But she could not sit there all day either. The central thing was to get to the emperor. He might even be able to – he had to be able to, he was the emperor, after all – solve her land disputes as well. So she left, and continued down the hill. By this time it was afternoon, when everyone, it sometimes seemed, was out on the streets. And a capital’s streets were so different from those of a provincial town like Gondar, however overweening the latter’s self-opinion. So much disease, displayed for gain. So many young boys, younger than her son, gathering at street corners, offering shoe-shining, boys from the regions sent to better their families’ fortunes, boys carrying so much hope on their bony shoulders; hope, if they had failed the grade eight examinations in the new schools or knew no one influential, that would probably just wither away. Modernity then aped tradition, sending them out, like their fathers at church school, to beg for meals. But it did not offer tradition’s safety nets, or any concrete promise of graduation to a different stage. She thought of their mothers and the tears welled. There were knots of donkeys, as always, and milling flocks of sheep. She watched as farmers picked choice specimens up by their front legs, or grasped rams by their curling horns and dragged them unceremoniously toward prospective customers. Mules, too, but this was less common than it used to be. They were outnumbered by cars now, driven by earnest young men in Western suits, or even, sometimes, by a woman.
There was something else in the air too these days, a kind of inchoate hurry. She began to notice just how many buildings she passed were obscured by scaffolding, how many were half-painted, or half-built. There were labourers everywhere, leaning on pickaxes by piles of rock or cement, waiting – for what? Nothing probably, just the end of the day, or the unwelcome appearance of a shouting foreman. They would certainly scramble into action then. She recognised the tendency from all the years of her husband’s church-building. Arches rose over the main avenues, all wonky eucalyptus struts and loud lettering.
At the princess’s spiked gate she no longer had to queue with everyone else. The first time she had been ushered in by a smiling boy who seemed to expect her she had been surprised, but it transpired that it was the empress who this time had counted houses and had said to her daughter, here is a relation in trouble and alone in the world. Look out for her. So every few weeks – for she did not want to abuse the privilege given – she was ushered into the princess’s quiet living room, bowing, attempting to erase herself even as she hoped to be noticed, speaking quietly when the princess asked after her, after her children, after the progress of her case. The empress’s directive had been handed on to the household too, so that even if the princess was absent she was led through a side entrance into the house, where she perched tense on the edge of a sofa and was served good food, a tall glass of barley beer, or a clear birilé of mead, which often she left untouched.
Basha Deneqè’s home was not far away. There, in the house she had stayed in before her husband’s death, she felt more at home, more able to confide and, to an extent, to rest. She told the old commander where she had been, what she had seen, trying to make sense of it, to build a picture of the world in which she now moved. What did the arches say? for instance. They were proclaiming twenty-five years since Hailè Selassie’s coronation; twenty-five years since he began remaking the city and the country, giving it an airline, a university, modern schools, hospitals, a theatre, factories, vast modern farms, usually named after himself or members of his family, and in the profits of which he often had a significant stake. Both of them also knew, could not but know, that these advances touched only a tiny fraction of the population, and further, that the emperor’s five years’ absence meant that from many he would never regain trust. He had gradually and skilfully achieved absolute power, however, and that, for years now, had been ample compensation.
But when the old commander’s son visited she shrank back. It was not just his good looks and imposing size – though he was truly huge, as tall as anyone she had ever seen, and then taller again. She knew he had recently been promoted, becoming the emperor’s personal aide de camp. Few could now approach the throne without going through him first. But she also saw that all this favour made the commander’s son wary, that the gates of his house were barred against those who might use him as a route to power; she respected that, and did not want to seem to be asking anything of him.
* * *
—
As the months circled by it came increasingly often, unbidden, ambushing her when she was playing with her girls or chatting to her neighbour. When she was walking through the streets a smell could do it, or a glimpse, through a gate ajar, of oblivious women secure in their domestic round: a dart of homesickness so sharp that for a moment she could not breathe.
Or she dreamt, deep dreams, of a churchyard alive with birdsong and shifting shadow, and of herself in her spot near the south door, enveloped in sweet-smelling gloom. When she woke there was often a long moment before the stomach-thud of betrayal asserted itself. Or it arrived at once; and although she would shove the memories away again, scraps always remained. They coloured her hours.
Sometimes, feeling a little stronger, a touch more distant, she let the images linger, turned them over and over, thinking. She might not be on speaking terms with Ba’ata, but surely she was owed something? It was a wealthy place. Holy water was a thriving business, there were the acres and acres of land, the offerings due at festivals, funerals, baptisms, arbitration dues, market dues, taxes on craftsmen; it was one of the richest churches in all of Gondar. And she had seven children to feed, by the man who had rebuilt it. No – they had built it together: the mud and stone of its walls might be his proud bid for the afterlife, but they also contained her sweat, and her tears. Her life, even: ever since her wedding their histories had been bound about each other like vines. Why – the idea stole up on her – why not ask for it herself? Female aleqas were not unheard of. They could not actually administer, of course, a man had to be deputised to do that, but her brother was a priest, and entirely capable. Why not?
The next time she went to see Theophilos she bowed to the women. Bowed to him, and to his cross, closing her eyes, kissing it, looking for comfort in the metal tracery on her forehead and on her lips. Felt the nudge at her elbow, the burrowing into her palm, before she understood it, but when she stood straight she realised she was holding a soft fistful of banknotes. Theophilos’s face gave nothing away, and neither, she hoped, did hers, even though her heart was full. He had been so good to her, so often. It wasn’t the first time he had given her cash; and he had once arrived at her door followed by servants carrying bags of teff, and said, ‘Let’s eat together.’ His gifts had seen her through weeks that in prospect had kept her awake, worrying about how she was going to feed her daughters. He had invited her to dinners where she sat mute, a slight, white-shawled figure surrounded by black-robed, black-hatted bishops. But when, one New Year’s Day, she slaughtered a sheep and invited the neighbours, his chauffeur, his servants, she did not ask him. She had felt far too shy, that it would be too presumptuous. In later years she felt a hot regret; she realised that had she taken him food he would have appreciated it, that it would have been a small way of repaying him. Much later she tried to make up for her omission, sending the sweetest, finest chicken stew to him when he was imprisoned. He would not eat, had not eaten for days, but for her, came the report, he had tasted it and sent a messenger back with compliments.
She bowed, and answered all the questions put to her, about her children, the various priests in their mutual acquaintance, the latest twists in her quests at the palace and the courts, before she mentioned Ba’ata.
Not long afterwards she found herself in front of another monk, though this one, unlike his deputy Theophilos, was frail with illness and age. Basilios, leader of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, listened. And assented.
* * *
—
She heard shouts before she saw anything, shouts and stuttering engines.
There seemed suddenly to be more people, some craning their necks, others being pushed back by figures she couldn’t see, and she was caught in among them. Her nose filled with their various smells: dust and old sweat, rancid butter, bruised rue. They were too close. Too close!
Abet abet abet!
Ah. She knew what this was. A gap opened up in front of her, and she pushed forward. She was part of a wall of people now, facing another wall, in between them clear road.
The low, dark car turned into the space, creeping, almost silent, helmeted policemen running alongside.
Abet abet abet! Abet abet abet!
People began to reach out toward the vehicle. In each hand a piece of paper, held aloft like a flag. Choose me! Choose me!
The car slid through the paper forest, and slowed. Then the first person broke through the wall, dragged the shemma from around his shoulders, threw it down in front of the car. Another followed, and another, calling abet, abet, abet, calling in the way petitioners had called out to their emperors for centuries, around tents pitched on the northern plains and in the southern depressions, through royal enclosures at Ankober, at Qusquam, at Gondar, on hunting trips, at parades, at play or at war, stripping off clothing, knowing that the contract between sovereign and people was that no emperor could travel over garments laid down in his path.
The car stopped. The window was rolled down. There was that long nose again. There were children in the car. They must be his grandchildren. The people stared in, and the children stared back.
Abet abet abet! Abet abet abet!
The emperor reached out and took some of the pieces of paper. The window was wound up again and the car moved off. When she got back to where she was staying her daughters ran to meet her. Their bodies felt warm and solid. She buried her face in the hollows of their necks, breathing deep.
From across the courtyard her host the aleqa watched her. He nodded, but did not smile. Ever since she had announced that Basilios was giving her Ba’ata relations had been cool. Then a visitor had arrived from Gondar. He and the aleqa had talked for hours, and the climate had chilled further.
A few days later the aleqa came over to her little house. He had his own announcement to make. His visitor, appalled by Basilios’s gift, had persuaded him – was he not more experienced, more learned? – to go to Basilios himself. And Basilios had reconsidered his position, and given Ba’ata to the aleqa instead.
The next time her son visited she sat him down and demanded he write out a petition.
* * *
—
ABET ABET ABET!!
The policemen crowded her, pushed her back, but she shrugged them away.
ABET ABET ABET!!
Day after day after day. And then one afternoon, ‘Leave her be.’ The busy hands dropped, and a space opened up about her.
Abet abet abet!
He stretched out a small hand, and she placed the petition in it. It was crumpled, browning in the creases. Then the window was rolled up.
* * *
—
The aleqa came to her again, and told her to leave. ‘You see that I teach here. Deacons. Boys, and boys becoming men. It is not appropriate for you to be here.’
It hasn’t been a problem in the past.
‘You must go.’
Some time later she answered the door to a policeman. ‘Madam, you are required to leave.’
I can’t. I can’t! I am the wife of a priest, I have made indissoluble vows. I’m still young, still fertile, I cannot move to ordinary lodgings, vulnerable to any passing man – and I have these children –
She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and the rising doubt, and it was not long before he left.
But the aleqa continued his campaign. So yet again she went to Theophilos, weeping this time, falling to his feet, and yet again he came to her aid. It transpired he owned a small house nearby, a bit closer to the slum, very modest, made of corrugated iron. He ordered it cleaned for her.
She spent one more day in the old compound, baking bread, decanting spices and grains, putting it all at the aleqa’s disposal. And then she gathered up her children and left.
* * *
—
So they settled in to Theophilos’s little house, the girls, their mother, and, at weekends, Edemariam, back from boarding school, who would pitch himself onto his chest on the low bed she had rented for him and lie there for hours, studying. When she was finished with the chores she took up her spinning and watched him, with a combination of pride and curiosity – the books looked nothing like the psalters and vellum commentaries that had so far meant education to her; many were, in fact, in a different language altogether. She worried about him, about the time he spent away, the amount of work he seemed to have to do. Not, as she might usually, about his health, or whether he was eating: even she could see there was no lack there, and that what they provided, at that school in the countryside six kilometres outside Addis, suited him well. Sometimes he brought crusty wheat bread home for them, light and rare, plain or spread with marmalade. She found that too sweet, in the way that she found honey too sweet, but the neighbours to whom she passed it on had no objection.
She was interested to learn the emperor took his role as minister for education so seriously he personally made sure the students ate well, visiting his schools regularly, distributing grapes, oranges, bread, cake. He had even been known, if a boy seemed especially peaky, to order food for him from his own kitchens. Sometimes he officiated at sports days: her son’s school had a long swimming pool shaded by an old fig tree under which, it was said, Menelik II had rested on his way back from Adwa; boys who did well might find themselves bowing, dripping, in front of their emperor so medals could be slipped over their heads. The pool had new diving boards, Edemariam told her, as high as a two-storey house, and yes – enjoying how shocked she looked – he had jumped off them.
And all of this (bar underwear, pyjamas, shoes) was free, the only debt far in the future, nebulous but absolute: that each boy must use his education to serve his country, education being, the emperor had decided – why else was he minister of education, rather than minister of, say, finance, or defence? – the quickest way to gain on more developed nations. The expectation was so universal, however, so internalised, that for many it took on the flavour not of debt but of vocation. They began to look outward for inspiration, beyond their own country, through their foreign teachers in the first instance, at whom they sometimes laughed because they were so different from themselves but whom they more often emulated; she worried about the extent to which her son seemed to feel encouraged to ask direct questions, to argue, instead of doing what was expected of young people, which was to accept authority and precedent without question, that things were a certain way because that was how they had always been and always would be.
On Sundays she gave Edemariam fresh-pressed clothes and he went up the hill to a low, many-windowed building in the archbishop’s compound for Sunday school. He accompanied his mother to Basha Deneqè’s, or he went alone to the house of a new friend, a man she didn’t know. Edemariam had been introduced to Germamé Neway by the civil servant who had watched Asratè Kassa rip up those first letters to the emperor; Germamé’s father was the dean of St George’s Cathedral and his brother led the Imperial Guard and so she trusted the connection, but from what she was able to gather from her son, the fastidious, traditionalist civil servant and this new friend could not be more different. Germamé, a graduate of her son’s school, had been studying in America until he was recalled by the emperor and placed in the ministry of the interior. He sounded kind (he gave her son pocket money, apart from anything else), bright, but argumentative and talkative. Idealistic. Her son returned from his weekend visits full of questions and assertions – about poverty, inequality, privilege; about the thousands upon thousands of gashas of land owned by absentee landlords and worked by peasants who owed so many tithes and taxes (the legal maximum being 75 per cent of the harvest, not
counting inevitable bribes) they could barely survive. She could not help glancing quickly behind them, around them, at the corrugated-iron roof. Shhh! You must not talk like that!
He desisted, but was pleased to have been able to distract her. He hated her accounts of her days, of walking through the streets, buffeted by strangers, dependent on their erratic mercy. The waiting and the self-abasement. The sense of achievement, after she had handed the emperor her petition, had not lasted long. Many weeks had passed, and they had heard nothing, and so she had gone back to waiting for his car. It had stopped for her once again, but then there had been many more weeks, and still nothing. So she kept going to the palace, day after day. She returned to the princess, who had been sympathetic – so sympathetic, in fact, that, as she remembered it years afterwards, she offered her a house. ‘Bring the rest of your children and live here.’ The empress offered a place for Alemitu at her handicrafts school. Yetemegnu had bowed, thanking and thanking them, knowing all the while that she would not take up these offers, which served only to remind her (as if she needed reminding) how long she had been away – years, now. Getting on for three years. And she was so homesick for Gondar.
Edemariam hated her accounts of her days, but not as much as he and his sisters dreaded her nights. She hardly slept. She prayed, the Lord’s Prayer, Gabriel’s paeans to the Virgin, the Book of the Praise of Mary. ‘She is the pillar of pearl that cannot be moved by the might of the winds, there is neither falling nor shaking for him that leaneth upon it.’ Praying in the old language, the language of the church and of her youth. ‘I know and I understand that I cannot comprehend it.’ She had never used a rosary before but now beads clicked away the hours of the night, while her children lay curled into themselves, unable to sleep. Ayzosh, they would say to her, helpless, ayzosh. She replied politely, but she hardly heard.
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