The Emperor: Downfall of an Autocrat

by Ryzard Kapuscinski

  T. K.-B.:

  Dear friend, of course I remember. Wasn’t it just yesterday? Yesterday, but a century ago. In this city, but on a planet that is now far away. How all these things get confused: times, places, the world broken in pieces, not to be glued back together again. Only the memory—that’s the only remnant of life.

  I spent a lot of time around the Emperor as a clerk in the Ministry of the Pen. We began work at eight, so that everything would be ready when the monarch arrived at nine. His Majesty lived in the New Palace, across from Africa Hall, and he performed his official duties in the Old Palace of the Emperor Menelik, built on a hill nearby. Our office was in the Old Palace, where most of the Imperial institutions were located, since Haile Selassie wanted to have everything within easy reach. He was brought there in one of the twenty-seven automobiles that made up his private fleet. He liked automobiles. He prized the Rolls-Royces for their dignified lines, but for a change he would also use the Mercedes-Benzes and the Lincoln Continentals. I’ll remind you that our Emperor brought the first cars into Ethiopia, and he was always well-disposed toward the exponents of technical progress, whom unfortunately our traditional nation always disliked. Didn’t our Emperor almost lose his power, and his life, when he brought the first airplane from Europe in the twenties? The simple airplane struck people as an invention of Satan, and in the courts of magnates there sprung up conspiracies against the Emperor as if he were a cabalist or a necromancer. His Revered Highness had to control ever more carefully his inclinations to act the pioneer until, in that stage of life when novelty holds little interest for an aged man, he almost gave them up.

  And so at nine o’clock he would arrive at the Old Palace. Before the gate a crowd of subjects waited to try to hand petitions to the Emperor. This was theoretically the simplest way of seeking justice and charity in the Empire. Because our nation is illiterate, and justice is usually sought by the poor, people would go into debt for years to pay a clerk to write down their complaints and demands. There was also a problem of protocol, since custom required the humblest ones to kneel before the Emperor with their faces to the ground. How can anyone hand an envelope to a passing limousine from that posture? The problem was solved in the following manner. The vehicle would slow, the benevolent face of the monarch would appear behind the glass, and the security people from the next car would take some of the envelopes from the extended hands of the populace. Only some, for there was a whole thicket of these hands. If the mob crawled too close to the oncoming cars, the guards had to push back and shoo away the soliciting multitude, since security and the solemnity of majesty required that the procession be smooth and free of unexpected delays.

  Now the vehicles drove up the ascending avenue and stopped in the Palace courtyard. Here, too, a crowd awaited the Emperor, but a different one from the rabble that had been furiously driven away by the select members of the Imperial Bodyguard. Those waiting in the courtyard to greet the Emperor were from the monarch’s own circles. We all gathered early so as not to miss the Emperor’s arrival, because that moment had a special significance for us. Everyone wanted very badly to be noticed by the Emperor. No, one didn’t dream of special notice, with the Revered Emperor catching sight of you, coming up, and starting a conversation. No, nothing like that, I assure you. One wanted only the smallest, second-rate sort of attention, nothing that burdened the Emperor with any obligations. A passing notice, a fraction of a second, yet the sort of notice that later would make one tremble inside and overwhelm one with the triumphal thought “I have been noticed.” What strength it gave afterward! What unlimited possibilities it created! Let’s say that the Imperial gaze just grazes your face—just grazes! You could say that it was really nothing, but on the other hand, how could it really be nothing, when it did graze you? Immediately you feel the temperature of your face rise, and the blood rush to your head, and your heart beat harder. These are the best proofs that the eye of the Protector has touched you, but so what? These proofs are of no importance at the moment. More important is the process that might have taken place in His Majesty’s memory. You see, it was known that His Majesty, not using his powers of reading and writing, had a phenomenally developed visual memory. On this gift of nature the owner of the face over which the Imperial gaze had passed could build his hopes. Because he could already count on some passing trace, even an indistinct trace, having imprinted itself in His Highness’s memory.

  Now, you had to maneuver in the crowd with such perseverance and determination, so squeeze yourself and worm through, so push, so jostle, so position your face, dispose and manipulate it in such a way, that the Emperor’s glance, unwillingly and unknowingly, would notice, notice, notice. Then you waited for the moment to come when the Emperor would think, “Just a minute. I know that face, but I don’t know the name.” And let’s say he would ask for the name. Only the name, but that’s enough! Now the face and the name are joined, and a person comes into being, a ready candidate for nomination. Because the face alone—that’s anonymous. The name alone—an abstraction. You have to materialize yourself, take on shape and form, gain distinctness.

  Oh, that was the good fortune most longed for, but how difficult it was to realize! Because in the courtyard where the Emperor’s retinue awaited him, there were tens, no, I say it without exaggeration, hundreds eager to push theirfacesforward. Face rubbed against face,the taller ones squelching down the shorter ones, the darker ones overshadowing the lighter ones. Face despised face, the older ones moving in front of the younger ones, the weaker ones giving way to the stronger ones. Face hated face, the common ones clashing with the noble ones, the grasping ones against the weaklings. Face crushed face, but even the humiliated ones, the ones pushed away, the third-raters and the defeated ones, even those—from a certain distance imposed by the law of hierarchy, it’s true—still moved toward the front, showing here and there from behind the first-rate, titled ones, if only as fragments: an ear, a piece of temple, a cheek or a jaw . . . just to be closer to the Emperor’s eye! If His Benevolent Majesty wanted to capture with his glance the whole scene that opened before him when he stepped from his car, he would perceive that not only was a hundred-faced magma, at once humble and frenetic, rolling toward him, but also that, aside from the central, highly titled group, to the right and to the left, in front of him and behind him, far and even farther away, in the doors and the windows and on the paths, whole multitudes of lackeys, kitchen servants, janitors, gardeners, and policemen were pushing their faces forward to be noticed.

  And His Majesty takes it all in. Does it surprise or amaze him? I doubt it. His Majesty himself was once a part of the hundred-faced magma. Didn’t he have to push his face forward in order to become the heir to the throne at the age of only twenty-four? And he had a hell of a lot of competition! A whole squadron of experienced notables was striving for the crown. But they were in a hurry, one cutting in front of the other, at each other’s throats, trembling, impatient. Quickly, quickly, to the throne! His Peerless Majesty knew how to wait. And that is an all-important ability. Without that ability to wait, to realize humbly that the chance may come only after years of waiting, there is no politician. His Distinguished Majesty waited for ten years to become the heir to the throne, and then fourteen more years to become Emperor. In all, close to a quarter of a century of cautious but energetic striving for the crown. I say “cautious” because it was characteristic of His Majesty to be secretive, discreet, and silent. He knew the Palace. He knew that every wall had ears and that from behind every arras gazed eyes attentively scrutinizing him. So he had to be cunning and shrewd. First of all, one can’t unmask oneself too early, showing the rapacity for power, because that galvanizes competitors, making them rise to combat. They will strike and destroy the one who has moved to the fore. No, one should walk in step for years, making sure not to spring ahead, waiting attentively for the right moment. In 1930 this game brought His Majesty the crown, which he kept for forty-four years.

  When I sho
wed a colleague what I was writing about Haile Selassie, or rather about the court and its fall as described by the people who had frequented the chambers, offices, and corridors of the Palace, he asked me whether I had gone alone to visit the ones in hiding. Alone? That would hardly have been possible. A white man, a foreigner—none of them would have let you get a foot in the door without powerful recommendations. And in any case, none of them would want to confide in you (in general, it’s hard to get the Ethiopians to open up; they can be as silent as the Chinese). How would you know where to look for them, where they are, who they were, what they could tell you?

  No, I was not alone. I had a guide.

  Now that he is no longer alive, I can say his name: Teferra Gebrewold. I came to Addis Ababa in the middle of May 1963. In a couple of days the presidents of independent Africa were to meet there, and the Emperor was preparing the city for the meeting. Addis Ababa was then a large village of a few hundred thousand inhabitants, situated on hills, amid eucalyptus groves. Goats and cows grazed on the lawns along the main street, Churchill Road, and cars had to stop when nomads drove their herds of frightened camels across the street. It was raining, and in the side streets vehicles spun their wheels in the gluey brown mud, digging themselves in deeper until there were columns of nearly submerged, immobilized automobiles.

  The Emperor realized that the capital of Africa must look more presentable, so he ordered the construction of several modern buildings and the cleaning up of the more important streets. Unfortunately, the construction dragged on endlessly, and when I saw the wooden scaffoldings scattered about the city with workers on them, I remembered the scene described by Evelyn Waugh (in They Were Still Dancing)when he came to Addis Ababa to see the Emperor’s coronation in 1930:

  The whole town seemed still in a rudimentary stage of construction. At every corner were half-finished buildings; some had been already abandoned; on others, gangs of ragged Guraghi were at work. One afternoon I watched a number of them, twenty or thirty in all, under the surveillance of an Armenian contractor, at work clearing away the heaps of rubble and stone which encumbered the courtyard before the main door of the palace. The stuff had to be packed into wooden boxes swung between two poles, and emptied on a pile fifty yards away. Two men carried each load, which must have weighed very little more than an ordinary hod of bricks. A foreman circulated among them, carrying a long cane. When he was engaged elsewhere the work stopped altogether. The men did not sit down, chat, or relax in any way; they simply stood stock-still where they were, motionless as cows in a field, sometimes arrested with one small stone in their hands. When the foreman turned his attention towards them they began to move again, very deliberately, like figures in a slow-motion film; when he beat them they did not look round or remonstrate, but quickened their movements just perceptibly; when the blows ceased they lapsed into their original pace until, the foreman’s back being turned, they again stopped completely.

  This time, great activity reigned on the main streets. Huge bulldozers rolled along the edges of the thoroughfares, destroying the first row of mud huts that had been abandoned the day before, when the police chased their occupants out of town. Next, brigades of masons built high walls to screen the remaining hovels from view. Other groups painted national designs on the wall. The city smelled of fresh concrete, paint, cooling asphalt, and the palm leaves with which the entry gates had been decorated.

  The Emperor threw an imposing reception for the meet ing of the presidents. Wine and caviar were flown in from Europe specially for the occasion. At a cost of twenty-five thousand dollars, Miriam Makeba was brought from Hollywood to serenade the leaders with Zulu songs after the feast. All told, more than three thousand people, divided hierarchically into upper and lower categories, were invited. Each category received invitations of a different color and chose from a different menu.

  The reception took place in the Emperor’s Old Palace. The guests passed long ranks of soldiers from the Imperial Guard, armed with sabers and halberds. From atop towers, spotlit trumpeters played the Emperor’s fanfare. In the galleries, theatrical troupes performed scenes from the lives of past Emperors. From the balconies, girls in folk costumes showered the guests with flowers. The sky exploded in plumes of fireworks.

  When the guests had been seated at tables in the great hall, fanfares rang out and the Emperor walked in with President Nasser of Egypt at his right hand. They formed an extraordinary pair: Nasser a tall, stocky, imperious man, his head thrust forward with his wide jaws set into a smile, and next to him the diminutive silhouette—frail, one could almost say—of Haile Selassie, worn by the years, with his thin, expressive face, his glistening, penetrating eyes. Behind them the remaining leaders entered in pairs. The audience rose; everyone was applauding. Ovations sounded for unity and the Emperor. Then the feast began. There was one dark-skinned waiter for every four guests. Out of excitement and nervousness, things were falling from the waiters’ hands. The table setting was silver, in the old Harar style. Several tons of priceless antique silver lay on those tables. Some people slipped pieces of silverware into their pockets. One sneaked a fork, the next one a spoon.

  Mountains of meat, fruit, fish, and cheese rose on the tables. Many-layered cakes dripped with sweet, colored icing. Distinguished wines spread reflected colors and invigorating aromas. The music played on, and costumed clowns did somersaults to the delight of the carefree revelers. Time passed in conversation, laughter, consumption.

  It was a splendid affair.

  During these proceedings I needed to find a quiet place, but I didn’t know where to look. I left the Great Chamber by a side door that led outside. It was a dark night, with a fine rain falling. A May rain, but a chilly one. A gentle slope led down from the door, and some distance below stood a poorly lit building without walls. A row of waiters stood in a line from the door to this building, passing dishes with leftovers from the banquet table. On those dishes a stream of bones, nibbled scraps, mashed vegetables, fish heads, and cut-away bits of meat flowed. I walked toward the building without walls, slipping on the mud and scattered bits of food.

  I noticed that something on the other side was moving, shifting, murmuring, squishing, sighing, and smacking its lips. I turned the corner to have a closer look.

  In the thick night, a crowd of barefoot beggars stood huddled together. The dishwashers working in the building threw leftovers to them. I watched the crowd devour the scraps, bones, and fish heads with laborious concentration. In the meticulous absorption of this eating there was an almost violent biological abandon—the satisfaction of hunger in anxiety and ecstasy.

  From time to time the waiters would get held up, and the flow of dishes would stop. Then the crowd of beggars would relax as though someone had given them the order to stand at ease. People wiped their lips and straightened their muddy and food-stained rags. But soon the stream of dishes would start flowing again—because up there the great hogging, with smacking of lips and slurping, was going on, too —and the crowd would fall again to its blessed and eager labor of feeding.

  I was getting soaked, so I returned to the Great Chamber, to the Imperial party. I looked at the silver and gold on the scarlet velvet, at President Kasavuba, at my neighbor, a certain Aye Mamlaye. I breathed in the scent of roses and incense, I listened to the suggestive Zulu song that Miriam Makeba was singing, I bowed to the Emperor (an absolute requirement of protocol), and I went home.

  After the departure of the presidents (a hurried departure, since too long a stay abroad could lead to the loss of one’s position), the Emperor invited us—the contingent of foreign correspondents assembled here on the occasion of the first conference of the leaders of African states—for breakfast. The news was brought to us at Africa Hall, where we spent days and nights in the hopeless and nerve-racking expectation of establishing contact with our capitals, by our local guardian, a section head from the Ministry of Information: none other than Teferra Gebrewold, a tall, handsome, usually silent and reserved A
mhara. Now, however, he was excited. The striking thing was that every time he said the name of Haile Selassie, he bowed his head ceremoniously.

  “This is wonderful news I” cried the Greco-Turko-Cypriot-Maltese Ivo Svarzini, who supposedly worked for the nonexistent MIB Press Agency but really served as a spy for the Italian oil company ENI. “We’ll be able to complain to the guy about how they’ve organized our communications here.” I must add that the company of foreign correspondents at the farther corners of the globe consists of hardened, cynical men who have seen everything and lived through everything, and who are used to fighting a thousand obstacles that most people could never imagine, just to do their jobs. So nothing can excite them, and when they are exhausted and angry they are likely to gripe even to an emperor about the lack of assistance they’ve received from local authorities. Yet even such people stop and think about their actions from time to time. Such a moment occurred now, when we noticed that at Svarzini’s words Teferra had become pale and nervous, drooped forward, and begun muttering something of which we could understand only the conclusion: if we made such a report, the Emperor would have his head cut off. He repeated it over and over again. Our group split. I agitated for letting it ride and not having a man’s life on our consciences. The majority felt the same way, and finally we decided to avoid the subject in our conversation with the Emperor. Teferra was listening to the discussion, and he should have been relieved at its outcome, but like all Amharas he was suspicious and distrustful, especially of foreigners. Depressed and downcast, he left us.

  The next day, we were leaving the Emperor’s presence, having received gifts of silver medallions bearing his arms. The master of ceremonies was leading us through a long corridor toward the front entrance. And there stood Teferra, against the wall in the posture of the accused before sentencing, with sweat covering his face. “Teferra!” shouted the amused Svarzini. “We praised you to the skies!” (as indeed we had). “You are going to be promoted,” he added, and clapped Teferra on his trembling shoulders.