Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers

by Frances Vieta

  “You’re going to Addis?”

  “Yes, but only on my way to Axum. I’m an archaeologist and I’m writing my dissertation on the obelisks of the ancient Kingdom of Sheba.”

  “Sheba?”

  “As in King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.”

  “Oh, that Sheba. Axum is supposed to be a very beautiful place. You’re not going alone?”

  “I’m not sure. My godfather is arranging it. He’s the American minister to Ethiopia.”

  “But surely he won’t send you alone. Beautiful young women don’t travel alone in a country like this. Any woman for that matter. It’s too dangerous. Surely, you’ve been told that.”

  “I have, yes. My father and I had planned to come together,” she said, pausing. “But he died recently. I knew he would want me to come anyway.”

  “My condolences,” Marco said, holding her gaze. “How did it happen?”

  “He was giving a speech at the League of Nations in Geneva and he just fell over and died.”

  “A heart attack. That must have been very hard for you. It’s easy on the person who goes, but very hard on the family.”

  “They said he didn’t suffer. I was in New York at the time. That’s where I live.”

  “He didn’t suffer, I’m sure, but that doesn’t make it easier to accept. You’re sure he’d want you to travel around this desolato country alone?”

  “I am sure,” she said, with more conviction than she was feeling.

  “That’s very brave of you. I hope you know best.”

  Ceseli turned to look out the window, breathing deeply, trying to control her emotions. Funny, she thought, there is a kindness about him, a sort of compassion and such expressive eyes. Don’t be silly. There is nothing more in those eyes than in any others. But as strange as it was, she was talking to him as if she had known him all her life. She had just told him about her father as if it were not the most painful thing she’d ever had to live with.

  Now out the window, she could see a gently ascending tawny desert stretching to the horizon, broken here and there by outcroppings of huge rocks. In the distance was a red spiral joining the desert with the sky and she saw a long line of camels, tied from head to tail, patiently following each other with large packs on their humps.

  “That’s a sand tornado,” Marco said, pointing to the cone of sand. “You see a lot of them, and that’s a caravan carrying salt. The nomads take it to the highlands, where it’s worth its weight in gold. The Afar people live out there. They’re very tough and very jealous of their salt pans and of course their watering holes. A man would die quickly without water when the temperature reaches one hundred and thirty degrees.”

  “The National Geographic says it’s the hottest place on earth. It’s supposed to be five hundred feet below sea level,” Ceseli added. “How do they live in such heat?”

  “The body adapts. They raise sheep, goats, and camels. They adapt, too. You’re American?” Marco asked.

  “Yes, I am. And your English is very good.”

  “I went to a British school in Florence. That’s where I live. Do you know Florence?”

  “I went there with my father when I was twelve. He was attending an archaeological conference. That was one of his passions. My father told me I needed some culture so we went to all the favorite tourist places: Ponte Vecchio, the Uffizi, and the Duomo. It’s a beautiful city.”

  “My father was probably there. He’s a doctor and an expert on Renaissance gardens. We live just above the city in Fiesole. My father knows where every plant and tree comes from, and what it can be used for,” he smiled. “I guess that’s why I got so interested in tropical medicine. I used to curl up in his big old leather chair and read his books on Africa. I’ve never tired of that,” he smiled. “You see, it’s getting cooler.”

  It was getting cooler she realized as she took down her satchel and pulled out a well-worn navy sweater. As she pulled it on she thought she could feel his eyes on her. The sweater was much too large for her slender body, but it had been her father’s favorite and she liked to wear it.

  She settled back into the chair wondering what this handsome young man would be like. Outside, the evening light accentuated the panorama with heavy shadows. She noticed a Danakil herdsman standing with one leg crooked into the knee of the other, heron-like, and etched against the setting magenta sun. Then, in a heartbeat, it was dark.

  Ceseli closed her eyes, and lulled by the rhythmic clickity-clack of metal against metal, fell into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  AT DAWN, THE TRAIN entered Ethiopia and as if by magic the scenery changed dramatically to black volcanic stone and sand with an almost apocalyptic feel about it. This was the Danakil desert.

  The abrupt breaking of the train woke her. Ceseli rubbed her eyes and saw that Marco was still sleeping. Looking out the window she saw a huge wooden water tank perched on the cut off stump of a very old Wansa tree. Other Wansa trees were on all sides of what she was assuming must be an oasis. She saw the men attaching a hose from the train to the water tank. She wondered if it was safe to get off the train, decided it was and climbed down closing the door quietly behind her.

  Despite the early hour, native hawkers were offering bite-size pieces of raw sheep and goat meat, small eggs, scrawny chickens, and the milk from camels or goats carried in animal skin bags. Other hawkers sold cactus pears, tea, coffee, and sugar cane. There was a lot of talking and haggling going on, but she could not understand most of it.

  Ceseli walked over to a short young woman selling coffee in tin cups. The woman wore a clean shamma and had a small baby strapped on her back. Fumbling in her pocket for change she noticed an African man smiling at her as he gave the woman some coins.

  “Endemen Adersh, Miss Larson.”

  “Awo Semeshehen Awekalehu.”

  “Yes. I do know your name. Please let me.”

  Ceseli remembered seeing him at the train station in Djibouti in an immaculate white suit, now rumpled. He had removed the jacket and now wore a safari style blue cotton shirt that emphasized his strikingly blue eyes. He had a slender aquiline nose and a light, coffee-colored complexion. His hair was short and straight.

  “Thank you, but I have money,” she said, taking the hot tin cup and juggling it from hand to hand.

  “My treat this time. If we walk over there we can sit down. I know you Americans are good at balancing plates and cups, but I like to sit.”

  “And you know I’m American?” Ceseli asked, following him to a long makeshift table made from wide rough boards with five chairs around it. There was a huge Wansa tree next to it providing shade from the burning sun even at this early hour.

  “That your name is Ceseli Larson and that you’ve come from Naples. My name is Yifru.”

  “Yifru,” Ceseli said, trying out the name. She knew that Ethiopians have only one name and that most of them have a meaning. “What does Yifru mean?”

  “Let them be afraid of him.”

  “And are they?”

  “Only those I want to be,” he laughed easily.

  “I see.” She sipped the coffee. “It’s strong, isn’t it?”

  “Coffee comes from Ethiopia. From the Kafa region. That’s why it got the name.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s a well-kept secret,” he said. “What brings you to Ethiopia? Spying for the Italians?”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” she laughed. “I’m an archaeologist. I’m doing my dissertation on the obelisks at Axum.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place, but it would make a perfect cover,” he said, winking at her as he sipped the coffee.

  “Yes, it would,” she smiled over the rim of the cup.

  “You’ll need special permission from the emperor for any travel outside Addis. He won’t let foreigners travel in his country without his permission.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “I didn’t know that. I just assumed that if I could get all the way to Ethiopia,
then I could get to Axum, too.”

  “Not anymore. Where are you from?”

  “New York.”

  “I know New York. I studied law at Columbia for three years.”

  “I don’t suppose there were very many other East Africans at Columbia.”

  “You’re right. And yes, I had a difficult time fitting in, but I went there for the education and that was excellent.”

  “Did you like New York?”

  “I was homesick. Three years is a long time to be so far from home, especially when the culture is so different. But I was lucky. One of my professors took me in. I spent a lot of time at his house. He and his family were very good to me.”

  “Your family must be very rich.”

  “Not at all. The emperor paid for it. He wants his advisers to have the best education they can get.”

  “You must know him well.”

  “I’m his personal assistant. The Keeper of the Pen.”

  “The Keeper of the Pen? For the emperor? For Haile Sellassie?”

  “Yes, for Haile Sellassie. It means that I have to write his correspondence and keep a record of everything he signs.”

  “Oh,” Ceseli said, at a loss for words.

  “You came through Naples?” Yifru asked.

  “I was only in Naples long enough to get off my ship from New York and get on the one coming to Djibouti.”

  “Is it true the wharf is full of troops and equipment?”

  “It was very busy. It’s an Italian ship and it was completely full. Most of the soldiers got off in Massawa in Eritrea.”

  “I know Massawa and it must have been just as busy.”

  “There were dozens of ships waiting to unload. That’s why we were so late getting to Djibouti. The ship went on to Italian Somaliland.”

  “Another Italian stronghold. We’re very much surrounded. The young man you’re traveling with, he’s Italian?”

  “He’s a doctor at the Italian hospital in Addis. But we’re not traveling together. Just going to the same place.”

  “I thought I recognized his face. There aren’t that many foreigners in Addis. It’s a good hospital and we are grateful for it. Where are you going?”

  “My godfather is the American minister in Addis. He’s meeting me at the station.”

  “Ah, Rutherford. I know him well. You’ll be in good hands.”

  Ceseli smelled the strong odor of goat and sweat. Turning, she saw a tall native man with a pet kid goat trailing behind him. He wore a bright red woolen toga and carried a long spear. His frizzy hair was matted and bleached to a glorious Titian red.

  “It’s plaster of lime,” Yifru explained. “He puts it in his hair to kill the lice. He’s an Afar. The Afars are nomads and salt harvesters who live between here and the Great Danakil Depression.”

  “I’ve read about them,” Ceseli replied quietly as she saw a young girl perhaps eight years old peeking out behind the man.

  Her eyes were almost black beneath beautifully curved eyebrows and her dark skin and delicate features attested to her Hamitic ancestry. She wore a red woolen toga and her hair was braided tightly around her head in small herringbone patterns with beads at the tips.

  Ceseli’s eyes met the girl’s. Watching Ceseli’s face from the corner of her eye, the girl approached and put a hesitant finger on her skin. Ceseli held herself very still, fearing that she might frighten her. The girl reached up to touch her blond hair.

  “She’s probably never seen a white woman,” Yifru said, turning to the young girl.

  The girl pushed the skin on Ceseli’s arm, making white spots appear under her tanned skin. She pulled the light golden hair on her arm and cocked her head slightly as she gazed into Ceseli’s blue eyes.

  “Her hair is dressed in ghee, a clarified butter that protects her from the glaring sun. Men often tease their hair out to halo their heads.”

  The train whistle startled the girl. The moment was destroyed and the girl stepped back. Yifru stood up and took the two empty cups, almost tripping over a very big man intent on taking photographs.

  Climbing back onto the train, Ceseli was joined by a very thin Ethiopian porter wearing Abdullah’s same starched khaki uniform.

  “Mademoiselle, welcome to Ethiopia”, he said in French, his clipped pronunciation turning his t’s into z’s. “Please keep this door locked, if you need anything just ask me. My name is Tariku.”

  “Thank you, Tariku,” she said climbing into her compartment.

  She was surprised to see that Marco was still asleep. His hair is brown and curly and soft, and he looks like a sweetly tousled Renaissance angel, she thought. One that Raphael or Leonardo might have painted.

  When the train actually started, she was amazed that the clanking and chugging did not waken him nor did the noise she heard herself making opening the window so she could take some photographs.

  Through her camera’s lens she watched as a flock of wild guinea fowl whirred up near the window of the train. She caught her first sight of the dik-dik, the tiny antelopes not much bigger than small dogs that, scared by the passing train, jumped in and out of the bush. Far out to the right she saw a herd of antelope grazing. The oncoming train set them leaping and careening away. In the distance, a herd of giraffe was running in their rocking-chair gallop, their long necks like sunflowers, waving in the wind.

  Closing the window, she took a leather book out of her satchel and began to read. This was her bible, the book that contained everything she had put together about Ethiopia, King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. It had started out as a journal, but over time all kinds of vital information had been added like the National Geographic description of the Danakil desert and even a recipe for injera, the pancake like bread from an Ethiopian restaurant in New York.

  “What are you reading?” Marco asked, yawning as he straightened up in his chair

  “The Kebra Negast. It’s the story of King Solomon and Makeda, the Queen of Sheba. It’s about how Solomon seduced Makeda and how their son, Menelik, stole the Ark of the Covenant and took it to Axum.”

  “You read Amharic?”

  “My father thought it was a sign of respect to be able to speak to someone in his own language. I learned a little Amharic to come to Ethiopia.”

  “I’ve tried to learn it so I can speak with the patients, but I’m not so good. And the rest?”

  “A little of everything. I call it my bible. If you’re hungry have one of my boxes.”

  “Thanks. And you?”

  “I’ll have the water for now.” She stood up to stretch and look out the window. Suddenly, she caught the sound of distant shots. She heard a screeching sound of metal grinding against metal as the train ground to a halt and the lurching motion catapulted her sharply against the window. She crashed backward to the floor hitting her head hard on the armrest of her chair. Outside there were more rifle shots.

  “Are you okay?” Marco asked, kneeling down next to her. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” she moaned, her head in her hands.

  “You understand me?”

  She tried to nod, but couldn’t speak.

  “How many fingers?”

  “Three,” she whispered.

  “And now?”

  “Still three, Doctor.”

  The rifle fire was intensifying and it was now on all sides of them. The pitter patters of a machine gun seemed just over her head and mixed with yells and screams of the passengers along the length of the train. The women in the closest car were crying out and wailing.

  A heavy rapping on their compartment door startled them. “Miss Larson, lock this door and don’t come out. And keep away from the window.” Ceseli recognized the voice as Yifru’s.

  “What’s going on?” Marco yelled.

  “I don’t know,” Yifru yelled back, running along the corridor.

  Marco rose to lock the door and window.

  “What’s happening?” Ceseli asked.

  “I’m not sure. The people
around here often derail the train. They think its great fun,” he said, reassuringly. “They also take down the telegraph lines. They use the copper wire for amulets and trinkets. I think we’ll be fine, if we stay put. The head still hurt?” he asked, as he got his medical bag down from the rack.

  “Not as much, but I feel like I have cotton inside it. What kind of amulets?”

  “The kind that magically protect you. It depends on what you believe. Rabbit’s feet, the cross, St. Christopher, there are all kinds of them. You’re going to get a nasty bump there. I’m sorry, but this is going to sting,” he said, as he knelt and started to clean the area on the side of her head.

  “Ouch. Take down the wires?” she asked, trying to mask her feeling of uneasiness at his physical closeness. “That must make communications difficult.”

  “Just wait till you get to Addis. The lines can be down for hours, even days,” he said, trying to downplay the intensity of the gunfire outside.

  “I suppose you use carrier pigeons? The way they did in World War I.”

  “No need. Nothing ever happens. How’s the head now, Miss Larson?”

  The rifle fire had become more sporadic and finally ceased altogether. Marco got up, opened the window and looked out.

  “You think that’s safe? He said to keep the window locked,” she said, but joined him nonetheless. In the front of the train, she could see that there was an animal trussed up on the rails. Toward the end of the train they could see a truck next to the train. The heavy knocking on their compartment door interrupted them.

  “It’s okay now,” Yifru said. “Just some local bandits. We’ll be starting again shortly. Doctor, I wonder if you could help us? There are several injuries.”

  “Of course,” Marco said, grabbing his black bag.

  “Maybe I can help,” Ceseli said, following him out of the compartment.

  “You don’t feel dizzy?” Marco asked, over his shoulder.

  “I think I’m fine,” she said, as the two of them followed Yifru toward the front of the train. Many of the passengers were now crowded near the first wagon anxious not to miss a show that might prove interesting. They were surrounded by a mass of inquisitive people. I wonder if they’re more interested in the wounded men or at the two of us, she thought