AND THEN IT is nothing, nothing at all, to take again and keep on taking. The things she takes: a yellow bead, a swatch of red silk, a golden tassel, five rubber bands, six thalers, a broken pencil, a rusted pocketknife, a torn umbrella, a horseshoe, a small amber stone, a hand mirror, an incense burner, a delicate gold-rimmed coffee cup, an inkpad, a broken compass, a folded map, a leather-bound miniature Bible, two closed amulets, a palm-sized wooden cross, a green wool scarf, a segment of a delicate gold chain, a shiny blue stone, a fragment of soapstone, a silver-handled letter opener, a wine goblet, six matchboxes, two crushed cigarettes, an empty pillbox, a leather bracelet, a strapless watch, a horsehair fly swatter, a collapsible hand fan, an ashtray, a stack of stamped documents, two folded envelopes, a wooden cross pendant, a leather cross pendant, two silver chains, a scrap of black velvet, a spool of discarded cotton, a ball of green yarn, a bent miniature frame, a beaded necklace, a leather satchel, a glass tea cup, a gold-handled spoon, a hand-sized painting of Iyesus Cristos, a child’s bracelet, a pince-nez, silver anklets, one gold earring, a black scarf with gold embroidery, binoculars, a plain black scarf, a pair of gold and ruby earrings, a matching bracelet, and a brilliant ruby ring.
She buries the items with the necklace late at night, unstacking the firewood noiselessly, then restacking it precisely. She is careful, reveling in the thrill of possession, made bold by the sudden freedom of theft. She is no longer afraid to pause at the radio while Kidane listens to announcements and speeches in a language she comes to understand is called French. She lingers in the corridor when he talks to Aster in his office. She hears new words: League of Nations, Mussolini, Britain, Mauser, artillery, steamships. She hears him giving his wife commands as if she were his servant: Get the supplies ready, bring us enough water for three days, don’t waste time on the scarves, let the other women do the knitting, tell them to get ready, it’s coming soon. Hirut shoves the unnecessary details aside while listening for the name of the rifle that belonged to her father and once belonged to her: Wujigra.
WUJIGRA: ALSO KNOWN AS FUSIL GRAS. ORIGIN: FRENCH. A BOLTACTION, 11mm rifle designed to deliver a single lethal shot with consistent accuracy, a hardy gun able to withstand cold and rain, repeated and rapid firing. Watch how I do this, Hirut, sit still and pay attention. Her father loads the bullet cartridge by opening the chamber. He does this by pulling back on a small handle situated toward one side of the barrel. Hirut looks at the handle. It is shiny and smooth, a silver knob as round as a full moon. Do you see this? He raises his right hand. This is the hand all good soldiers use with this gun. Hirut makes her left hand into a fist. It is the hand she is most comfortable using. It is the hand her mother is starting to tie down. She looks and sees he is right: the handle of the Wujigra does not favor left-handed fighters. So when she becomes a soldier, she thinks that day with her father, she must shoot with her right, the hand that resists when she tries to make it do anything. The left hand, her mother says, is the hand the devil uses. It is the hand a thief uses, and you are not a leyba. It is the hand to use for things no one should see you do, Hirut. You do not eat with it. You do nothing with this hand except for the most secret things. Hirut is too young for secrets, she is too young to be aware there are some things that should stay tucked out of reach of knowledge.
Her father raises the rifle and presses the end into the muscle between his shoulder and his upper chest. You rest it here, he says, exactly where your head goes when you fall asleep on me. He smiles. He uses his right hand to pull the handle back. This unlocks the bolt, he says. She sees a cradle-shaped groove inside, mottled with age. This is where the bullet goes. Her father holds the bullet between two fingers. When the barrel is opened, he says, you insert it, like this, into the chamber. He slides the handle and it locks the bolt. He lifts the rifle and his voice changes. It grows deep and it wavers as he tells her, You look until you can see your enemy through this space. He taps a finger on a small metal point farther up on the barrel. He brings his finger to the base of the gun, where there is a resting place for it. This is the trigger, Hirut. He does not sound the same. He does not sound like her father. When he looks at her, it is as if he is not looking at her. His face is collapsing around the eyes and she sees that he pretends to squint to hide it. This, he says, you do not touch unless you are prepared. Prepared for what, she asks. He slips the bullet back into his pocket. Prepared to be something you are not.
KIDANE KEEPS SHOVING THE SAME PILE OF DOCUMENTS FROM ONE side of his desk to the other. He mumbles as he wipes his eyes, peering closer at a map while Hirut waits by the door, balancing the woolen scarves and a thick cape that he told her to bring. Just behind her and down the corridor, Aster is in their bedroom crying and calling for the cook, whole words shredded into incomprehensible sound. Today is the second anniversary of their son’s death, this means it has been a whole year since Hirut’s arrival and three months since her rifle disappeared. Out of habit and from nervous impulse, Hirut glances around the office to make sure her Wujigra is not there.
Kidane, come here. Aster’s voice is a low thrum against the walls.
Kidane throws the map on the desk. Nardos didn’t take her to church? he asks. He rubs his forehead and the thin line of his mouth draws tighter. Just like the day we married, he adds. She thinks that’s how she can get her way, by crying like this.
He hunches over his papers, bowed by the weight of his wife’s voice. Beneath the stubble gracing his neck, a thick vein swells against the neckline of his tunic.
Can I put this somewhere, Hirut asks, flexing her shoulders to ease the strain.
Just wait.
Kidane lifts up the map again and continues to pore over it. The dim glow of the kerosene lamp seeps through the fragile paper. The map’s slender lines bisect and overlap then stop short at a brilliant blue patch that clings to the boundary separating land from sea. There is Kenya, contoured like a queen’s face. Ethiopia’s pointed crown brushes against the Red Sea. Over there, the Gulf of Aden. The Indian Ocean. Hirut leans forward and squints to get a better look. Kidane holds entire countries in that hand, the long nail of his little finger digs into the sands of the Sahara. She knows somewhere above Ethiopia is Egypt, and not far away, there is a place called Sudan. She learned them all in the last few months while cleaning unsupervised. She has been taking one map at a time to Berhe, who grudgingly helped her distinguish shapes after she promised to return everything undetected.
You want to see this? Kidane shakes the paper, startling her upright. He taps his forehead. Memorize the land for yourself, he says. Maps are what the foreigners use. We know our country. He throws the map back on the desk and mutters under his breath. They rely on useless pieces of paper to start a war, he adds.
Put the blankets there and sit down, Little One, he says. Set them on the floor, it’s as clean as a plate. His smile lengthens the deep lines around his tired eyes.
Hirut lays the items down and stands awkwardly by the elaborately carved chair across from him.
Aster’s voice drifts into the room, a steady moan broken by the cook’s unintelligible words.
He winks. I won’t tell her you didn’t use the stool.
Hirut sits. The wood feels soft and supple beneath her legs, as if it were molding to her.
You think you’ve gotten used to anything she does, after all these years, then you realize you haven’t, Kidane says. He grows serious. I keep thinking I’ll see him around the corner. You’ve been here how long? He frowns and glances down at a newspaper. Since we started fearing the worst with these Italians. He nods to himself. You’re so young to lose both parents, days apart. His mouth trembles. But look at you, so strong.
Hirut is too short to fit comfortably in the chair. She scoots up, tracing the sturdy legs with her toes, and braces herself. If he keeps talking about her parents she will have to unlock them from the tiny corner of her mind where she has put them so she does not cry.
Aster’s okay? she asks.
K
idane points toward the bedroom. She’s always felt things too much, that’s her problem. He watches Hirut. That was my father’s chair. Not made for girls, is it? You’re so small.
She folds her hands on her lap then settles them on the contoured arms, dangling them the way she has seen Kidane do.
I need your help, Hirut, he says, growing serious. Even I have to leave my land, this house. All my farmers have to pick up their swords and guns now, they have to leave their homes, too. We all need to do our part for the war that’s coming.
Behind him on the wall, there are pale outlines where his swords and shield used to hang. He has taken down the picture of him and Aster when they were younger. In its place is a photograph of Tesfaye cradled in his arms, a miniature of the father that holds him proudly. Both are dressed in splendid white tunics that blaze bright against the black backdrop.
My gun, she begins. Can I have it back?
Kidane pauses, then continues: I’m going to need you to do what Aster says. You’ll follow us as soon as we’re ready to march. You’ll take care of my soldiers. The cook and Berhe are getting old. You’re young and strong. His eyes slide from her face down to her neck. Sometimes you look so much like your mother, he adds. She was like a sister to me. You must miss her.
There is a tremor behind his words, something that unravels him from the inside. It is a weakening that expands enough for Hirut to dare to ask again:
Please let me have my rifle. Anger snaps through her and she bites her lip to keep the tears from falling. They gave it to me.
He falls back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling. You’ll help the cook carry the food and water. My aunts did in the last war. Don’t you want to help?
Aster calls for Kidane again.
Kidane flinches. If Aster isn’t well you’ll be in charge of making sure our supplies don’t run out. The cook will be too busy with other things. He lays his hands on top of his papers. Little One is not so little anymore, he says quietly. Your mother would be proud.
Do you know what your mother said to me the last time I saw her? You were such a small girl then. Again, the eyes drifting from her face to her neck to linger on a spot that she can feel well up with heat.
Hirut leans forward, not trusting her voice. A slow flush spreads across her cheeks, traveling over her chest to settle in her stomach. She tries to imagine her mother talking to Kidane. She can imagine him as he is, full-bodied and distinct, but her mother is just a ghostly figure, delicate features rubbed away by time.
She said, “Be good to my daughter.” Kidane clears his throat. She wanted me to watch over you. She put you in my care.
She did? Hirut aches to hear more.
She did, Kidane says. He watches her carefully.
Her mother’s love, her father once said, could make a river unbend and flow her way. Your mother, he said, brings out the goodness in the world. This is why Hirut returns his stare and time stretches between them until even Aster’s voice blends with the wind outside. It is not possible that he could love her mother as he did and remain unaltered. It is impossible that her mother could love him as a brother and leave him unaffected. This means he is like a brother to her, too. If she explains more about her rifle, then surely he will be good enough to give it back.
My father was very kind to your mother. Did you know that?
Hirut shakes her head. She traces a scratch on her knuckles; it is intersected by a burn she got from splattering oil. Gradually, her hands are becoming like the cook’s.
My father was a good man. Kidane’s voice wavers.
From down the hall, Aster’s coughing filters into the office. It is a hacking sound that seems to drag itself out of her body and crouch in a corner of the room, a wounded animal. It continues, on and on.
He rises and strides to the door. He pauses, listening, before pushing it shut. Then he opens it slightly, leaving it ajar.
Do you know what a war is, Little One? He speaks with his back to her, his forehead pressed against the doorframe. Do you know what it means to hate? He slumps, overwhelmed by the roughness of Aster’s cough. It is grating and painful and zigzags into a guttural moan.
No one knows war until they are in it. But I think you’d be a good soldier, like Tesfaye would have been.
He turns to her and comes to sit on the corner of the desk. He rests a warm hand on her shoulder and bends into her face. Aster’s voice is now a shadow of itself, a dampened call of a name he is ignoring.
She waits for more memories about her mother.
When I was your age, your mother used to tell me, Stand straight like a soldier. Don’t cry, little brother, you’re a soldier. His breath is tinged in the sharp scent of the coffee she served him earlier. He leans closer. You’d have cared for Tesfaye the way your mother cared for me. I would have cared for you the way my father cared for your mother.
He sits back and clears his throat. Two years. Tesfaye. Then he stops and they listen.
Aster says, Kidane. And it is not the utterance but the voice: angry and plaintive, troubled and insistent, made hoarse by overuse. It winds through the hallway and soaks into the room. It seeps through wood and flings itself at glass. It strips meaning from sound and leaves only a weight that hovers just above their heads, buckled by sorrow.
It doesn’t get easier, does it, Little One? You know, too. But you don’t cry? I don’t see you sad, you just work, sometimes too much.
Kidane lifts Hirut’s chin and kisses her forehead. Up close, she sees the way the voice is undoing him in increments: the twitching nerve below the eye, the shaking hand, the trembling lips that he presses now against her cheeks then slides to her neck as if for steadiness. He breathes in with his head in the crook of her neck, moving so close she has to lean back, and his breath moistens her skin like steam. Behind them is his name in the voice of an angry woman. Just past his shoulder are the maps on the desk. And when she looks toward the door, seeking escape, there is the cook, stricken and shocked, her mouth opening and closing around a silent word. And then because he says her name, Hirut is forced to look at him.
The cook clears her throat and taps on the door.
What is it? He jerks away, surprised.
I can’t do anything with her, the cook says, speaking hurriedly, her head down. She won’t stop calling for you, it’s one of her bad days.
Kidane slides off the desk and strides out of the room, brushing past the cook. When Hirut stands and turns again to the door, the cook is already gone. Alone in the office, listening to the rise and fall of Kidane and Aster’s voices, Hirut recognizes for the first time that some memories should be barricaded by others, that those strong enough must hold the others at bay. And as she goes back to the kitchen to help the cook, the first thread of sourness curls inside of her, pungent like rot, so tiny that she chooses to mistake it for the distant smell of smoke.
Interlude
Haile Selassie sits quietly in his office. It is 2 September 1935 and the first strands of night have begun to seep into the day. He is in his favorite chair, hands tight around the arms, a stack of telegrams opened on his desk. The reports haven’t changed: Ethiopia is on the brink of conflict; Italy’s threats are growing shriller. The rainy season is over and with drier paths will surely come the invading Fascist army. What does His Majesty intend to do? Supplies needed. Port of Massawa filling with Italian ships. Troops gathering in Asmara, primed to charge toward our borders.
Haile Selassie is sweating. The high ceiling is bearing down. The ground is shifting up. Addis Ababa is roiling, and his people are gathering inside churches. He should be praying. He should be with his Council. He should be with his family, but all the emperor can do is lean forward in his chair and nod for his aide to unwrap the two reels that have just arrived. They are old news, but he wants to watch them. He wants to be engulfed in them. He wants to sit in the middle of this shrinking room and pick his way into this war coming at him with a locomotive force.
The aide holds up a
circular metal container in each hand. One is in English, the other Italian, Your Majesty.
The emperor eyes him: He is dressed like a ferenj, in a pinstriped suit specially tailored for him. His thin mustache is meticulous. His eyes have the piercing gaze of the unafraid. The emperor can’t remember his name, suddenly, but knows this young man’s father and his father before him. He knows which village his wife comes from and the secret mistress he keeps in Debre Zeit. And he knows that throughout the screening, the young man will be obedient but aching to step outside to gossip.
Which one first, Your Majesty? his aide asks him again. One is from Luce. He names the Italian propaganda news service. I can translate either for you, he says.
He hears the echo of his old tutor, Father Samuel, quoting from Psalms: Your right hand will find out those who hate you. The one on your right, the emperor says. And turn off the volume.
The reels are last month’s news. They will reveal nothing unexpected: Italian soldiers are sailing for Eritrea. Mussolini is declaring his right to colonize Ethiopia. The emperor’s soldiers are simply farmers with old guns. Italy is better equipped. Italy has planes. Italy has the tacit agreement of the League of Nations in the form of inert silence. All of this the emperor already knows. But mail has slowed down while events have sped up and these latest reels are all he has to help him imagine what the next days and weeks might bring.
Haile Selassie hears a discreet cough from the hallway. On the other side of the locked door his advisers are impatient, waiting for him to beckon them in.
Begin, he says to the aide.
The aide slides the reel onto the projector. Haile Selassie hears the slap of the rolling film and the hiss of the electrical power snaking through the machine. Soon the room is washed in gray and he blinks slowly as a black screen rattles behind flecks of white then numbers spin into view.
The Shadow King Page 3