Hailu slowed down but didn’t stop. “Not today, thank you.” He crawled forward.
“They’re your favorite,” Melaku insisted, leaning into the car. “I even have one peeled.” He stared at the road in front of them. “And I got a notice today, can you read it for me?”
Hailu shook his head. “Aren’t you taking those literacy classes?”
Melaku winked. “I passed the entrance exam.” He fished a letter out of his pocket. “Here it is, and take these oranges.” He dropped the oranges onto Hailu’s lap.
Melaku was the neighborhood kiosk owner. His stand was located at the end of Hailu’s street. Many years before, he’d been a rising musician, famous for his skills with the stringed masinqo and the mournful tremor in his voice. He played in a band that performed regularly for the emperor. But his career was cut short when he fell in love with Elsa, the young daughter of an official, and dared to ask for her hand in marriage. The angry father demanded Melaku never set foot on palace grounds again.
Still single, Melaku had become as much a part of the neighborhood landscape as the trees that grew alongside the road. No one seemed to recall a time when they couldn’t run to the kiosk for a bottle of Coca-Cola or a small bag of sweet dates. He was the eyes and ears of the close community, relaying information when necessary, defusing harmful gossip when needed. He was everyone’s grandfather, elder uncle, and for some of the women, their favorite former lover.
Hailu unfolded the letter and glanced quickly over it. There was an official Derg stamp at the bottom, then a sloppy scrawl that substituted for someone’s signature. The letter was short and direct.
“It says they’re opening a kebele store, all private shop owners have to close down,” Hailu said, frowning and looking up at the startled older man. He reread the notice. “You only own a kiosk.”
Melaku turned around to look at his kiosk as if making sure it was still there. “What do you mean ‘close down’?” he asked. He was shaken. “Close down my kiosk?” He took the letter from Hailu. “Let me see this.” He frowned and let his eyes wander aimlessly over the paper. He pointed to the signature. “Who is this? I have to talk to him.”
Hailu turned off the ignition. He read the signature carefully. “I don’t know,” he said. He hoped Melaku didn’t see the surprise that made his ears burn and his face flush. The name at the bottom of the letter was Mickey’s. “We’ll see what we can do. Don’t worry.” Hailu turned on the ignition and shifted into gear, his nerves jangling, already careening towards the moment he’d walk into the hospital and see the girl again.
“They’re building a new jail down the street,” Melaku said, pointing behind Hailu. “Good news every minute with this Derg.”
DAWIT CROSSED THE wide street in front of Addis Ababa University and wondered at the crowd that was gathered on one side of the school’s imposing stone archway. In his brother’s car was a new batch of pamphlets that called for an end to fighting in Eritrea. Solomon was to meet him inside the entrance of the school, near the steps of what had once been the John F. Kennedy Library, to give him new drop-off locations. Soldiers now manned his usual distribution areas, their watchful eyes alert and unrelenting, and Solomon insisted on strategic locations. Nearly at the archway, Dawit approached the growing crowd and pushed his way towards the front, curious.
A woman sobbed, cradling the body of a young man.
Dawit felt his eyes close and his knees weaken. Ahead of him, the expansive stone gates of Addis Ababa University blurred in the heat.
“What happened?” he asked, seeing Solomon and feeling himself pulled out of the crowd.
Students gathered around the body, knelt beside the mother, and picked her up. They led her away, some shielding her eyes, others holding her tight, their cries muted behind tight mouths.
Solomon patted his back. “The blood?”
Dawit nodded, dizzy. “It hasn’t happened since I was a boy.”
“You better get used to it.” They walked to the parking lot. “Did you see who it was?” Solomon asked. He opened his car door and unlocked Dawit’s side.
Dawit shook his head. “Not clearly,” he said, getting into the car.
As they drove, Dawit regained his composure, his vertigo slid away. Buildings stiffened to square forms, the road unwound and laid straight before them. He breathed evenly again. Solomon turned up the radio and drummed on the steering wheel as the announcer boasted of an assault and air raids against an Eritrean town.
THE CAFÉ WAS SIMPLE, a small one-room establishment with faded posters. Short wooden stools lined the walls. Behind old coats of cracked, peeling paint, a patchwork of newspaper scraps and torn magazine pages had been layered onto the walls for reinforcement. Except for a bored waitress who served them tea without asking, the place was empty.
Solomon fished in his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. He flattened it carefully. “Here,” he said. It was a clipping from Addis Zemen, the state-owned newspaper, and it showed the typical headshot of a student, a serious, dignified stare from a young face. “Recognize him?”
“No,” Dawit said, letting the sweet cinnamon tea settle in his stomach.
Solomon took the clipping and stuffed it in his pocket as wrinkled as ever. “He’s another student.” He looked at Dawit for a moment. “He was helping us with pamphlets, too.” He sipped his tea deliberately. “I’d just heard he was taken into custody last night.” He held a shaking spoon, then put it down and hid his hands under the table. “They work fast.”
Dawit fidgeted, nervous and lost.
“You wanted more work from us,” Solomon said, stepping into Dawit’s silence. “But this is why I insisted you wait. I didn’t think they’d leave him out in public like this.”
“He’s the body.” Dawit felt the tea turn into ice in his stomach.
Solomon nodded, both hands around his teacup now, steam reddening his fingers. “It’s just the beginning.” Another look. “We’ll have you finish the last batch of deliveries. Get them to the house by the end of the week, then take a break.”
“What about him? Shouldn’t we do something about the body?”
“No one’s allowed to move it, not even his mother.” Solomon’s newly lit cigarette pulsed a bright red as he inhaled. He exhaled long and hard. “Leave it alone.”
31.
SARA STARED AT the small square cards in her hands. Hailu’s name, house number, and kebele number were typed in smudged ink at the top. Below that, the names of each member of their household and their ages, even Tizita’s. Typed at the bottom were the staples each household was allotted, and the amount of each.
“We’re supposed to take these ration cards to the kebele store opening down the street starting next week,” she said to Lily. “I don’t even get enough teff to make injera. Yonas asked Shiferaw for more”—she paused—“but he couldn’t convince him.”
She threw the cards on the table and looked helplessly at Lily, who sat across from her in quiet sympathy, their pot of coffee growing cold in the hot room. The house smelled of sweet incense and cinnamon. A cool breeze flowed from the open window and sifted together the rich, thick scents.
“My mother and I get almost as much as you,” Lily said, “I think our kebele leader likes me.” She made a face. “We don’t need so much teff, I’ll give you some whenever I pick up my ration.” She was dressed in a miniskirt, platform shoes, and a wide-collared shirt, looking very much like the student she was. She patted her short hair. “Does it suit me? I had to cut it in the countryside. It’s growing, but so slowly.” Lily’s hair used to brush her shoulders, now it bloomed fluffy and soft around her small head.
Sara felt worn beside the stylish woman. “Afros are the latest style. It makes your hair look thicker.” She took safety pins out of her pocket and began to pin the curtains together. “I can feel Shiferaw staring into the house sometimes, even when he’s not around,” she said.
“It’s better to be safe. Too many people getting nosy these
days.” Lily ruffled her curls. “It’s not curly enough for a real Afro. Bizu said her grandmother used to tell her that a person with wavy hair was dangerous. I hope the Derg doesn’t know this.” She smiled weakly.
“What did Dawit say?” Sara asked, putting the ration cards in her pocket. The square corners protruded, made her feel sloppy. She took the cards out and laid them back on the table. “Maybe I’ll talk to him about these,” she said.
“He likes it long,” Lily said.
Sara adjusted the sealed curtains. Shiferaw had begun to spend more and more time in the courtyard just outside the window, watching them all with serious eyes and that thin grin. He’d already reported two men for not singing in kebele meetings with the right “revolutionary” spirit. The men had been beaten and taken to jail. She flattened the yellow cloth over the glass pane. It blocked out the sun and draped the living room in shadows.
HAILU UNWRAPPED A flag and unfurled it in the living room. The green, yellow, and red stripes were faded from years of sun. The Lion of Judah, wearing his tilted crown, was emblazoned in the middle, proud against the yellow background. It was the old Ethiopian flag, the one used under Haile Selassie. He hooked the flag on the wall furthest from the window where it used to hang before the new regime banned it from public and private display. There was still an outline of its shape on the wall.
Yonas put an arm around his father. “Don’t you know this is the flag of reactionaries?”
Hailu smoothed a crease that ran through the center. “Your mother gave this to me on my first day at the hospital. You were young. I’d just come back from England,” he said. He stepped back from the flag. “It feels like ten years since we had to take it down.”
Yonas followed his father’s gaze, frowning. “It’s illegal to hang this up,” he said.
Hailu’s eyes were gentle. “My office was so small back then.” He bent to wipe dust off his shoes. “My hospital was the best in Africa.” He stood up and glanced at his hands. “No one would know that now.”
“Shiferaw or one of the neighbors could see it.” Yonas eyed the curtain. “Sara said he’s been trying to look inside the house lately.”
Hailu shook his head. “I’ve seen the ones we should be afraid of.” He adjusted the curtain. “I invited Mickey to our house for a talk.”
“Without telling Dawit?” Yonas asked, looking uncomfortable. “You know they haven’t spoken in a long time. And since Mickey’s new promotion—”
“If he says something about the flag, I’ll know Dawit was right.” Hailu wiped his hand across the coffee table and inspected it for dust.
“Haven’t you heard the rumors? They say Guddu favors him because of his complete obedience.”
Hailu sat in his blue chair. “By the end of all this, who’s to say any of us will be blameless.” His eyes were on the flag.
ON MICKEY’S FACE was a thin layer of sweat; underneath his arms, two wet spots that soaked through his uniform. He waited for Hailu at the front door.
“You can wait for Abbaye inside, he’ll be downstairs right away,” Sara said, looking around to make sure none of the neighbors saw the uniformed officer standing politely on their veranda. This would look exactly like what it was—a requested visit—and could brand them as traitors.
“Come in,” she said, opening the door wider and extending a hand. “Please. Before the neighbors see you.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, embarrassed. He stepped into the living room and caught his breath at the sight of the flag.
“Sit down,” Yonas said, watching him carefully. “Would you like something to drink?”
Mickey sat in the middle of the largest sofa, perched on the edge with his hands clasped between his knees. He undid the top button of his shirt, then fumbled to button it again.
“Something to drink?” Yonas asked again.
“Oh no. No thank you. I’m okay,” Mickey answered, waving his hands in front of him for emphasis. “Not thirsty.” He coughed. “Is he coming?” he asked, sneaking looks at Dawit’s bedroom door.
Hailu walked through the dining room and strode towards Mickey to envelop the young man in a tight embrace. “Thank you for coming,” he said, kissing both cheeks. He smiled warmly. “It’s been some time.”
“Gash Hailu,” Mickey said, using the term for “Uncle,” “it’s good to see you.” He returned Hailu’s embrace and held on.
Hailu guided him to the empty seat next to his chair. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” Mickey responded quickly, nodding his head as he spoke. “Everything’s fine.” He sat down next to Hailu and put his hands on his knees, then put them down by his side. “You’re well?” he asked, staring at the flag.
“Things are as good as can be expected,” Hailu said. “Considering all the changes,” he added. He paused and waited for Mickey to respond.
Mickey stayed silent and looked again at the flag, then back at Hailu. “Yes.”
“How is your mother?” Hailu asked, walking to the window. “No sun gets in when we do this,” he grumbled. He began to unpin the curtains.
“No, no,” Mickey said, nearly standing out of his seat. “Don’t do that. It’s better to keep it closed.” He cleared his throat. “In case someone sees me,” he explained, nodding towards the flag. “I don’t mind it like this.” He sat straighter. “People talk too much without knowing anything.”
“I see,” Hailu said. He sat back down next to Mickey. “Sara’s bringing tea.” He pointed to the dining room table where Sara was arranging teacups on a tray. “We don’t have much sugar, I’m sorry.” He held out empty hands. “It’s hard to buy anything these days.”
“It is,” he said.
“Even Melaku is finding it hard to keep stocked.” Hailu inhaled deeply and took the tea Sara offered. He waved aside the biscuits. “He’s had that kiosk for so long, we depend on him for everything.”
“He’s been there since I was a boy,” Mickey said. “He’s in good health?” He played with the buttons on his military jacket.
“He’s been having some trouble,” Hailu said.
Sara handed Mickey a cup of tea on a saucer. “It’s hot, careful.”
“He received a letter the other day,” Hailu continued.
“How much sugar?” Sara asked, holding a spoon.
The teacup rattled in Mickey’s hand as he set it down on the table. “No sugar,” he said. He turned back to Hailu and thought for a moment. “Melaku received a letter?”
“Do you remember all the food he used to give your mother without charge?” Hailu asked.
Mickey looked down. “There are orders to follow.”
“If he’s out of business, there’s no way for him to live,” Hailu said. “And what harm is a simple kiosk?”
“This government is trying to do its best,” Mickey said. “We take care of our people. He’ll get ration cards.”
“Ration cards?” Hailu leaned in, their faces so close Mickey had to look down. “You know him. He’s a friend, and you still signed the letter.”
“I had to.” Mickey drew away and squinted at the flag. “But I didn’t want to.”
Hailu grimaced. “What would you do, if you could?”
“Some people have been given more rations than they can use. It’s the way the system works sometimes, even when we try. Maybe Melaku can find a way to help redistribute them properly. To those who need it most, of course.” Mickey sipped his tea, his eyes never wavering from his hands holding the cup.
EMAMA SEBLE COULDN’T keep her eyes off Mickey. The old woman, leaning back in her chair at the dining room table, had angled her body in the heavy boy’s direction to stare at him. Mickey ate his dinner like a man under surveillance. Emama Seble’s small, dark eyes moved over his hunched figure.
“New uniforms?” she asked, her fork stopped mid-twirl with spaghetti.
Mickey swallowed a mouthful of salad and took a gulp of beer. “I have to wear it.” He shifted uncomfortably under her sc
rutiny.
Hailu had insisted Mickey stay for dinner, and Emama Seble had invited herself to the occasion, having heard from neighbors that Mickey was at the house. “How are things since your promotion?” she asked.
“Seble, that’s enough,” Hailu interrupted. He moved his spaghetti around on his plate.
“I’m asking about his mother,” she retorted, and turned back to Mickey. “She must be proud of you. There’s more pay.” She waited for a response.
“Mickey, do you want more food?” Hailu said. “Yonas and Dawit can eat when they get back.”
Sara handed the bowl of salad to Hailu. “Abbaye, you asked for spaghetti again but you’re still not eating. You’re losing weight.” She frowned, concerned. “Isn’t it good? Sofia made the sauce special for you.”
Just then, Dawit came out of his bedroom. The two old friends stared at each other until Mickey dropped his gaze back to his plate.
“You’re here?” Hailu asked. He moved a chair for Dawit.
“I was taking a nap,” Dawit said, his attention concentrated on Mickey. “Why is he here? Get out of my mother’s chair.”
“Gash Hailu—your father invited me,” Mickey said, getting up quickly, the chair scraping behind him.
“You shouldn’t have come. And why do you call him Gash, as if you’re close to this family? You’re no one to us.” Dawit spoke softly and ignored the seat Hailu offered him. He stepped closer to Mickey and pulled him so his arm dangled in his tight grip. “How can you eat with those hands?” he asked, shaking Mickey’s limp arm.
Mickey slumped against the force of Dawit’s hold and looked at Hailu. “Gash Hailu,” he pleaded.
“Dawit!” Hailu said. “He’s my guest.”
Mickey tried to jerk out of Dawit’s grasp, but the slender man was stronger. Dawit’s grip was fierce. He seemed to take pleasure in Mickey’s obvious pain. “He’s a traitor,” he said to Hailu. His mouth was smiling, his eyes cold. “Get out of my house,” he said to Mickey, dragging him away from the table.
Dawit shoved him so hard that Mickey nearly fell backwards into the cabinet on the opposite wall. Hailu stood up and reached for Dawit, but Emama Seble put a hand on his arm.
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