#brahms lullaby

"So what is it that you think I've been doing here the last dozen years?" she asked, "Biding my time?!"

Alexandra took a deep breath and came around her desk. "I told you when I came back, Liv - everything is temporary. Even the Congo is temporary: the ICC is managed out of The Hague, so ultimately I'll end up in the Netherlands."

Liv shot her a sardonic look. "You don't have to pretend you care when you already have one foot out the door."

Offended, the blonde took a step closer. "Look at me," she demanded. They locked eyes, and Olivia's filled with tears. "I love you."

"How could we have gotten this so wrong?" Liv said weakly.

"I have to go get more boxes," Alex replied, stepping past Olivia to the door.

When she returns shortly after, Liv is gone.

.

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She marvels at how the sun here is like nowhere else on Earth. Since she first arrived in Africa, It's as though her pores are always open, leaving the parts of her skin not burned by the sun sheened constantly with a fine layer of sweat.

The sound of crickets chirping is unending along the edge of the lush greenery on one side of the dusty path she walks. Beneath her thin canvas shoes, even the clay ground is warm. At the end of the road, the jungle parts abruptly to reveal a calm, secluded area of shore before the mighty Congo River.

Alexandra shades her eyes as she looks into the sunset, clutching the notepad and pen that she has with her tighter. Her hair, lightened by so much sun, is pulled into a haphazard ponytail off her neck where she has tied a blue bandana. She continues all the way down to the shore, where she takes a seat and puts pen to paper to get out her thoughts before the sun goes all the way down.

7 April 2010

Dear Liv,

Never did I dream of places as beautiful and tragic as this jewel of Africa. The joy that somehow thrives among chaos is unbelievable and inspiring. It is a marriage of the best and worst of humanity all at once.

My pores seem permanently open; the heat is a constant, humid, cloying presence. You learn immediately what things the Western world takes for granted.

I have been introduced to more people than I can keep track of, and they ask me the oddest questions - about New York, about popular music and movies. You can almost forget for a minute where you are . . .

then you see a child feeding a banana to a monkey, or a jeep full of soldiers with rifles poised, and it's the end of the illusion.

So far my favorite thing to do is to sit by the river at sundown, when the temperature cools. It's meditative; it feels like preparation for the fight we'll have in The Netherlands. . . .

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The first letter arrives in early July. It is marked Business Mail, and covered in stamps and official waybills from several customs stops. It comes, of course, to the precinct rather than her apartment - Olivia finds it on her desk as she arrives one morning with her coffee, a donut in her mouth partially bitten. She tucks it among the other stacks of paper on her desk and forces herself to ignore it until the end of the day. Then the next day, for good measure.

When she finally takes it home, she tosses it on the coffee table. She prepares supper, refusing to even look at it, as if the universe would know and call it weakness. After supper, Liv opens a bottle of wine and pours herself a glass, sitting with the envelope neatly in front of her, as if it contains divorce papers, or the Will to an estate rather than correspondence. Curiously, she runs a fingertip over the writing on the front, touches the international stamp, unsure what she expects them to make her feel.

Liv imagines Alex, in an unfamiliar land full of forest, of war, of wild animals crashing through the bush and dusty roads that lead to who-knows-where. She pictures her tanned, smiling, in white linen and filled with a hunger for justice.

She flips over the envelope and inserts her finger along the seam, tearing it open.

. . . I feel as though maybe I'm finding myself again, this time - here, in this place. Maybe what I needed was a mission, larger than myself, or you or even New York. Only time will tell.

Don't worry about me. Take care of yourself.

Love, Alex.

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Olivia's head spins, with the acrid smell of Melinda's blood still drying on her hands, with the sound of Sophie still singing to Nicholas in French, with Jo's confession that was heard clearly outside the morgue while still trying to talk Sophie down.

The door finally opens so that Elliot can nod the all-clear to the officers in the hallway, and Jo comes staggering out behind, shell-shocked. Olivia is the only one rushing into the room, now.

Elliot turns and follows her, concerned and curious. She passes Sophie, holding the dead body of her son, without a word or glance.

"Bonne nuit cher enfant. Dans tes langes blanches repose-toi, joyeux, en rêvant des cieux . . ."

A large sink sputters on across the room and Liv is scrubbing angrily at her hands and wrists. El makes his way to her slowly, as if she is as volatile as the Gerards, who played a dangerous game and would be paying for it for a lifetime.

"Liv," he says quietly. She ignores him, the soap and her skin both turning pink in her fervor. He reaches out carefully and slips his hands around her wrists. "Liv. Stop."

She does, but still says nothing. Elliot pushes the soap from her her fingers, letting it clatter into the sink. "Here," he says, unbuttoning her cuffs and jacket sleeves so he can roll them away from her wrists. He adjusts the water temperature as if she were one of his many children, throwing a tantrum at bath time.

Methodically, he rinses the soap lather away, looking to make sure that he gets the blood that has clung to cuticles and the lines of knuckles. He holds her wrists under the hot water, letting the heat soothe her. "You're okay," he says softly.

Nothing has felt okay for a long time for Olivia, and the words cause her eyes to brim with tears. Months of checking the news in the Congo every morning has ground her down with anxiety, waiting to hear from Alexandra. Then the appearance of Marlowe, and the blonde's cryptic inferences with Elliot, which had put a new kink in what little peace Liv had left.

She meets his gaze and shakes her head, her lips pressed into a terse line as Sophie begins Brahms' Lullaby over again:

"Une berceuse et une bonne nuit. Dans le ciel, les étoiles sont lumineuses . . ."

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12 August 2010

Dear Liv,

I have been granted several opportunities to speak at a few girls' schools in the area. There has been work on developing a program to educate girls and women about consent in sex, rape, birth control, and protecting themselves. This, in conjunction with giving them the hope that reporting sexual assaults can result in justice, has made a visible difference among the women.

No word yet on when we'll be relocating to The Hague, but I imagine it will be the beginning of the new year. January in The Netherlands will be a shock to the system after all this heat!

More and more displaced persons shift around the area all the time, in response to various conflicts. Sometimes they move with soldiers, other times alone seeking somewhere to wait out the newest upheaval. Just a few days ago, a camp was attacked and fire-bombed in the night at the edge of the village where I've been staying.

Perhaps any mission larger than one's own happiness is a war that never ends with the forces outside ourselves. This violence is so much darker than I could have imagined. I still smell the scent of smoke, burnt canvas and flesh when I lay down to sleep. ...