Deo had grown up barefoot in Burundi, but for a peasant boy he had done well. He was twentyfour. Until recently he had been a medical student, for three years at or near the top of his class. But he had spent the past six months on the run.
He had one friend who had seen more of the world than East Central Africa, a fellow medical student named Jean. And it was Jean who had decided that New York was where he should go. Deo was traveling on a commercial visa. Jean's French father had written a letter identifying Deo as an employee on a mission to America. He was supposed to be going to New York to sell coffee. Deo had read up on coffee beans in case he was questioned. Jean's father had also paid for the plane tickets. A fat booklet of tickets.
He had heard of French soldiers behaving badly in Rwanda, and had even caught glimpses of them training militiamen(民兵) in the camps, but waking up and seeing a white person in the next seat wasn't alarming. No one called him a cockroach(蟑螂). No one held a machete(大砍刀)．
A voice was speaking to him. He turned and saw a policeman who seemed friendly. Deo spoke to him in French, but the man shook his head and smiled. He asked a question in what Deo guessed was English. Then a woman who had been sitting nearby got up and walked over French, at long last French, coming out of her mouth. Perhaps she could help, the woman said in French. Deo thought, "God, I'm still in your hand." She arranged to sit next to him on the flight to New York and asked him lots of questions. Deo wanted to pay her back for helping him. So he tried to answer her questions. They talked most of the way to New York. After such long solitude(独处)，it felt wonderful to talk.
When he reached Immigration the agent stared at Deo's documents, then started asking questions in what had to be English. There was nothing to do except smile. The agent went off and came back with another man. He introduced himself to Deo in French. His name was Muhammad. He said he came from Senegal. Muhammad asked Deo the agents' questions and also some questions of his own. For the agents, he asked Deo, "Where are you coming from？" When Deo said he had come from Burundi, Muhammad made a pained face and said to him in French, "How did you get out？"
There was no time even to attempt an answer. The agents were asking another question：Deo's visa said he was here on business. What business?
Selling coffee beans, Deo told them through Muhammad. Just keep smiling, Deo told himself.
How much money did he have?
Two hundred dollars, Deo said with pride. The cash had been a gift from Jean. Exchanged for Burundian francs, it could have bought a lot of cows. But neither Muhammad nor the agents looked impressed.
Where was he staying?
Jean had told him he'd be asked this. A hotel, he said.
The agents laughed. A week in a hotel on two hundred dollars?
In 1994, airport security wasn't what it soon would be. Muhammad said something in English to the agents. His words must have been the right ones, because after a few more questions, the agents shrugged at each other and let him through, into America.
He had no idea what he'd do next. After six months on the run, he was in the habit of not looking ahead. And what was there to fear？What could the man in the booth up ahead do to him? Whatever it might be, he'd already seen worse. God had taken care of him so far. And still was taking care of him, it seemed. As this seriouslooking stranger, Muhammad, walked him out of Customs, he said that Deo could stay with him in New York City. But Deo would have to wait here for three hours. Muhammad worked at the airport as a baggage handler. He had to finish his shift. Could Deo wait three hours?
"Only three hours？" said Deo. "Of course！"
