he corners what he calls the market, and then he means to take us over.”
“I’m not an idiot,” the American responded. “To me, he’s like the booster rocket on a space shot. He launches us, then he gets jettisoned.”
“I am quite certain he knows you’re thinking that very thought,” Fitzhugh said.
SHE DECIDED TO announce her decision to marry Michael. This, she believed, would stiffen her resolve, make it harder for her to retreat. She went about it methodically, tendering a written resignation to Ken, tacking on an apology for giving him short notice and a promise to return to Loki after the wedding to train her replacement.
Next she notified her family. She started by writing her mother but found she could not express her feelings to Ardele and so wrote to Nicole instead. She rambled on for pages, drawing an idealized portrait of Michael in the hopes it would persuade her family that she wasn’t crazy to have fallen in love with him. She resented having to explain herself. Those dull people who had never done anything out of the ordinary and whose lives were set up to protect them from powerful emotions were incapable of understanding the ecstasy of a great love, the power of an overwhelming passion. Love. Love. Love, she wrote in conclusion. Everyone wants it, but hardly anyone finds it. I’ve found it over here, and no matter what you think of me, I think I’m very lucky that I did.
She posted both letters through the UN’s mail service—to make sure they got to their destinations—and then biked to Malachy’s church to tell him of her decision and ask if he would perform the marriage ceremony. No date was set as yet, but could he do it? He could not—she and Michael weren’t Catholics. What happened to the bold priest who wasn’t afraid to break the Church’s rules? There were some rules he could not break, he replied, but he was sure his old friend Barrett would be pleased to do the service. Her final step was to break the news to Anne Derby. Her roommate was sorting laundry when she entered the tent.
“I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve resigned and I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” Anne said plaintively. She turned around. “Back to America?”
“I’m getting married.”
“No! You’re not! Who is it?”
“Michael Goraende.”
Anne blinked in puzzlement.
“He’s a colonel in the SPLA. He commands the SPLA up in the Nuba.”
Anne continued to blink as she assimilated this information.
“I’m going up there as soon as I can get a flight, and then we’ll set the date. I’m going to need a maid of honor, and I’d like it to be you.”
Anne returned to folding her laundry, except now she wasn’t folding it but distractedly bunching her clothes into balls.
“I know it’s a shock,” Quinette said. “But could you?”
“I don’t know . . . I—I would need to . . .” She spun around to face Quinette again. “No. I’m sorry, but no. How long have you been involved with this colonel?”
“Long enough. Why can’t you do it?”
“You know the reputation the SPLA has around here. If they haven’t committed as many war crimes as the Muslims, they have sure given it a bloody good go. Your doing this, why it’s the next thing to putting on a uniform and joining up.”
“So that’s what’s wrong? I haven’t seen them commit any war crimes.”
“I don’t mean wrong, morally. Or because he’s African. It isn’t done, Quinette.” She tossed a T-shirt on her bed. “It simply isn’t done.”
“But I am going to do it.”
Anne gave her a searching look. “Yes, I can see that. I’m fond of you, but you’ll be throwing your life away, and I want no part in that.”
“Fine, then. You won’t have,” Quinette said, already feeling like an outcast and, what was surprising, welcoming it.
“I’ll just say congratulations and wish you all the best of luck. You shall certainly need it.”
“Thank you. If you don’t mind, keep this to yourself till I’m gone.”
“That I can do.”
For the next few days Quinette was busy organizing her office files and putting things in order for whomever Ken sent to take her place. This eased her conscience about leaving him in the lurch. When she learned that the Friends of the Frontline were going to the Nuba soon, she went to Tim Fancher and, without disclosing her reasons (fearful she’d get a reaction similar to Anne’s), asked to hitch a ride. No problem, he said. They were flying in the big Antonov