III
WHEN HE FINALLY FALLS ASLEEP, HE DREAMS A TERRIBLE dream. Often his dreams are so close to memories they wake him up, rather than allowing him to sleep. In this one he is back in prison. Perhaps because of his father’s prominence, they had isolated him, and he had the privilege of being alone in his cell with the cockroaches and rats. There he had come to forget even the sound of his own voice, for though he chanted all the poetry he knew by heart, and all the psalms and prayers, and sang aloud the hymns, his voice came to him as if from someone else. He had the impression they had split him in two with their instruments: he was both Dawit and a stranger who lay curled up, weeping and beating his fists against the rough concrete wall. With the silence, the light that worked only randomly, and the ceiling so low he could not fully stand, they had reduced him to madness. Every sound terrified him: the screams and whispers from beyond his walls. With every footstep he was convinced someone was coming to take him to his death. Lions, hyenas, and jackals, snakes and spiders, lurked in the corner of his cell, ready to pounce on him and devour him.
He did not know how long he had been there, only that there was no way to distinguish one day from the next. There were no windows, and the lightbulb that hung in a net in the low ceiling went on and off according to the whims of the faulty electricity. The food and water, too, came sporadically and in varying quantities. Sometimes he slept, but mostly he lay there chanting all the poems he had ever learned.
There was a big, burly guard who particularly enjoyed tormenting him. He had noted differences among his torturers: there were those who carried out orders without any particular pleasure. But there were others who enjoyed the work and accomplished their tasks with particular inventiveness. They took an obvious pleasure in creating as much pain as possible. This guard was one of the latter. Probably he had been taught to think of Dawit as a corrupt and spoiled member of the ruling classes, an arrogant adolescent playing at politics in the student organization he had joined. The guard called him an “aristocratic anarchist” and mocked him for causing his own downfall. “An easy target,” the guard told him, and laughed. It was a fertile line of reasoning. He had indeed been critical of the old regime. He had seen its abuses up close, the infighting, the promotion of people without talent, the graft. The guard had used all the usual means to induce him to betray his comrades, yet there was always a small part of Dawit that escaped, something that enabled him to remove himself to the mansion of his childhood, the cool, high-ceilinged rooms, the scented garden, his friend Solo’s arms. Possibly the guard sensed this, and it spurred him on. Someone must have been determined to keep Dawit alive and in solitary confinement indefinitely, if he had not been lucky one afternoon. The miracle M. had spoken of in the café did occur.
A new guard opened the door and came in, sliding the rusted can with the dry bread and urine-tainted water across the cement floor. A beam of light entered the cell. Dawit’s vision was blurred, and the edges of the pallet where he lay seeped into the hazy tips of the guard’s stub-toed boots. It was the sharp creases of his new starched trousers, the sudden scent of lemongrass, the thick-meshed black eyelashes that brought it all back: the ragged but ironed shorts and the carefully stitched T-shirt, the long, slim limbs, the slight body disappearing fast into a loquat tree. Solomon. He almost said his nickname. Solo. He lifted his blurred gaze toward him—just a moment of communication, a stare that made the undulating lines in his world spin in the gust of clean air and light entering suddenly from beyond the cell walls.
For a moment he thought he was hallucinating, lying there, hands and legs attached to a heavy chain, his body nothing but bruised flesh and swollen joints.
Dawit had grown up with Solo, the son of one of the palace servants. All Dawit’s childhood memories were inextricably linked to him. They had made slingshots together from elastic bands and wooden handles and hunted doves, cuckoos, and cranes at dusk in the freedom of that vast garden; they had climbed trees, picked loquats, half naked. They had hiked together in the hills around Harar, which they had been warned were dangerous. Solo had been his first love—there was no other word for it. He had never forgotten how Solo would come to him in the dark of night, slipping into his room and holding him fiercely, sleeping by his side, their limbs entwined.
Nor had Solo forgotten Dawit.
When the door closed again, Dawit pulled apart the lump of hard bread and was not surprised to find the sharp file. It took him hours and hours, shackled as he was, and constantly fearing someone might come to drag him out, as they did periodically, but eventually, desperation making him suddenly strong and persistent, he was able to free first his hands and then his ankles from their shackles. He stood partly up, for the first time in months without his chains, leaning against the wall and waiting for the door to open.
He is not really sure if he is dreaming or remembering, but he repeatedly replays the film of the moment the young guard came into his cell at dawn: he leans trembling against the wall, listening to the thick military boots stomping along the corridor; he sees himself behind the door as it swings open, holding the chain that had shackled him in his hands.
He had hoped it would be the guard who had tormented him so viciously, which as it turned out it was not. Perhaps it made no difference which guard it was at that moment. As with a sexual encounter, it is probably the first time that you remember best. He sees the guard’s surprised stare as he catches sight of Dawit behind the door. There was no time to hesitate. He recalled the names of warriors his father had told him about, Aregay, Merid, Amaha, Alemayehou. He watches again and again, strangely distanced from himself, yet remembering how feeble he felt, his arms and his legs weak so that he could hardly stand, as he threw the chain around the guard’s neck and pulled as hard as he could, suddenly filled with a rush of strength. He watched as the guard lifted his hands, searching desperately to free himself, gasping for breath, his eyes protruding from his flat face. He listened to the final throttled cry that came from the guard’s swollen lips. At that moment Dawit was able to close his eyes and to conjure up all the rage he had stored in his wounded body over those months of helpless captivity. Every insult and indignity, every torment, was avenged in that moment of violence.
He held on for longer than was necessary or prudent, squeezing every bit of breath and life out of the body. The guard wore a khaki cap that fell back from his head, exposing his dark hair and black eyes. Then Dawit let the body slip down onto the cement floor, though he was not completely sure the guard was dead. He kicked him a couple of times in the groin, where they had put the electrodes that had made him jerk and burn and freeze at the same time, making his body split apart. He had recalled the old method of pulling a body apart with horses; this was more efficient; they had split his mind and body irreparably.
He pulled first the shirt and then the trousers from the guard’s body. Quickly he pulled off his own filthy clothes and donned the starched, clean uniform, tucking in the shirt and pulling in the belt to hold the trousers up on his emaciated form. He angled the cap down over his eyes. He pulled on the heavy boots, loosened the keys from the belt, and made his way quietly down the narrow corridor, retracing the steps that had first led him there.
In his dream he sees the filthy, empty corridor with no sign of life, the same concrete walls. His knees almost buckle under him as he walks, and he puts his hands against the walls to steady himself. He glances around fearfully, but luck is with him: no one comes. He is tempted to unlock the five cell doors he passes on his right, where he sees no sign of light or life. He wants to free the other prisoners but realizes none of them would make their way to safety. Instead, fumbling, he finds the key to the door that leads into the courtyard and steps out into the first light of day. The other guards, crossing the courtyard, pay no attention to him. They came and went so frequently that a strange face could pass undetected. He is able to walk unhindered through the heavy door, out of the concrete building, into the dry patch of earth, the fl
at land all around. He makes way his way through the staring crowd at the entrance, all those relatives waiting for news of their loved ones. They are like shades in hell. He walks away from them, going through the parking lot with its military jeeps, trucks, and cars. He notices an old Volkswagen, where he sees three people sitting waiting in the dawn light. He goes down the narrow, dusty thread of a street that no longer seems real to him, finding his way. He takes off the cap and throws it onto the ground. He staggers onward. He is free: a rootless tree, an irremediably truncated tree, a tree without sustenance, but free nonetheless.
IV
THE MORNING AFTER HE MEETS M., HE GOES TO THE NEAREST Monoprix, picking up and putting down various garments. He chooses a tight-fitting black cotton shirt with long sleeves and a round neck, and khaki trousers with pleats at the waist that make him look a little less emaciated. He buys toothpaste, a comb, and soap. On the third day he goes to the public baths early and washes himself thoroughly. Then he takes the bus back into the city.
He stands in the afternoon shadows of the chestnut trees opposite M.’s blond stone building on the side of the Luxembourg Gardens. He looks up at the first floor and sees the terraces, the green plants in the window boxes, the red awnings. It seems another world, as though he has stepped out of a place of grayness into bright light.
He feels, as he did in prison, that he is split in two. He is Dawit in his stiff new clothes in the uncertain light, and he is watching himself, a young, painfully thin man with large dark eyes. He is unable to move. His head spins, and he hears the voice like an echo writing the novel of his life. His mind is filled with words that record his actions, or rather his incapacity to act. He has been alone for so long that this voice has become his companion, the secret sharer of his destiny. He must cross the street. He must ring the bell. He must ring the bell.
He forces himself to cross the street and press the shiny brass button that opens the door. He walks quickly past the concierge’s loge with its net curtain, afraid she will stop him. He goes up the step and opens the glass door. He sees the small elevator, but M. has told him to come up the steps, so he runs up the shallow carpeted steps, two at a time. He stands in the unfamiliar silence to catch his breath on the landing. There seems to be only one apartment on each floor. He rings her doorbell. He waits in the silence. Just as he is beginning to lose hope, he hears steps, and she opens the door.
She is wearing blue jeans, flat shoes, and a white shirt, the sleeves turned up to the elbows. She has tied her white hair back from her face, which makes it look more pointed. She looks at him blankly, as if she does not quite remember who he is. He draws himself up and lifts his chin. “You told me to come this afternoon,” he says. Please don’t turn me away, he prays.
He has scrubbed himself, brushed his teeth, and tied back his unruly locks as best he could. He knows he needs a haircut. He has done the best he can with his appearance, but perhaps she has forgotten what he looks like, how dark his skin, or even how young he is, how thin? Perhaps she has forgotten the encounter altogether? Is it possible she was drunk? Does she regret her act of generosity? Does she wonder suddenly if he will steal her silver or put a knife in her back?
She tells him to come inside and shakes his hand solemnly in the large entrance hall, as though they were meeting for the first time. Her hand is icy cold. She has tied a small blue scarf stiffly around her long neck. He does not know what else to say, and she does not say anything. She does not offer him anything to eat or drink. Had they not talked about Africa, about the large families, the way people helped one another? Had she not put her arm around his shaking shoulders? Is she going to send him away? But she tells him to follow, turns and walks rapidly. They cross the shiny parquet floor, the sound of their shoes loud in his ears. They go through a grand salon with a black leather chaise longue and a fireplace at one end, a petit salon with a Louis XVI desk, soft blue and red Oriental rugs with animal designs, filled bookcases, and pink flowers fanned in glass vases. They walk through a formal dining room, with a silver bowl in the center of a long mahogany table. All these rooms look directly onto the Luxembourg Gardens and, across them, just visible through the first yellow-green leaves, the Panthéon. Even the kitchen looks through French windows onto a small terrace and the gardens.
They go down a dark, narrow corridor, where the rooms are much smaller and look over a courtyard, shadowy rooms once or perhaps still used for the staff. There is a little sink in the corridor, and closets that seem to go up to the ceiling.
At the end of the corridor, she pushes open a door. There is barely room for a single bed, with its dark green counterpane and an old frayed armchair with a small white towel over the arm, and to his surprise and delight, a battered upright piano with a candle-shaped lamp on top. She shows him at the end of the corridor a back entrance to the apartment, through which he can come and go as he wishes. She presses the key into the palm of his hand and tells him the room is his, as well as the small bathroom with a shower and toilet next door.
He can only thank her, bowing his head. She cuts short his thanks and says he is free to use the kitchen, too, during the day.
He steps into the room, walks over to the window, and looks down into the courtyard with the green dustbins, plants, and the entrance to the back staircase. Briefly he wonders who inhabited this room before him, and why she had asked him to come three days after they had met. Has he displaced someone? And if so, what has happened to him or her? He looks around, just as he had in his cell, to see if there were messages written on the walls, wondering if the previous prisoner had survived.
She leaves him “to settle in,” she says, though he has nothing with him but a small plastic bag with a change of underwear, socks, a pair of shorts, and a few toiletries, which he lays out carefully by the basin, then stacks by the bed the three paperback books that he has picked up on the quay: a copy of Baudelaire’s Fleurs du mal; Marguerite Duras’s short stories, Whole Days in the Trees; and Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment.
Alone in the room, he puts the precious key in his pocket and shuts his door. He takes off his worn shoes and stretches out on the bed, opens up his arms, and stares at the ceiling, the voice in his head loudly recording all of this. He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he wakes, he gets up and drinks some water from the basin in the corridor. Then he opens the piano, a German one, a Schimmel. He looks at the yellowed keys. He places his fingers on them, shuts his eyes, and feels his way, playing from memory the simple pieces from his childhood. He plays a Chopin étude, the notes coming back to him from the tips of his fingers where they have remained.
He remembers the music teacher who came to the mansion, a blond young man from Sweden—the Emperor liked Swedes—whom his mother was always trying to marry off but who was clearly not interested in women. The teacher would stand behind Dawit as he sat at the piano, and reach over his shoulder to press down on the keys and against his back. Dawit has not played for years. Slowly, the notes of the Chopin replace the voice in his head.
He hears a knock on his door and rises quickly to open it, conscious of the holes in his socks. To his surprise, M. is wearing a white dishcloth tied tightly around her small waist. She asks him if he would join her for a simple meal. “I would like to cook something for us,” she says, almost shyly. He hesitates a moment, fearing that if he eats with her tonight, she will want him to do it every night, and he wonders what might be expected of him in repayment for the meal. But he is hungry, afraid of offending, and delighted with the small, quiet room with its piano. He smiles, nods his head, thanks her for her kindness, and puts on his shoes. He follows her into the kitchen. He asks her if there is something he can do to help, but she smiles and shakes her head. He sits on a stool and watches as she boils water in a big pot, washes the lettuce, and makes the dressing, dosing oil and vinegar judiciously, cutting the little loaf of bread.
“I hope this will be enough for you,” she says, serving the small bowls of pasta with oil
and anchovies. He could easily eat three times what she serves him and would like to ask for cheese, but he murmurs politely that it will more than suffice. They eat together in her kitchen, perched at a counter on high wooden stools awkwardly, like two caged birds, side by side. She eats very little, mostly sipping her drink. All their intimacy is transformed into awkwardness, now that he is alone with her in her house. He eats fast, distractedly, thinking of his last dinner with Asfa and his family, all the good-humored jokes, the children’s laughter, little Takla on his lap.
As soon as he has finished, he rises, says the pasta was delicious, and thanks her for the meal. She takes the dishes to the sink and starts to wash them. He offers to help, but she tells him there is a dishwasher, and the concierge is coming in the morning.
He says he is very tired and must go to bed. She looks at him, tilts her head to one side, and tells him she is afraid he might still be hungry, but she never eats meat or touches sugar or cream. Instead, she confesses, she drinks. She likes gin or, most of all, vodka, and she pours herself another glass. Would he not like a drink? He declines.
When he leaves her to go back to his room, he notices she follows him and locks the door that leads to the large reception rooms of the apartment, where her own bedroom must lie.
V
HE NEED NOT HAVE WORRIED ABOUT THE INVITATIONS TO dinner. She does not invite him to another one for several days. Indeed, he hardly sees her. He comes and goes through the back door, quietly, unseen, unheard.
The Bay of Foxes: A Novel Page 3