Free A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon Page A

oversized office outfit—remind me of a woman in a Renaissance painting; she has a passionate, unmeasured manner. Christine glows as she describes Hortense. “She knows all of the women, every participant’s story. She will arrange and accompany you on all of your meetings with sisters. She is very good, this one. I really must give her a promotion.”
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    THE ORCHID SAFARI CLUB has my reservation after all. In addition to being safe, the club’s supposed to be the best people-watching spot in Bukavu. All of Eastern Congo’s power players drift through: government officials, mining executives, aid workers, Ukrainian bush pilots, journalists, military commanders. On the way in, I notice a sign posted on the door: DEAR GUESTS, WE THANK YOU TO NOT COME INTO THE RESTAURANT WITH FIREARMS. THE MANAGER
    Inside, framed botanical orchid prints hang off-kilter and mold creeps along their edges. A water buffalo head mounted above a stone fireplace overlooks the dining room, which is dressed with white tablecloths and semiformal place settings. French doors fold back, opening from the restaurant onto the terrace, where lounge chairs with views of the flowering gardens and Lake Kivu are scattered. Tribal African songs drift in from the hills, mingling with Orchid’s ambient classical music.
    A man in his mid-seventies lunches alone at one of the tables, looking
over some paperwork. He’s the owner and, I imagine, the Last Belgian in Congo. He spends his days wandering around the terrace and restaurant, greeting guests and directing the Congolese staff. We exchange casual smiles. He says something in French that I don’t understand. Because of the language barrier, I am never able speak with him.
    But the rumors fly. I will collect bits and pieces about him—perhaps fact, perhaps urban legend. They say he was born to Belgian colonists on a plantation and has never married, but owned this place with his brother who died a few years ago. Rebels invaded the hotel once, and he hid with the staff above the guestroom ceilings. On another occasion, legend has it, he was shot in the foot and had to retreat to Belgium for nine months of medical care. They say the Rwanda-backed RCD militia once camped out at the hotel for a long stretch and still owe him US$60,000.
    The Last Belgian seems to me a breathing museum piece, the last of his species, like Congo’s answer to a Tennessee William’s character or the tropical male equivalent of Scarlett O’Hara, haunting the halls of Tara. He seems to be playing the tragic leading role in the final stage production of a faded colonial dream, making his final stand in his small Orchid kingdom, ordering around Congolese staff members dressed in red oxfords, black pants, and bow ties. They radiate the stiff friendliness of obligation, though in private conversation with patrons they are rumored to admit they despise their employer. I would not guess it, even though their graciousness feels manufactured, as in, “Madame would like some tea?”
    As for safety at Orchid, that apparently lies in the eye of the beholder. This evening, military commanders are in the house. Never mind the sign on the doorway; they’ve brought their girls and guns. I watch a commander, his uniform buttons straining with postmeal bloat, while three girls sit by him quietly, smiling and laughing on cue. This is the kind of place that allows the illusion of elegance or influence or power if the lights are low, visitors’ eyes are squinted or don’t scan the corners of the room, conversation is kept vague, and nobody asks too many questions.

    The Orchid staffers show me to my room and give me a key, which, out of defiance or nostalgia, is still labeled ZAIRE. I dump my bag in the room, a nouveau Elizabethan safari cottage with a bold, flower-print bedspread in 1970s orange, green, and tan, along with Tudor-style wood accents, a dim light, and a slow fan. The bed’s