4. If you throw a stone...
("Cry Ophelia" - Adam Cohen)
Curled up on the couch India presses play. Paul Ashe has kindly recorded the Jude Limas special for her.
Watching as the camera pans through Maison d'espoir it's almost as if India is there for the first time. It's strange how she feels as if she was never there, and yet, when she closes her eyes she can still recall that sick sweet smell cloying the air. The moaning. The soft weeping. When she was standing there she didn't have the time to appreciate the beams of light coming through the high broken stained-glass windows, or the sweeping line of the patched roof.
She can't get used to herself on screen - the hollow-eyed solemn girl seems completely forgein. Jude Limas translates as well as she does in life; the caramel tinge of her skin plays off perfectly against those striking green eyes and the sleek black hair. She is intense without being intimidating, dynamic without being aggressive.
India expects to be extinguished. She has given Jude Limas enough ammunition to paint her as the surly unmanageable person that she knows she is, and so it is with some surprise that she watches as, with careful editing and perceptive commentary, a poignant story is skilfully unfolded.
Instead of using her as the focus of the story, Jude has given the Maison d'espoir an almost human nature, turning it into the main character. India herself is almost on the periphery, less a personality than an essence; a parable to the moral lesson that Jude is presenting to the world.
It is clear that she understands what she is doing; it is now clear to India why Jude has won all of the accolades that she has.
The final shot is a prize-winning presentation. One of the cameramen has fortuitously captured India after a healing session. She stands at the side of the cot, her shoulders drooping and her expression one of infinite weariness. Behind her, the woman she has touched is just visible. Though her image is slightly out of focus, the blaze around her and the pure white radiance of her smile cannot be missed.
Light against darkness. Hope against anguish.
"'Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.' So said the author Marianne Williamson. If you could do just one thing that could change the world today, would you? At great personal cost? At detriment to your own life? We look to others to do the saving, to people like India Waits who pay the price for our disenchantment. We designate responsibility to the shoulders of others, because we are afraid. This cannot go on. It is time to step forward into the light. Make your voice heard. Make it count. Make a difference."
India sits motionlessly as the details of Jude Limas's charity scroll across the screen. She is stunned, and still sitting as the next segment rolls. It's the man from Yéndé Miumou, his brown eyes fixed and impassive as he recounts his story to a translator whilst Jude listens, her cheeks sunken with contained grief.
When the segment switches over to some inane repetitive music video India turns down the volume, and then goes onto her balcony for a cigarette. Taking deep breaths she raises her face to the sunlight, enjoying the warmth on her face, and then goes back inside to fetch her telephone.
Paul Ashe answers on the second ring.
"Ashe."
"Hi Paul. It's India."
"I have CLI, India - I can see it's you. What's up?"
She watches the clouds drift through the sky, and her mouth twitches as if it's about to break into a smile all by itself.
"India?? What's wrong?"
"Absolutely nothing. What's next, Paul?"
5. ...something's gonna shatter somewhere
("Cry Ophelia" - Adam Cohen)
The Johannesburg international airport is bustling, but smaller than any of the others people are used to. It almost brings tears to India's eyes when she remembers how she'd left. This time they don't have to brave the pack of reporters hanging about - from the private jet's hangar they simply drive through the throngs and onto the busy highways of Johannesburg.
Due to Paul's efforts the sponsors have booked out a small boutique hotel for India and the crew. It is in a bustling leafy suburb, and India has a luxurious penthouse suite that opened onto a perfectly kept garden consisting of, amongst other things, a finely crafted maze laid out with smooth white stones and various fresh-smelling herbs. The group meets downstairs in the wood-rich cozy lounge, relaxing into large leather sofas with drinks in their hands as they examine and discuss the agenda. Afterwards India retires to her suite, first opening the large sliding doors cautiously to check for signs of press before she makes herself at home on a concrete bench outside and watches the vista spread out in front of her.
She has considered visiting Warren and Yvonne - it will not be a long journey - but has finally decided against it. For reasons she cannot pinpoint she is ashamed of herself, and she knows that they will see it. She has no grounds for shame, she tells herself over and over as she drags deeply on her cigarette. She is touching people everywhere she goes, changing lives, and even if she wakes every single morning feeling that familiar dread, she is still a success. Money, fame... she wants for nothing. If that's what she wants.
There is no reason for shame.
---
The next morning early they depart for Soweto; a limousine for India, a bus for the crew. Paul sits at his client's sides, finalising last-minute arrangements.
Sister Mary Sibanda welcomes them at the UkuHlonipha Aids Orphanage with a bright smile and ancient eyes. She has a broad smooth face and high slanted cheekbones. The Orphanage itself is neat and clean. They have a Government grant - not an impressive sum of money, but they have used it wisely. In large rooms painted an uneven but cheerful pastel blue, children lie in rows under light linen sheets. Some have sunken eyes, and others still smile when they see strangers approach. Though India has her serious doubts that these children will have any cause to know her, small hands reach for hers with vast trust.
It is at UkuHlonipha that India discovers the first of her limits. She can take away the illnesses and complications ravaging the infected children, but she cannot remove the virus itself. To try feels as though she is picking individual grains of sand from the desert. After the third child she speaks to Paul Ashe, and then asks him to call Mary Sibanda. She tries to explain as clearly as she can, guilt and anxiety gnawing at her gut in waves of nausea, and when Sister Sibanda is silent for a while, India clenches her jaw so hard that her throat feels raw. Finally the woman with the ancient gaze takes India's hands in her own callused ones.
"My friend, what I want for my children is anything you can give. If they are free of the terrible pain then they are happy for today. God bless you. Bless you."
To hide the tears India draws her hands from the gentle grasp and returns to the wards.
Later there is the inevitable press conference, something they end almost every day like this one with. The children shine. India Waits does not.
---
On the last day in South Africa they fly down to Cape Town and visit a clinic in Alexandria. Word has spread and people are lined up at the doors, their faces hopeful and their pleadings to the hastily assembled security guards loud. India is ushered in through the back door to meet the director of the clinic, a tall large woman wearing a traditional headdress and a tired overworked expression. Serena Mkhize greets them with a respectful firm handshake before leading them through the wards, introducing them to the scant friendly staff. The beds are all full, the waiting room is overcrowded, and the smell of antiseptics hangs in the air so sharply that Paul Ashe wears a permanent expression of disgust.
India starts in the children's ward. Because there are so many people she is restricted to patients pointed out by the nurses as the most in need, and the remaining have to be contented with her proximity. The bodyguards hang back, warned off-screen in a whisper by Paul Ashe.
In the adult wards the patients watch her hopefully and desperately, and when she skips the first old man in the second ward he reaches out a gnarled hand to her while garbling confusedly to a nurse. Upset, India asks Paul to let Serena explain to the patients while she works on the next man, and over the large woman's words she can hear the first murmurs of distress rising. The man in the next bed and the one opposite them rise with difficulty and approach her, both reciting a soft and pleading litany. Watching them with nervousness India turns her head towards Paul Ashe, even as she keeps her hands on the man underneath them.
"Don't let them touch me, Paul."
He is whispering to the cameraman again, and does not look at her. Sharply she calls towards him.
"Get them the fuck away from me, Paul."
Her brusque words cause the nurses around them to look at her sharply. Ignoring them, she barks at Paul over her shoulder again.
"Paul! Get them away."
Surreptitiously Paul Ashe lifts a finger to the cameraman in the best position, and then moves away slightly. India is moving towards the head of the bed fretfully, but can move no further when the two men drop to their knees and grapple at her feet, her legs, the hem of her shirt. Panicking, she shrinks into the corner, pushing the makeshift bedside table on wheels against the walls.
"Paul!"
Then, leisurely, he steps forward again and cocks a head at a nurse. "Can we get these men back to their beds, please?"
The sick men do not want to be moved, and it takes two more nurses to shift them away. Once she is free of their grasps, India jerks her hands back from the man on the bed in front of her and turns on Paul Ashe.
"You asshole!"
Raising his hands calmingly he offers the people standing around them a self-pitying grin. "Now, India, you weren't in any danger. Calm down."
"Fuck you!"
When she storms off Paul Ashe turns to the cameraman. "Let's just cut that last bit, right?" Turning to Serena Mkhize and the stunned crowd standing around her, he shrugs helplessly. "Artist's temperament. Let's take a break - I'll just go and get India."
About fifteen minutes later they turn up. India is pale and dour, and Paul Ashe cold.
---
That night, when India wanders down to the bar near midnight for a drink, she is stunned to see Jude Limas sitting in one of the leather armchairs in the corner, sipping a whiskey and reading the local newspaper.
She considers retiring to her room, but as she is taking her glass Jude Limas lifts her head and their gazes lock. With raised eyebrows Jude nods at the seat opposite her, and India has no choice but to join her.
After an impersonal handshake India sinks into the chair, suppressing a tired groan.
"What are you doing here?"
"A follow-up on an AIDS piece I did in '99. You're at Usizo Clinic in Alexandria, I believe?"
"Yeah." India watches Jude unenthusiastically. "You're well informed."
Jude's smile doesn't reach her eyes tonight. "You'd be surprised. For instance, I hear that you screamed at the patients."
There's a moment of silence as India sips from her glass, her narrow-eyed gaze fixed on Jude Limas. When she speaks her voice is clipped. "Actually, I screamed at Paul Ashe."
"You told him to get their hands the fuck off you, or something of the sort. If I'm not mistaken, that is." The profanity sounds inappropriate coming from Jude Limas's mouth.
India is clenching her teeth so hard that she can hear the blood thumping in her temples. "Say what you want to say, Jude."
Shaking her head, Jude rotates her glass, swirling the amber liquid in it around and around. "Even for
you that's a little extreme, isn't it?"
"You say it like you know me." India closes her eyes and leans her head back against the cool leather. "It's none of your business. Back off."
"Fair enough. I can't help wondering, though - why would you even go into a clinic if you don't want sick people near you?"
It is met with silence. Purposely looking away India takes a sip from her glass. The sharpness of the whiskey hits the back of her throat harshly and she almost throws up, fighting back the compulsion queasily. Sitting forward Jude frowns.
"Are you okay?"
"
Now you're suddenly wondering about me?" The words are antagonistic, but India's tone is flat. "No. I'm not okay."
With a start Jude notes just how pale the small woman is. The hand holding the glass trembles noticeably.
"You really were scared today."
India explodes forward into her seat. "I was not
scared."
"It's okay to admit it."
"I wasn't
scared." Sitting upright India leans closer, her jaw clenching and her eyes flashing. "I was in fucking
agony."
A frown creases Jude's forehead. "What?"
"I was in considerable fucking
pain, Jude." Sitting back, India shakes her head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."
"How..." and suddenly Jude is noticing little things like the careful way that India narrows her eyes against the light. "What's going on, India?"
"Nothing. I said it doesn't matter."
"Is there something wrong with you?"
The corners of India's mouth twitch. "I thought you had a handle on that."
Annoyance briefly flares in Jude's eyes before she shrugs. "I'm sorry. I thought I understood what was going on."
"Consequence of the trade, I suppose."
"I suppose."
India sips at her whiskey. "Don't think I'm not mad at you."
"You're allowed to be. I was wrong." Shrugging off the inanities Jude leans forward. "Talk to me, India."
"I don't want to." India's dark smudged eyes take in Jude's face. "But you're not going to stop, are you?"
"Nope."
Sniffing, India takes one last sip before she puts down the tumbler, its thick bottom rattling on the wood surface of the table as her hand abruptly shakes involuntarily.
"When I have my hands on someone, it's like the floodgates are open and I can't control the flow. And then someone else goes and puts their hands on me and they're tapping straight into me and I can't turn it off. I can't control it, and they can take until I don't have anything left." Abruptly India stops.
Sitting forward, her face stricken, Jude reaches out. "India. I'm sorry. You... I thought..."
"Yeah. I know what you thought."
"That first time in Guinee when you told me not to touch you - that was this?"
India nods, her head barely moving. With concern Jude reaches out to touch the other woman's knee, and then pulls her hands away quickly.
"I'm not hurting you now?"
"No." India gives a little half-laugh. "It's only when I'm ... working."
"Does Ashe know?"
"I tried to talk to him this afternoon, but he didn't want to listen. He thinks I'm just being difficult, and anything that ruins his grand vision..."
"He's an asshole. If you'll pardon me saying so."
"The truth shall set you free." India takes a deep breath through her nose, trying to settle her queasy stomach.
Trying to soothe her Jude rubs the limb under her hand lightly. "How are you feeling?"
A half-hearted chuckle escapes from India's pale lips. "Like I cycled the Cape Argus with a hangover and salmonella poisoning."
Jude winces. "That sounds awful. Can I get the hotel manager to bring you something?"
"I'll survive. Nothing a little sleep can't cure."
"And you can't sleep."
"Shitty conundrum, right? But I'll give it my very best shot."
"Okay." Jude watches India rise cautiously, unwilling to offer assistance lest she sets off the volatile smaller woman. "Goodnight, then. I'm in 305. Have reception call me if you need anything."
"Do you know any lullabies?"
"Nope. I do a mean version of 'Pokerface", though."
"Never mind, then."
---
The following morning they board a private jet, bound for the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They will be in the air for a few hours, and will be attending a charity dinner that evening. After the jet has climbed to a fair height and the pilot has deemed it safe for them to loosen their seatbelts, India approaches Paul Ashe where he sits in his plush seat paging through a thick document.
"Paul. I want to talk to you about yesterday."
Closing the file with a snap he gives her a sharp look. "Is there an apology in the works?"
"Not quite." Seeing the antagonism that creeps into his eyes she amends. "Well, I should say I'm sorry. I didn't explain to you why I didn't want... the people touching me."
"Other than your general fucking tendency to behave like a bitch, India?"
Rubbing at her thundering temples with one hand, India bites back the immediate retort and fights for a measure of control. "Look, Paul - when I'm working I can't have other people touch me. It ... drains off energy that I can't control."
Drumming his fingers on top of the file he glares at her. "And you couldn't have told me this earlier? Given me the basics when I needed them? You had to shout obscenities at me in front of the crew?"
His harshness is wearing on her. "I'm sorry. I was in pain."
Leaning forward he frowns. "Are you telling me that you won't let them touch you because of a little
pain? Fuck, India, you're working with people who are fucking
dying. How about some perspective?"
"You're hardly in it for the charity, Paul, so don't you ... " Suddenly she is just too tired of it. "The point is, don't let them do it. I can't work afterwards. Okay?"
"Fine. Point taken." Opening his file again the agent scans the first few lines before he looks up at her over the page. "Get some sleep, please. You look like shit."
---
George Taung meets them at the entrance of the Kabila Government Clinic, his pale eyes solemn behind thick glasses.
"The security guys you have with you won't be enough. I've asked our security firm to send more men - the mood is edgy," he informs them even before he extends his greeting.
Paul Ashe shakes his hand. "Why? What's going on?"
"It's your lady here." To India's astonishment he points at her. "They're all so impatient to see her. They heard about the orphanage in South Africa. Also," he cocks his head at the building behind them, "Miss Limas from CNN is inside."
India says nothing. Paul Ashe frowns at Taung. "Jude Limas is here?"
"Yes."
Paul Ashe looks over at India, and then back to Taung. "Well then. Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"
A couple of large men in khaki uniforms appear behind Taung and he half-turns, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he gives them last-minute instructions. Then, with a slightly nervous twitch of the neck, he turns back to Paul Ashe. "Let's go."
Taung is right. The mood inside the clinic is frenetic. When she steps into the waiting room - alone; Paul has once again gauged the situation correctly and set up an entrance that has embarrassed her - the men there cheer and push forward, only to be cautioned by Taung in sharp choppy French. He has been briefed by Paul Ashe beforehand regarding her no-touch rule, and has conveyed this to them. This morning, it appears that they need a fresh reminder.
After a brief chat with Paul Ashe three security men flank India and her personal bodyguard protectively, and though she understands that it is her own request they are considering, she feels intimidated by their threatening bulk, and wonders whether the patients won't feel that way too.
The patients do not appear to share her reservations. Ignoring the burly men they greet India with enthusiasm, and after an hour she is finally free of the uncomfortably wary feeling that Taung has instilled in her with his words. Watching her interactions become marginally more relaxed, Paul Ashe motions for the guards to drop back a little.
When Jude Limas appears from a side room, her cameraman hot on her heels, India nods at her from across the room with a small smile. Paul Ashe, on the other hand, immediately advances with his big white smile and words of platitude.
Shaking off his unwelcome fawning after a short moment, Jude follows in India's footsteps, greeting and chatting to men who have just been touched by the healer, or who have witnessed the miracle. Taung stays by her side, still solemn and grim, and more than once Jude has to maintain her poise when he speaks to one of the patients with barely concealed impatience.
In the last ward India visits the men are alert and bright. Rising when she enters the room, they all greet her welcomingly in French. With a slight blush India lays her hands on the first man. When he smiles up at her wondrously the other men approach silently on bare feet, curious to see what she is doing. Noting the movement from the corner of her eye, she considers turning around to see where the guards are, but Paul Ashe, visible at the back of the room, gives her a reassuring thumbs-up from where he stands. She'll be fine.
Paul Ashe makes mistakes sometimes.
The guards are hovering between the beds and the door, having been given the near impossible tasks of both keeping an eye on India and Jude, who are for the moment in different rooms.
When the first man moves forward and reaches out to India a guard hurriedly steps back to deflect him. Under normal circumstances his response would have been sufficient, but at that moment two more men realise that the first will block their access to the miracle. Surging forward they sidestep the large security guard. One man reaches forward blindly and wraps a hand in India's sleeve, the second dropping to his knees reverently to lay his hands on her feet. Seeing that they have been successful, a few more men approach from where they have optimistically been standing, at the edges of the room.
When the scuffle begins India knows immediately that something has gone badly wrong, but it happens so fast that she barely has time to turn her head before a hand lands on her arm. With a wild jerk she tries to shrug it off, only to feel another pair alight on her feet. With a panicked "Paul!" she tries to step back, but the third man is behind her with his head pressed to her leg, in a posture of genuflection.
"Don't..." she begs, trying to find the guards behind them. Two are trying to pry the men away from her, the third moving closer from the doorway much too slowly. As soon as a guard has one man moved, two more push through, desperate to touch the healer. The fray pushes her back and then pulls her forward, hands pulling and grasping at her, and in the eye of the storm she struggles for breath, feeling her knees weaken. If she drops they might step on her before the guards can get to her. Her hands are pinned to the man beneath them by other hands, heavy grips, and she can actually hear the churning rush of her heart. It feels as though her head is about to split apart. She stops breathing for a moment, the pain devastating, but when she tries to inhale the crushing force on her chest is too much. Gasping desperately she searches out Paul Ashe, noticing his panicked face at the periphery of her vision just before her sight - and her knees - give out.
She drops straight back. The white ceiling swirls overhead in lazy slow motion. Time stands still.
---
Jude Limas has just wrapped up an interview with a grinning man when the hurried movement of the guard at the doorway and a muffled call next door alerts her that something is wrong. Realising that Taung is no longer at her side she shoots an enquiring glance at the cameraman before rushing towards the doorway.
In the next room, chaos reigns. The first thing Jude sees is a mass of apparently brawling men; the guards are violently pulling patients aside as they surge forward. Then, as a path opens between them for just a second, Jude sees India. The small woman stands weaving under the grasping of a dozen hands. A trail of blood runs from her nose straight down over her chin. Some of it has dripped onto her ivory shirt, leaving a spreading circle of red right over her heart.
It is the look in India's eyes that sends icy chills down Jude's spine. The healer's eyes are so dilated that her irises are pure black, and though she looks straight at Jude, her expression is sightless. Pushing forward Jude yells her name, yells Paul's name, pulls a guard into the skirmish with her. They are closing in rapidly on the pallid woman when her knees simply give in and she disappears from view.
The security guard reaches her fallen form first, pushing away a wailing man as he falls to his knees beside India. Jude joins him seconds later, roughly hauling away another man by the back of his shirt. Running large hands over India's face, her neck, and then her arms, the guard looks up at Jude, his eyes wide.
"I can't find a pulse. She doesn't have a pulse!"
---
She can't breathe.
She'd wondered, when she'd had her hands on Trisha Connor.
Now she knows.
This is how it feels to die.
Continued...