Love in the Land of Barefoot Soldiers

by Frances Vieta

  “He knows how far the emperor will go, I’m sure.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sounds of distant thunder. BOOM . . . BOOM . . . BOOM. . . .

  The satiated guests walked out to the terrace as the dark sky lit up. The offshoots hung like great open flowers in the night sky. Noiselessly as a morning glory opening with the light, a rocket burst above the garden. Then BOOM, the night air resonated with the delayed report.

  A second rocket soared up into the black sky, and showers of red, yellow, blue, and emerald bloomed with tendrils. As soon as the dropout was falling, another flash fired up between the hangings and burst into a magenta-red parasol. Then three altogether, each one of a different color. BOOM went the nurturing air. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. The air smelled like firecrackers and aerial fountains of light.

  She half turned to Marco among the showers of the prism. “How do they make the colors?” she asked as the fountains of light continued their booming sermons from the sky.

  “Magnesium salts, I think. The yellow is from sodium, the white from magnesium, and the red from calcium. The green may be copper.”

  “They’re lovely,” she said, leaning back against him.

  “They are,” he whispered.

  As the grand finale ended, she looked at him over her shoulder. “Thank you for your good advice. I’ll go to speak with Yifru.”

  “Let Forsythe do it. This is very much a man’s country.”

  “I accept that. Thank you.”

  “When are you coming to see how the Italians live?”

  “When you invite me.”

  “Consider yourself invited. How about Saturday? At one.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “HOW DO YOU FIND anything, Daniele? The streets have no names and the building no street numbers,” Ceseli asked, bewildered.

  “Areas are given names for the church they are near and then you just have to know. I was born and raised here in Addis, Miss Ceseli, and I’ve watched each new street be built.”

  “I can see how you are worth your weight in gold, Daniele,” she smiled.

  “Thank you, Miss Ceseli, but soon you will see there are differences.”

  “I hope so,” she answered with little conviction.

  Nothing could have prepared Ceseli for the reality of Addis Ababa. Warren Rutherford said there were some decided assets: the climate, at eight thousand feet, was exhilarating and the setting was beautiful, with green hillsides stretching up to mountains on one side and down to a great valley on the other. Distant ranges and peaks in the background added majesty and variety. It was lavishly verdant, blanketed with Eucalyptus and bright with flowers.

  But as Daniele drove Ceseli around the city those first days, she was quick to notice that the city was smelly and dirty, had clouds of insects, herds of goats along the streets and that beggars and lepers were everywhere. The shadows of carrion birds darkened the sky as they floated on the wind and at night hyenas howled in the streets.

  The imperial capital of Addis Ababa was unassuming, unpretentious, and unfinished. While the emperor lived in his palace, the common people lived in the mud and wattle tukuls that sprawled up and down the steep ravines. These were small, round one room dwellings with thatched roofs. Cooking was done inside which made the air very smoky and bad for the eyes. There was no plumbing. Garbage and feces ran through troughs up and down the ravines and people bathed in the rivers.

  But despite the poverty and all the other contradictions, the strongest plus for the Ethiopians was that they governed themselves and were not governed by the Italians, English, French, or other foreigners like other African countries.

  The city had become the first fixed capital in 1886 at the request of Menelik’s wife, Queen Tatou, who chose the site because of the Entoto Mountain and the rich hot mineral springs at Filwoha where she and ladies of the Shoan Royal Court liked to bathe. She named it Addis Ababa, or “new flower.”

  Before Addis, the capitals had been at Axum and later at Gondar and these places were abandoned when the fuel supplies were exhausted. Everyone assumed that the capital would soon move like other Shoan capitals had such as Ankober, Angolala, and Entoto. In those times, an emperor’s capital was a grouping of elaborate tents, both round and rectangular, made from red, white, or black material, or from multi-colored ornamental brocades. The monarch would have several tents to serve as his residence, his court, his administrative offices, and even smaller ones for his servants. These tents were usually pitched on the highest ground with smaller tents belonging to his rases lower down the hill.

  This all changed when Menelik was able to fulfill his fuel needs by planting the hillsides with the fast growing Eucalyptus trees imported from Australia. The Eucalyptus when cut down quickly pushes up new stems as strong and virile as the original. The decision to stay at Addis Ababa marked a turning point in Ethiopian history. To develop a modern state as Menelik intended, he needed a fixed capital.

  The center of town was the great octagonal Cathedral of St. George. It was the handsomest of the European style buildings built by Menelik using the Italian prisoners of war captured after the defeat of the Italians at Adowa in 1896. Walking through the garden of Eucalyptus trees surrounding the cathedral, there were flocks of mourning doves scavenging on the ground for food. Women and children sat on the stairs on all sides of the church.

  Removing their shoes, Daniele and Ceseli walked into the interior on the soft carpets. It was light and airy and he led her to the altar where a painting of St. George hung. The saint was on his rearing horse and had just finished slaying the dragon.

  “The Emperor took this tabot into battle against the Italians,” Daniele explained, pointing to the picture. “When he won the battle and defeated the Italians, he promised to build a church for St. George. And he always kept his promises.”

  Walking out the front door of the church, Ceseli saw the magnificent bronze equestrian statue of Menelik II that dominated the view out over the city. It had been commissioned by Haile Sellassie and unveiled at his coronation in 1930. Behind the church, a young lady was selling long amber colored tapers. They were several feet long and looked very rudimentary with bunches of wicks rather than one. They look too thin to hold a flame without melting down the wax completely and causing a fire, she thought.

  “And your English, Daniele?”

  “A missionary school and lots of practice,” he smiled. “And Mr. Standish lends me his books.”

  “I didn’t bring many, but you are welcome to them.”

  “Thank you, Miss Ceseli.”

  On the Saturday morning after the Emperor’s reception, Daniele drove Ceseli to meet Marco at the Italian compound, a large shady enclave where Italians lived and spent their time when they were not working. It was much larger than the American one, straddling the hill leading up to Mount Entoto. The Eucalyptus were huge and brooding, with a sharp pungent odor. The small residential building was made of large blocks of tuft volcanic stone covered with plaster and painted Pompeii red. The green, white, and red Italian flag hung from a brass pole.

  Marco was waiting for her at the door and took her hand to help her out of the car.

  “Shall I come to pick you up, Miss Ceseli?” Daniele asked.

  “No, I’ll take her home, but thank you,” Marco answered as he lead her inside the small villa.

  “This is one of the original land grants Menelik gave to the Europeans,” he said, leading the way through the living room to the terrace where there were chairs and tables. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “Yes. I remember that from the train,” he said, holding her chair. “The pasta is made in Eritrea, but to our specifications. It’s funny what you need to have in a colony for it to be considered Italian. Pasta is our first, but what would the British Empire do without its teatime?

  “I don’t know,” Ceseli said, looking at the spaghetti on her plate and starting to eat.

  “I’m a prett
y good cook, don’t you think?”

  “Excellent,” she said with her mouth full.

  “My mother is the good cook. She says the best food only comes from the best ingredients. She puts a lot of love into everything she makes.”

  “Well, she was a very good teacher. My father was a surprisingly good cook, too. He liked to wear one of those white chef’s hat. You know the ones with the balloon on top. He said people respect hats. Give someone the right hat and they feel important. Like policemen or mailmen,” she paused. “I don’t think I’ve had food this good in a long time.”

  “You’re just hungry.”

  She looked at him while he ate. The spaghetti was neatly coiled around his fork, like hay in round bales. Why can’t I do that, she thought noting the long strands of spaghetti drooping from her own fork.

  “Just take a few at a time and twirl.”

  Ceseli tried, but still ended up with an unruly looking mouthful. “In Italian restaurants in New York they give you a spoon to help you.”

  “I can get you a spoon if you want one.”

  “No. I’ll do it your way. I hope it just needs practice, like eating with chopsticks.”

  “I don’t think I could manage that,” he smiled. “But it’s not crucial. There aren’t any Chinese restaurants in Addis, or in Florence.”

  “There are certainly a lot in New York. Kung Hei Fat Choy!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Happy New Year’s in Chinese, I think. Daddy and I, and my grandparents, never missed Chinese New Year’s celebrations in New York. There’s a large Chinese population in China Town. It was a lot of fun and great food.”

  “Then when I come to New York you’ll have to teach me.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  They ate for a few minutes in silence, but it wasn’t a heavy one. “On the train you said your family wasn’t Fascist.”

  “That’s why they sent me to a British school, so that I wouldn’t be brainwashed by the Fascist propaganda. My father told me I’d thank him for it one day. I remember being with him in his office in Florence one summer day when there was a rally outside in the square in front of the railroad station. It was jammed with waving black banners and blaring music. The Fascist boy scouts were in their starched black shirts and perfectly pressed pants. They were going to a youth camp. It was exciting, but it was scary, too. Lots of my friends were going and I wanted to go. They kept telling me how much fun we would have.” Marco paused, remembering. “My father would not allow it. I argued with him at dinner every night for a week. There was a sad expression in his eyes that day. He told me that he and my mother had decided to send me to the British school. I was very upset. All my closest friends were going to the Fascist school, but he wouldn’t budge.” Marco paused again. “He was right, of course. But I only wanted to do what other boys my age were doing. I didn’t want to be different. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” Ceseli said, wondering what had interrupted his thoughts.

  “You speak often of your father. But you’ve never mentioned your mother.”

  Ceseli put her fork down. “I never knew her. She died right after I was born. I’m sure she was a wonderful person because my father loved her so much. The only thing Daddy regretted was that he never got to say goodbye.” She looked up at the sloughing trees. “He never made me feel guilty. But there were times that I did blame myself. I didn’t want to be different either. But children do a lot of things with their mothers that I couldn’t do. I lived with Daddy and his parents, Nanna and Poppy. They were wonderful to me. And I was lucky because my mother’s mother spent a lot of time with me. She was the Frances of the grandmothers. Every Saturday morning, she took me to the Museum of Natural History. And we’d do a lot of other things too, like pull taffy or go to the Washington market; that was the biggest food market in New York. You could buy anything there, buffalo meat or even ostrich eggs. She loved to bet, so we’d bet on who could find the most French cheeses or the smelliest ones.”

  “She sounds like fun.”

  “She is. The moment she weaned me from Santa Claus she got me looking for dressed fleas. Mexican dressed fleas. Only Mexican fleas were big enough to dress.”

  “There are such things?”

  “There are Mexican fleas, that’s for sure, but I’m just not sure if what I was seeing were actually fleas. I could never see the fleas, but she could, of course. She’d bet me she could train them to jump. Sotzy likes to bet, but she doesn’t like to lose.”

  “Sotzy?”

  “Something her younger sister started calling her. I don’t know how you get Sotzy from Frances, but it was her nickname. She is remarkable. In Connecticut, we’d get little green tree toads and she’d make a big chalk circle and put them in the middle, then see which one jumped out of the circle fastest. Do you have tree toads in Florence?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sotzy could always find something to bet on. She lived in Florence for a while when her mother was there being treated by a doctor.”

  “Did she like it?”

  “I think she did. I saw one of her sketchbooks of the bridges on the Arno River. She has a lot of talent. She has tried to teach me, but I’m not anywhere near as good.”

  “Your grandmother sounds like a special kind of person. She’s still alive?”

  “Yes, and if it weren’t for Sotzy I wouldn’t be here. She didn’t think I should cancel the trip. She encouraged me to come. My father would expect me to get on with my life and Axum is part of my plans.”

  “Did she like your father?”

  “Oh yes. In the summer she took me with her to her farm in Connecticut. Daddy would come up to the farm on weekends and we’d go sailing or fishing. He was very serious when he was fishing. I didn’t like putting the worms on the hook or taking the fish off. I hated catfish. They always stung me. But I liked being with him. So did Sotzy.” Ceseli tried to fight back the tears that felt hot behind her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” Marco said, smiling with that same sense of compassion she had felt on the train. “Grief is a very normal emotion. You don’t have to hold it back. Mourning is just as much work as being a painter or a writer. You have to leave enough time. Eventually it will get better.”

  Ceseli smiled at him, wiping away the tears. “Sotzy took me to the ship and saw me off,” she continued. “I asked her if she wanted to come. She said she’d slow me down. As always, she was probably right.” Ceseli waited a moment before asking, “How is your work going?”

  “Pretty well. I’ve been gathering herbs for my medicines. Hey, that’s a fine idea, even if I do say so myself. When you get back from Axum, come and gather flowers with me. There’s a hot thermal spring just out of town. At Filwoha. It’s where Queen Taitou went to bathe. When the water comes to the surface it’s boiling.”

  “That sounds like fun. I’ll count on it.”

  The afternoon was fading as Marco drove her back to the American compound. “I’m looking forward to hearing about your trip. Good luck,” he said, holding her hand and kissing it.

  “That’s something I’m always long on. Sotzy taught me that.”

  As she walked toward her tukul, she couldn’t help wondering what she was feeling. Marco was so easy to talk to, not like so many men she knew who were so caught up in their own lives that they weren’t interested in hers.

  She realized that she didn’t find it easy to be with men. She had been so protected by her father and his parents that she didn’t feel easy with strangers, but somehow it was hard to think of Marco as a stranger. She felt like she’d known him forever and she knew that she was looking forward to seeing him again.

  CHAPTER 11

  “CAN YOU SMELL THAT?” Ceseli asked.

  “What?”

  “You can almost smell it. The cradle of Christendom.”

  “I thought you meant the mules,” Standish said, looking at her and kicking his mule to keep up.

  Ceseli and Standish
looked out over the spectacular Valley of Axum. The huge valley was lush, watered by the wide Mai Chan River. It was an astoundingly lovely day, with clear aquamarine skies and the few clouds overhead were thick, like giant sea turtles floating upside down.

  Ceseli thought back on the previous days. The embassy’s truck had behaved admirably on the long drive from Addis up to Dessie. They drove through great forests of weeping Cedars, Podocarpus gracing the lower slopes along with Hagenia, St. John’s Wort, giant heath, and everlastings. The trip was alive with the flights of guinea fowl, herds of graceful gazelle, antelope, and eland. She had seen a buzzard almost as big as an ostrich. She could still smell the intense fragrance of the flowers and hear the songs of the small, brightly colored birds.

  The emperor’s sky blue Puss Moth had met them in Dessie. It was a high-winged monoplane capable of flying at one hundred sixty miles per hour and carried a pilot and two passengers in a tricycle arrangement, with the pilot up front in a cabin under the broad sweep of the wings.

  The handsome pilot was Yifru’s nephew, Yohannes. His handshake was firm and decisive. He was a bit taller than his uncle, slender, well built, with an open friendly smile and the same startlingly blue eyes. His hair was combed out into a huge halo setting off his high cheekbones and fine features. A white silk scarf and a mauve shirt under his smart khaki uniform accentuated the café latte color of his skin. On anyone else the color mauve would seem effeminate, but there was nothing effeminate about Yohannes. Both his English and French were excellent. Ceseli liked him immediately.

  “Have you ever flown in a small plane, Miss Larson?” Yohannes asked.

  “I’ve never flown at all.”

  “I’ll take it very easy, no acrobatics. You’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you for the reassurance,” she smiled.

  Once they were airborne, Ceseli and Standish could see that the land was as unique as any in the world. A relief map could not do it justice. Sometimes it was lunar and sometimes infernal, but never merely earthly. In the north, the Ethiopian plateau rose sharply within a few miles from sea level to eight thousand feet. Representing the most gigantic swath of erosion in the world, this highland was cut through by innumerable gorges and valleys, many of them on the scale of the Grand Canyon. Extraordinary rock formations bore witness to the volcanic activity that had shaped the skeleton of this incredible landscape, its topography imposing isolation and with it timelessness.