the path that leads to the marketplace and the low-pitched roofs of the villagers’ homes. A quiet shaking blossoms in the pit of his stomach, like it does whenever he’s near Evariste. An image of Amata, his baby sister, fleets through his mind. I suggested that name, she confessed after the naming ceremony, because it means ‘beloved’ and anybody who saw you hold her could tell that baby girl is your beloved. Gaeton adores Amata: she often reminds him of Evariste.

“Your name does not suit you, you know,” he says, and a smile ghosts his lips when her dark eyes widen. She crosses one slender hand over her heart, pretending to be wounded, and falls to the grass. “You mean I’m not pleasing?” Though her voice was playful, faint uncertainty casts a shadow in the gold specks of her eyes.

He lifts a shoulder. “Well, you are. You are. But what is pleasing? I think Lucie is a better name for you. Do you know what Lucie means?”

Curious, she shakes her head.

“It means light. Where you are, there is light.” He speaks matter-of-factly, unemotionally, as if he were stating the color of the sky. Gaeton doesn’t give praise; he states truths. Evariste soaks it in, saying nothing. Her mind is too busy replaying his words, where you are, there is light to speak. Light brightens things, just as the sun floods the earth with brilliance and powers it with warmth. To remind Gaeton of light is the finest compliment, she decides. Finer than being pleasing to the eye. The apple was pleasing to Eve, after all.

“Tell me about your school.” Gaeton invites, picking a blade of grass from beside him. Evariste’s eyes sparkle as she spreads her arms wide and lays on her back. The cool evening grass her pillow, her eyes drift closed. “It sits on a hill. And it has windows! Big windows that let in all the sunlight. Mamree’s artwork hangs on the walls; maybe I’ll get her to draw a dancer.” Her left arm lifts straight in the air and she lets it sway back and forth gently. “I’ll keep the dirt floor free from debris; it will be nice and airy. Music; there’s always music playing. Drums and tambourines; maybe a whistle. Children will come; I’m sure it will be mainly girls, but maybe boys, too. They’ll wear colorful costumes–blue and green–and the costumes will have stars on them.” She inhales deeply, holds the breath for a moment and starts to hum.

“What will you dance?”

“Hm…” Suddenly, her eyes open, squinting, and she scrambles to her feet. “I’ll make up new dances; my own dances to teach them. I’ve already made one. Do you want to see it?”

Gaeton chuckles, her white smile spreading to him. “Yes.”

She pinches the sides of her sandy-colored dress and bows. “It would be better if I had some music,” she warns. Gaeton looks around, reaches out and grabs a stick; he stands to find a usable one. Gently he raps the stick against the rock to create sound. Evariste giggles happily, nods; her feet move. One foot forward, high on her toes, the other leg slides behind her. One, two, three – the back leg slides quickly up and out into the air, parallel to her body. Her arms swing out and she twirls on one leg once, twice, three spins. She drops her head, tucks her chin into her chest, and slips her body low to the left, her fingertips brushing against the ground. Her feet move faster; he matches the pace of her movements by striking the rock faster. Spontaneously, he offers a twill, as if he were a nightingale, and it completes the orchestra playing for her. She leaps, crossing her right ankle behind her left, and lands on her toes, sliding her right leg forward to glide across the grass. He offers a high chirping sound, followed by a long, low whistle. Suddenly, without warning, she spins and drops to one knee, her face so near to the ground she might touch it, her arms stretched out above her head, her fingers grazing the grass, her chest rising and falling with the quickness of her breath.

Instead of standing, she tumbles sideways, laughing. Gaeton stretches his arms behind him and tips his head. “You’ll teach the students that dance?”

“Yes, and more besides!”

When he doesn’t respond, she rolls up. “Well, what did you think?”

“To start a school, I think you need a building.”

“Yes, that’s true. I could build a hut. The Twa women might help me.”

He nods. “There are other things you’ll need beside a hut. You’ll need music -“

“You’ll be my music player.”

He winks. “You’ll need a farmer. Crops. Workers.”

“I will? For a dance school?”

“How else are you going to eat? You won’t have time to work the fields if you are teaching.”

She inhales deeply, looks down at the grass, her shoulders slumping.

“You’ll need costumes, or a seamstress to make the costumes for you. You’ll need fabric.”

“Ema’ma-“

“You’ll need someone to help you with the finances. Are you going to charge your students?”

“Well, yes.”

“How much? You’ll need to know what it costs you to run the school before you can name a price. Most people around here won’t be able to spend much on lessons. Would you accept anything other than cash?”

“I could accept trades – that would help me with crops.”

He nods. “Sure.”

Silence falls and the sound of the birds chirping rings loud. “Do you think it’s a silly dream?” she asks tentatively, concern flashing through her eyes.

Gaeton lifts an eyebrow. “Do you think it’s a silly dream?”

“There are dance schools in the city.”

He nods. He starts to speak but hears his name before he can. He twists his head in time to see his mother walking towards him, holding Amata. “Hold the baby; I’ve got to go see about that woman; her child is due any day now. You’ll look after her, won’t you?” Muhira hands the baby to her son and keeps walking. She’s checked on the neighbor every day for a week. Gaeton and Evariste exchange a glance. “They’re like sisters, those two,” Evariste smiles.

“I’m surprised she didn’t ask you to go along with her.” Amata, only a few months old, stares up at Gaeton with huge eyes, her hand flailing in the air. Gaeton holds his finger out and she latches onto it, curling her tiny hand around it. When he smiles this time, it’s relaxed, his eyes softening. Something about the pouty lips and big shiny eyes captivates him.

“She’s so cute,” he breathes.

Evariste smiles, nodding. “Yes, she is. You’ll make a fine father, Gaeton, one day.”

Arching a brow, he glances up. “Will I have dancing daughters?”

She giggles, shrugs, a blush stealing up her cheeks. “Maybe,” she sings. “But wouldn’t you want a son more?”

He shrugs. “Sons are useful.”

“And daughters?”

“Daughters are dreamers.” His tone sounds awed instead of dismayed; she clings to that. He rolls to his feet, holding Amata over his shoulder, and walking towards the dusty lane. “Where we going?” Evariste asks, catching up to him.

“The creek. The water will feel refreshing.”

The walk to the creek revolves around Amata and Mamree: Evariste tells him about the stories Mamree loves. When Amata fusses, Evariste sings. Amata hiccups, sniffling, but not crying. Gaeton shakes his head, handing the baby to her. She smiles wide and runs the back of her hand over the baby’s head. “You’re such a beautiful thing; you look like your brother.”

“I’m beautiful?” Gaeton teases.

Evariste rolls her eyes, shrugs, and whispers to Amata, “I hope you’re not quite as arrogant as he can be, though.”

Gaeton chuckles. When Amata giggles at the funny faces Evariste makes, her tears completely dried, Gaeton says softly, “Lucie.”

“What? Oh.” Evariste smiles, the memory of him telling her the meaning of the name Lucie. Light.

“You make everybody happy. Even babies.”

“Well,” she says, bouncing Amata on her hip. “Maybe it’s all those dreams we daughters carry that make us happy.”

*** *** ***

The early morning mist drapes around him; it is hard to see far. He’s been here for hours already: well before sunrise. The cool temperatures make sitting in the same place without any movement bearable. He’s waiting. This is the third day in a row he’s come before sunrise. Patiently waiting: everything about this must be right. Thick brush and vegetation surround him; huge eucalyptus trees will shield him from the day’s coming heat. He sits on a boulder, knees slightly spread, the bow standing in the space between. He made the arrows himself; they are slung in a pouch on his back. They are sharp and fly straight and far. The occasional animal slinks through the brush or across the red dirt path that leads back home.

He knows they are here: the deer. Though he’s not seen them the previous two days, he’s tracked them: seen the narrow oval shape of their footprints in the dirt. Their dens are nearby. All he must do is wait. Admittedly, he doesn’t have much longer today; this is not something he must do for his family. Those chores come first. He will need to help his stepfather once the sun sets high. Until then, he’ll wait.

Crunch.

The sound of leaves rustling draws his attention southward just in time to see a doe step into view. But is she the right one? He barely breathes, his eyes assessing her skin. Spotless, golden skin; young, healthy weight. Ears alert; long neck, narrow face, dark eyes scanning her surroundings; no fawn tagging behind her. Beautiful. Moving slowly, he reaches behind him, removes an arrow, and silently loads it, bringing the bow to eye level. He pulls it back, the weight of it makes his muscles quiver.

**** **** ****

She goes to the market once a week to bring back items for Ema’ma. Mamree doesn’t usually come along but, this morning, she’s up for the walk. The sun sits high in the sky now and Mamree runs ahead. They talk of Charlotte and her calf; Evariste let Mamree name this one. Bette. Bette reminds Evariste of Mamree: outgoing, mischievous, and full of adventure. Charlotte’s other calves have not been quite as determined to escape the pasture as Bette. Mamree thinks this funny; Ema’ma, Papi and Evariste do not.

The road to the market is red dirt and bracketed by aged banana trees. Open pastures come into view as they descend the big hill. Smoke rises nearby as the restaurant smokes pork for the day. The humid air wraps around the girls as they travel barefoot towards the village.

Mamree tells of the gecko to whose chirp she falls asleep to. He didn’t sound last night and “that’s why it was so late before” she fell asleep. “When I did sleep,” she adds, “I dreamed of that gecko!” Evariste tells her about Amata and how she loves being splashed by the creek water.

As the brightly colored tents and people on bicycles come into view, the girls’ spirits are high. Mamree runs to a friend’s tent; Evariste heads towards the baker’s. The market is loud and crowded, even this early in the morning. People walk near her from every direction. Still, she senses it before she sees it: someone watches her as she chats with the baker.

She lifts her head and glances around. Faces everywhere, most, she recognizes. The baker laughs and places her bread in her basket. Evariste tries to shake the weird feeling off: these are people she knows. Still, goosebumps chase down her arms. She is being watched.

“Mamree,” she whispers, clutching the basket, moving from the bakers to find her sister.

**** **** ****

Processing the doe was the easy part. The hard part is scraping and tanning the hide, then stretching it. He waits for days as it dries, beats it, and stretches it more. After the chores and work are done, he sits for hours at the back of the hut, hollowing the wood while he waits for the hide to cure. The hide must be exactly right; the wood must be just right. Attention to the details will make this perfect; it will make it last. The wood takes shape; broader at the bottom, narrower at the top, hollowed out just enough.

While he works, Amata lies beside him. She rolls over now; soon, she’ll crawl, Ema’ma says. Rolling over is worrisome enough: one day, he turned his back on the escape artist, and she nearly rolled off the porch. He caught her just in time. Ema’ma jokes that he’s always taking her along and that, if he doesn’t stop it, she’ll just continue to get in his way. Only Amata doesn’t get in his way: instead, she makes the chores less heavy with her gurgles and baby smiles. Because daughters are dreamers: that’s what Evariste said.

“What will you dream?” Gaeton asks Amata. She gaggles back at him, making incoherent noises and smiles a toothless grin. “Well,” he adds. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a good one.”

**** *****

Mamree scoffs when Evariste hurries her along. “What are you worried about?” Mamree insists, yanking her arm away from her older sister’s grasp. They barely spent any time in the market. “Ema’ma asked for a lot more than what you got,” she warns.

Evariste starts to reply when there’s a shout behind her. “Cockroaches be scurrying back to safety!”

Mamree looks over her shoulder. She huffs. “Stupid boy, don’t you know you’re the cockroach!”

“Mamree!”

The boy is one they don’t know. Instead of going away, he jogs up alongside Evariste. She keeps her face forward. Barely moving her lips, she says, “Mamree, go on home.”

For once, Mamree doesn’t argue. Instead, she takes off running.

It is the longest walk of Evariste’s life. She’s made the journey from the village to home more times than she can count. He calls her cockroach again, tells her she’s a disease, warns her that the Tutsi killed his family, and he wants to kill her. Evariste’s arms start shaking first, but she grips the basket tight, so he doesn’t see. She fights the urge to run because he would catch her. Images of the Tutsi revolution flash through her mind: the Tutsi killed many Hutu. Marc! My brother’s dead! she’d never forget the tortured cry when she found Gaeton on his knees, in the middle of the road, clutching his younger brother Marc to his chest. Gaeton’s arms, face and chest were soaked in blood and Evariste feared it was his own. She dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and felt him trembling. Part of him is different now; part of him never got up off that ground. She thinks of that, lets it replay in her mind repeatedly, as the Hutu yells in her ear. She waits for the moment he strikes her. No one has ever struck her… but she knows it happens frequently to others. Outbursts are not uncommon, especially in busy places like the market.

Still, she is unprepared when something wet hits her cheek. Spit. He spit on her. Afraid to unclench her fingers from around her basket lest he see her trembling, she chooses instead to keep walking. Her eyes flinch when she sees a movement beside her; she catches him scooping small pebbles up from the ground. She steps to the side, but not quickly enough: the small rocks strike her. On the cheek, on her shoulder, on her arm.

She stumbles, belatedly trying to step out of the way, and hears him laugh. “Don’t let me see you again, cockroach!” He yells, jogging backwards, away from her. She waits until she can’t hear anything behind her to steal a glance over her shoulder.

When she can’t see him, she runs.

**** **** ****

“Ema’ma! Ema’ma! Papi!”

Mamree’s voice strikes a long-buried memory in him. He’s screamed like that only once. He’d come to see if Evariste might walk with him, but she wasn’t home; she’d gone to the market. Still walking away from the hut, he turns and runs back when he hears her sister. He arrives in time to see Mamree collapse in Akalisa’s arms. “Mamree, what’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Ev-Eva-Evariste; there’s a boy, he’s calling her – her cock-cockroach and foll-following her. She told me – me to come – come home.”

Blood rushes to Gaeton’s face as he yells, “I’ve got it!” and takes off down the path as Papi appears from the sidelines to see what the fuss is about. Gaeton pumps his legs harder, his heart pounding in his chest, the roar of a thousand summer winds swirling in his brain. Her name, Evariste, chants over and over in his ears. He’ll kill anyone who touches her. The red dirt path bracketed by thick brush on either side seems far longer than it ever has before. He races past the open field, past the large eucalyptus tree in the pasture, and crests the top of the hill.

As he heads down it, in the distance, he sees her.

Evariste.

Running toward home. Her sandy colored dress flows behind her, her arms pumping hard, she has the look of a frightened mare about her. Frightened, but unharmed. Gaeton’s feet kick up dirt as he flies down the hill, calling her name. The two meet in the middle, her basket dropping as her arms wrap around his neck. He cups her face in his hands, pulling her away from him. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“He didn’t touch you?”

Rocks striking her skin flash through her mind, but she closes her eyes, shaking her head. “No. He… he spit at me.” She lifts a palm and touches her fingers to her cheek. Tears blur her eyes. He covers her fingers with his hand and pulls it away from her face. “Who was he?” He queries, his eyes hard.

She shakes her head again, laughing hysterically. “I don’t know — I don’t know who he was. I didn’t recognize him.”

He blows out through his nostrils, his eyes moving above her head to stare at the path. Finally, he nods once. “But you’re alright?” He pulls her towards him again, wrapping his arms around her.

“Evariste!” Papi’s voice pulls them apart. Coming down the hill is Papi, and Ema’ma. They surround her, checking to confirm she is unharmed. Safe, and surrounded by those who love her, Evariste’s panic subsides.

Gaeton promises to see her on the morrow, and she allows her parents to guide her toward the hut. Ema’ma carries the basket of bread now.

**** **** *****

Emotions make her tired.

After comforting a worried Mamree, Evariste seeks solitude. She steps outside the hut. Stars poke holes through the velvet sky, and a gentle breeze blows from the East. She hears Mamree’s gecko and finds a smile: he’s back. She wraps her arms around her middle and stares off into the pasture, toward Charlotte and the other cows. Turning, she moves to sit, but there… just at the edge of the hut sits something that wasn’t there before. The starlight falls on something tanned, something cylindrical; what is it?

An imonga! The drum is traditional – beautiful, tanned hide stretched across both ends of the hollowed-out tree trunk. These drums take weeks to make and are usually only played by men. It sits on a piece of bark. When she pulls it out, putting her palm flat against the top of the drum, she flips the note around and reads, “The first drum for your school, Dreamer.”