Beneath the Lion's Gaze

by Maaza Mengiste

  Anbessa frowned, and it was in the flare of his nostrils and snapping eyes that Dawit saw a hint of the rage that might have razed a dozen soldiers at a roadblock. “We’ll have new assignments soon.”

  “They’re watching everyone. Especially students.” Solomon threw an angry look at Dawit. “And he argued with a soldier after seeing that body.”

  “Have you looked in the living room?” Anbessa pointed towards the door. “There were forty more we couldn’t save,” he said. “Tomorrow, there will be more.”

  “He needs time,” Solomon said.

  “We’ve run out of time.” Anbessa put an arm around Solomon. Solomon fell silent and Dawit could feel his resistance and resentment. “My friend, we’re being cornered,” Anbessa continued. “Plans have to change. You’re too inflexible sometimes.”

  Anbessa took out another cigarette and turned to Dawit. He slipped it between his lips but didn’t light it. “I have a good feeling about you.”

  “I won’t let you down,” Dawit said, feeling a deep loyalty already for the friendly-faced man. “I’m a fighter.” And as he said it, he realized his father’s arrest and Ililta’s death made it easier for him to imagine himself shooting a gun and feeling no regret.

  “Good,” Anbessa said. “Until next time. God guide you, and us all.”

  Solomon led Dawit out of the bedroom and back into the living room. “Don’t try to recognize anyone.” Solomon ignored the thin men who watched them with flat eyes. “It’ll never do you any good,” he said before pulling Dawit outside.

  44.

  THE INSTANT THE officer stepped into his cell, the lights snapped on. Hailu sat up, blinking away blindness, and watched this large man come toward him. The officer approached his bed so quietly he thought for a moment that all sound had gone the way of the dark and fled with the closing door.

  The officer was thick-boned and meaty. He wore a clean, formfitting military uniform with a red medal.

  “Get up,” he said, then came a startling clap like thunder breaking free of the sky. His hands were bulging knots of muscle and scarred flesh.

  Hailu had no more time to think or begin counting before he was pulled from the bed. Rough palms kept him steady while he stumbled. His eyes watered from the light that flickered. It seemed brighter than before, brighter than any light he’d ever seen.

  “It hurts,” Hailu said. “Turn it off.” Then he realized no sound had come from him.

  “Stay alert,” the officer said.

  Hailu fell into the chair shoved behind his knees and did nothing when calloused palms slapped his cheeks hard once, twice, three times. Instead, he clung to the officer’s broad shoulders without protest. He wondered where the scent of lemongrass was coming from. He wanted to pause all motion and try to remember where he’d stopped counting, pick up where he left off, feel the breeze from his cane field, touch Tizita’s soft hand again, but everything was swaying and tumbling and only the strong shoulders of this angry man saved him from falling into oblivion. Somewhere in between the buzzing somersaults of his brain, Hailu saw a dash of sky-bright blue behind the officer and he knew if he could reach out and touch that color, he could bring Selam to him.

  But then the questions started.

  “Why did you kill the girl? Didn’t you think we’d find out? Did you think you could lie?”

  The sky went away and only words whirred above his head.

  “Did you become a doctor so you could kill people?” The officer flashed a gold tooth and it glinted in the bright light. “Maybe you picked the wrong profession, Doctor,” he said.

  The officer didn’t wait for a response. He pressed his elbow into the center of Hailu’s chest, kept pressing, didn’t stop, the same relentless pressure bearing down slowly, methodically. The pain bent him onto his knees.

  “Dr. Hailu,” the officer whispered into his ear, “who told you to poison the prisoner?” The officer knelt, sat him upright, and gave Hailu full view of a broken nose. “We know you. Patriot, father of two, widower. You trained in England, married your wife before you left, your first child was born while you were abroad. Your granddaughter Tizita will be entering her second year of school soon. You might not see that. What a pity.” The nostrils flared, and Hailu couldn’t hear the rest of the officer’s words through the ringing in his ears. A sharp burn coursed through his back, set his spine on fire, shot embers into his head. His ribs grazed his legs, slender as twigs.

  “Dawit told someone about what you did. Your own son betrayed you, and we can bring him in unless you tell us everything.” The officer chuckled. “Father and son.”

  Hailu traced an image of Dawit’s mouth whispering his name into an eager ear and pushed the picture aside. He didn’t know his son sometimes, but he knew the man Dawit was growing into, and this man wouldn’t betray anyone, not even him.

  His head was clearing. The ringing was drifting into a sorrowful moan. He was starting to hear his own breaths. Hailu knew if he tried, he could summon the strength to speak, but he didn’t trust his voice to float out of his throat so cleanly. Certain words would surely catch and clip inside his mouth; his son’s name deserved more than that.

  “The Colonel takes over after me. He’s not going to be so gentle.” The officer’s eyes searched his furiously. “You only get this chance, right now.”

  “She was already dead,” Hailu managed to say.

  The officer’s arms swung and he grunted from the force of each effort. Hailu tried his best to move away from the momentum of that solid fist, but the rough hand that gripped the back of his neck held him suspended in an agony that sent spasms down his back. He marveled, in the sliver of light that cut into his swollen eyes, about the wonder of an arm that could swing with such abandon and still maintain such perfect precision.

  SOLOMON AND DAWIT were deep in the forests of Sululta, nearly thirty minutes out of Addis Ababa. Tall trees with tangled roots rose from rich, red soil and stretched to the sun. In the distance, the bray of cattle and a herder’s shrill whistle bounced through densely clustered leaves.

  Dawit shouldered an unloaded rifle, an old Beretta, its weight getting heavier by the minute. He aimed at a tree stump. The empty gun pushed a clipped, dull thud into the quiet valley. He inhaled the scent of eucalyptus and waited for more of Solomon’s criticism.

  “Guide the barrel with your eyes, rely on the sights,” Solomon instructed. He jerked the barrel higher. “Don’t you know where the trigger is without looking?” He chewed on a stick, working his jaws. “Forget it.”

  Dawit raised the rifle and aimed. “Let me try again,” he said.

  Solomon pushed the barrel down. “We’ve stayed too long and you’ve got other things to do. Let’s go.” He tapped on the gun. “This model has two safeties, don’t forget. Lock them.”

  They didn’t speak inside the car. Solomon turned on the radio and listened to news of the Derg’s maneuvers against Somalia. As they got closer to the city, Solomon fished in his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. He flattened it carefully on his leg, then tossed it to Dawit.

  “Here,” he said. “Anbessa wants you to start working. Read the paper, then tear it up. It’s your location for the next few weeks.” He held up a hand. “No questions yet. Just listen.”

  Dawit took the paper and opened it. It named a region and neighborhood of Addis Ababa: Wereda 12, Kebele 11. His own. His heart sank. He’d imagined moving in the shadows of night in clandestine operations far from anyplace he knew, hiding in secret homes and spending days and nights in underground locations surrounded by rugged, loyal compatriots. He’d never thought he’d be assigned to his own neighborhood.

  “While we get ready for the big assignment, Anbessa thinks we need to work on new tactics of fighting. He likes what you did, picking up that body.” Solomon sighed. “But we need a more efficient system than yours.” He slowed for another car.

  They were approaching Mercato, an area so congested and busy no one would notice Dawit getting out
and going home. They pulled into an alley and sat in silence as a muezzin’s chants rose from Anwar Mosque.

  Solomon stared at a row of shoppers filing past stores. “The Derg started what it’s calling the War of Annihilation a while ago. You know this. We’ve been fighting back. But now it thinks it can intimidate us and scare people by leaving those bodies all over the city. That can’t happen. If we lose hope, we lose this war.” Solomon’s cigarette pulsed a bright red.

  “I can do it,” Dawit said. He wasn’t afraid of carrying one of those bodies, he was horrified by the thought of finding his father amongst the decaying. He shivered.

  “It’s simple, but those are the hardest plans sometimes. Look for bodies, start before curfew. Take them to a location you’ll need to find. Have someone who knows people help with identifying and contacting the families. This means you need help, one or two others. No job should ever have more than three.” Solomon exhaled long and hard. He shook fiery bits of ash out the window. “Start before curfew, get done before curfew. Break as few rules as possible.” Smoke floated up and hung in Dawit’s face before Solomon flicked the cigarette out. “You’ll start when I give word.” He motioned for Dawit to get out. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  The Derg used the forest near his house as its execution ground; he’d avoided it as much as he could. It was close to the new jail, and in that new jail was his father. He stepped out of the car and nearly stumbled, his legs weak.

  Dawit leaned into the car for support and saw Solomon watching him closely. “What about target practice …?” he asked, simply looking for something to say.

  “Soon. You need something not so old, anyway. We still have to continue,” Solomon said. He paused and looked at him. “Can you handle this?”

  Dawit nodded. He imagined driving past that dark forest at night and coming across his father waiting on the roadside for him, barely standing, somehow managing.

  NOW I KNOW it is not dark at all. There is moonlight that refracts from the sun and brings order to the sea. Here sunlight blooms. I have no need for bones and cartilage, blood and breath. I can forget. Hailu swung on a pendulum. I know now that time sinks to the bottom of the sea and rises again in curves. My reflection is only an illusion, only flesh and water manifest in a drop of moonlight that shudders at what it sees on this dead land I once called my home. Hailu didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. His face was bruised, his eyes swollen, the room dark and quiet once again. It took several moments for the ringing in his ears to subside, and it was only then that he heard the moan. The girl had returned and she was bleeding in the center of his cell. She raised a hand towards him. Would he do it all over again? Then once more there was nothing but the ringing in his ears, then the slide into the belly of unconsciousness.

  45.

  MELAKU WAS RESOLUTE and firm. “You know I’ll help,” he said to Dawit. He ran a cloth across a dusty shelf. “I know all the families in this neighborhood. At least the women,” he said, winking.

  The transformation in Melaku had been gradual as he’d explained the mission, but Dawit saw it now in its entirety: his thin frame stood taller, the wrinkles around his eyes had flattened and smoothed, his movements were as crisp as a dancer’s.

  “Anything for my country,” Melaku said softly.

  Dawit felt such a rush of affection for the old man that he had to stop himself from hugging him. “It’ll be dangerous,” he said.

  “You’ve said that already,” Melaku said. “Living is dangerous these days.”

  Dawit saw Melaku drift into a long silence. “I need to get one more person,” he said.

  “Sara,” Melaku said immediately. “Is there even a question?”

  Dawit shook his head. “There’s Yonas,” he said.

  “She’s the best option,” Melaku said. “She’s a housewife, and in their eyes, a simple woman.” He smiled. “Though we know otherwise.”

  “If she tells him, he’ll stop us,” Dawit said. “I want Lily.”

  “Do you think Sara would have married the man you think your brother is?” Melaku stared at him. “Your family is your most loyal ally.”

  “We can’t have a country full of people like Yonas,” Dawit said.

  “Or full of people like you,” Melaku said. “A government of fighters won’t know how to lead, only create more war. You think bravery is measured in resistance.”

  “My father’s in jail because he took him there,” Dawit said, feeling hot tears rush to his eyes. He bit his lip and turned away.

  “You’re upset because you weren’t the one to take him, and you know it. Enough of this. You’re wearing out my patience.” He straightened a few matchboxes on the dwindling shelf. “Talk to Sara.”

  —

  LILY MET HIM at Melaku’s kiosk. Her hair had grown, her curls now grazed her chin. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why are we meeting here?”

  “Come inside,” Melaku said, opening the side door. “Soldiers walk by here all the time.” He closed the door behind them.

  “Is the kebele store in this area getting as big as the one in mine?” Lily asked. She leaned out the window as she glanced down the road. “They’re organizing them well.”

  “Get back.” Melaku patted a stool next to Dawit. “They get their eggs and milk from the same farmers I used to, what’s there to organize?” He dusted off his counter with careful hands. “They’ve taken over everything.”

  Lily glowed, earnest and excited. “This new system of distribution is the best solution, everyone has what they need, no more and no less. Capitalist methods only exploit the weak.”

  “Solution? This is nothing but control.” Melaku laughed. He looked at Dawit. “Even the Russians are asking me to get them things. The day Communists stop wanting their American jeans, then we can talk about exploitation.”

  Lily continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “I talked to villagers last week to write a report on medical clinics. They need to learn about hygiene and vaccinations,” she said, lost in the heat of her enthusiasm. “They need more than food, but we build these changes in small steps. I finally learned that after being a zemecha.” She smiled at Dawit, then grew serious again. “All of us need to contribute what we can. They give produce, we provide other resources.” She sat back, pleased.

  Dawit had seen Lily caught up in her convictions before. She focused on nothing else but the goal. “The Derg is the one exploiting,” he said, speaking slowly. “They use the emperor as an excuse to take away our freedoms and rights—”

  Lily interrupted him with a hand on his leg. “Can’t you see that we have to work with the government, use our leverage to educate them on true socialist policies? It doesn’t happen fighting them.” She avoided Dawit’s glare and turned to Melaku. “Already a few forums have gotten concessions and we’re establishing a joint committee.”

  “We?” Dawit asked. He moved so her hand slid off his leg. “What do you mean?”

  “Committees can go to hell,” Melaku said. “This government sets up committees for everything. Soon there’ll be a Derg committee to teach us how to wipe our backsides the socialist way.”

  There had been a time in the early days of the revolution when Dawit had known what to expect from Lily. The person that was emerging after her work as a zemecha and her meetings with her kebele officer was someone more prone to government rhetoric. He suddenly realized the foolishness of his plans to ask for her help. They’d seen less and less of each other in the last few months, she’d become more withdrawn.

  “Does this have something to do with your scholarship to Cuba?” he asked. He saw her grimace, then grip her hands together.

  “I don’t know if I’ll get it,” she said.

  “So you have to prove your dedication to them.” Melaku polished the counter with a corner of his shirt, his back to them.

  “It means I have to study hard,” Lily said.

  Melaku shifted some boxes from the floor to the counter. “I have to do s
ome work.” The silence stretched into tension.

  “We’ll leave,” Dawit said.

  Lily sat rigidly in the center of the room. “I’ll know about Cuba next week,” she said, turning to Dawit. “I’m a finalist.”

  “Good luck,” Dawit said.

  “You know I deserve it,” she said, refusing to stand up even though he was already at the door.

  “Do you think those bodies you see on your way to your precious school deserved it? This government doesn’t give anyone what they deserve.” Dawit felt the first jolt of a heart being stunned into a new kind of submission. “Let’s go so Melaku can do his work.” He held out his hand. Tenderness for her was fighting its way past his anger.

  She stood, clasping her hands together. “I have to go anyway,” she said. “I have a meeting.” She didn’t let her gaze stray from his face, and Dawit saw there, too, her love for him. “Come with me.”

  A loud clatter made them jump. Rows of tin cans had fallen to the ground. Melaku grumbled as he picked them up. “Get out of here, both of you,” he said. He stood, cans in his arms, and nodded to Dawit. “Go home.”

  Outside, near his father’s car, they stared at each other with the awkwardness of young lovers.

  “Every day I drive, I think one of those bodies could be my father,” he told her, aching for their familiar intimacy, trying to force it into this strange moment between them.

  “And every day, has it been?” she asked. “They’re systematic. There haven’t been that many bodies. If we work with them, we’re safe.” She touched his arm, let a finger trail under his sleeve and caress bare skin. “They’re not hurting your father. They need his expertise.”

  “How do you know?” She seemed so sure, her gaze into his eyes held none of the uncertainty that sent quakes through his world.

  “I work with the people making policies. They’re human, just like you and me. They have families. They believe in a better Ethiopia.”

  “How can you say that? Who do you think is killing so many of us, then? Don’t you hear about the same executions that I do? Do you know how many students are in jail?”