WAITERS POURED DRINKS behind the glass doors of the lounge bar. The hairdresser made appointments, while chatting to her friend who ran the tourist clothes shop next door. The Belgian chef walked across the redecorated hotel lobby in his white uniform, nodding and smiling. "It's been a long time since you were last here," he told me. A year beforehand, on 11 April 1994, had seen him and the hotel manager leave without saying good‐ bye. The lobby had been where terror hung in the air like ice. People had stood in the lobby, so weakened by terror that they could only walk with a drifting, wavelike step. There was a Yugoslavian woman with her Tutsi husband. He was a small, young man. He wore a brown, zip-up jacket and had thick spectacles. For days he never spoke. His fear had made him dumb. He only watched, barely moving his eyes, for fear he might catch the gaze of one of the government spies lurking in the lobby waiting to take people away to murder them on the road outside.
Blood had oozed onto the road from government lorries fueled with petrol provided by the Red Cross, as they drove by to deliver the bodies slung inside to mass graves. On 13 April I watched them haul six people out of a car there and shoot them on the roadside. The following day the French troops who had been sent to Kigali to evacuate foreigners and the Belgian