We move tomorrow, Kidane says. It’s too dangerous to stay here, we have to leave the weakest behind. He feels the ache of a heart making room for new guilt. He shifts in his seat. What he has betrayed is bigger than this young soldier.
I’ll talk to Hailu, Kidane says.
Aklilu stands up to feed the fire and for a moment, all his grief blazes before them, sharp as a wailer’s lament.
HAILU IS A hunched figure cupped in darkness, sitting quietly by the dead campfire. He jumps to his feet when Kidane approaches. In the dimness of the dawning light, Kidane can make out his elegant and tall frame, his thick black curls growing into unruly strands. Behind him, the sky is opening, pulling back the layers of night to reveal the deep blue of the mountains.
Hirut’s meeting us at the cave, Kidane says. She might have something the cook left behind.
Hailu’s frown deepens and pulls at the gentle slopes of his face. I’ve got nothing to help him. He points to the basket at his feet and he clears his throat.
I’d like to see him, Kidane says.
For what?
Kidane is startled by Hailu’s sharp tone.
Hailu picks up the basket and opens it. Inside are several small sacks knotted shut. Rolls of bandages are tucked between the bags. He drops the basket on the ground, nearly tipping the contents over.
I should know what to do, even the cook showed me new things before she left, Hailu says. He stares at Kidane defiantly. It shouldn’t have happened, he says quietly. That rifle was old, he should never have had it.
Kidane nods, not trusting his voice. Then without another word, he brushes past the man and strides down the path to Dawit’s cave.
Hirut leans against the boulder next to the cave, staring at the sun as it cracks through the shelter of fog. She is nearly nauseous from fatigue and the smell seeping from the cave: the unmistakable odor of the dying.
You haven’t gone in to help him?
Hirut turns around. It is Hailu, followed at a distance by Kidane. A sickly dawn light reflects against the mountains and drapes the men.
Hailu brushes past her and goes in. Kidane presses his forehead against the rock at the entrance, his palms flat against it, so visibly shaken that Hirut backs away.
Hailu’s voice slides out of the cave: Dejazmach, come in, he’s awake.
Don’t leave him by himself, Kidane says to her.
DAWIT IS A broken figure held together by stained bandages. He is stretched on a pile of blankets darkened with old blood. One leg is wrapped in layers of thick cotton, the bandage splotched with pale yellow medicine and the gleam of fresh blood. Hailu opens his basket. Dawit stirs, his eyes fluttering open then shutting quickly.
Get the turmeric, Hailu says to Hirut as he takes out a clump of dried leaves. Then he unwraps a tiny jar of honey from one of the rolls of bandages. He pours the honey onto the leaves in his hand then leans closer to Dawit.
I’m sorry, Hailu says. It’s the only way.
Hirut has to turn her head and hold her breath. Turmeric did not work on her parents. Neither did the honey. Every leaf that the villagers tried, every mix made by that strange woman who traveled an entire day to help, every prayer the priests whispered then shouted then began to wail, every promise she made to her parents and then to God, none of it had worked. All of it was useless.
Dawit releases a weak breath and the curious gaze he turns toward Hirut soon swings to the entrance. His eyes widen. Dejazmach Kidane, Dawit says. He stiffens beneath a wave of pain.
Hirut turns to watch Kidane come inside, his head lowered. That’s when she sees it: her Wujigra, her father’s gun. There it is, leaning against the wall, tucked into the cave’s dark shadows like a thief. Her stomach clenches, her forehead moistens with sweat, and she looks quickly at Hailu, but his eyes are locked onto Dawit’s, full of tenderness.
Then Hailu turns to Kidane, stricken and angry, so furious that the rage distorts his features.
I’ve seen these injuries before, Kidane says softly. I’ve seen a bullet cut into the back of a man’s head and come out through his mouth. My father taught me things, he adds. But this. He stops, all the anguish in his face twists him unrecognizable. But this. He lays a hand on Dawit’s shoulder, staring down at the young man. I should have checked the gun, he says. I should have tested it before giving it to anyone.
It was mine, Hirut says quietly.
Kidane clears his throat. Dawit, brave soldier, he begins. Did you know they’re singing about you today? Did you know they’re talking about the way you charged at the Italian with that old gun? You were like fire, Kidane continues.
A loud sigh escapes from Dawit’s mouth and the young man shuts his eyes, his breaths shallow and rough. Hailu nods to Kidane and points outside. He gestures for Hirut to collect the basket, then Hailu smooths Dawit’s blanket beneath his chin and motions for them all to leave.
Hirut waits beside Dawit until they are both out of the cave. She waits until she hears Kidane walk away. Then Hirut reaches for her Wujigra. She clasps it tight and drags it out with her. As she stands and turns to go back to the camp, she finds herself staring at Hailu and Kidane. They are farther down the same path, looking at the rifle in her hands.
What are you? Kidane asks. What have you done? Beneath his anguish, beneath the defeat and fatigue, glows a bright and curdling rage.
Chorus
The girl: She does not see the doomed path that opens so easily before her. She cannot foresee what is only natural: that all of Kidane’s guilt-ridden weight will pivot toward the open space her rebelliousness lays bare, and he will force his way in. What is this, he is saying as he drags her away from the cave and toward the center of the camp. What is this, we say, so she will turn and put that gun back where it belongs. But she cannot know that grief cradles at the breast of cruelty, and it hungers for more, and she is for the taking. There she is, hurtling forward in his grip, a cursed keeper of promises. She notes the disappearing fog and believes it is simply the wind. She ignores the blackbirds that soar above her head in broken formation. She simply moves toward that dead campfire with her old gun slung across her back, trapped by Kidane’s momentum.
At the campfire pit: Aster, draped in a blanket waiting for her husband, her face hidden in its folds. Seifu and Aklilu, in their shamma, waiting obediently for their commander. She will not remember them. She will not recall the way Aster shrinks at the sight of her. There will be no memory of Seifu’s troubled gaze or the shaking hand Aklilu has to hide by clenching both into fists. What she will note as she thinks back to that moment when she was still the same as she was born: the crooked path of pale sunlight falling across the leaning, flat-topped tree.
KIDANE PAUSES AT THE EDGE OF THE CAMPFIRE PIT AND RAISES A FIST, shuttering the morning light. His mouth moves but she cannot hear his words. There is only the bloated rage that contorts his face and shifts him into a stranger. She stumbles, her heart plummets. Her face flushes with heat as Kidane pulls her toward him, nearly throwing her to the ground. She knows, somehow, to bite back the cry of surprise. She understands that it is better to dig her teeth into her tongue than to make a noise, aware that everything she says will be meaningless with that Wujigra strapped across her back.
That gun is not yours! What have you done?
She shakes her head. Her thoughts are a single, unbroken thread of nothingness.
She does not expect the hard slap that seems to land on both sides of her face at once. There is no time to look for the hands that feel as if they are made of stone. In her head: two knives are sharpening against each other, the whir of metal against metal, the high-pitched screech of terror. Hirut opens her mouth to scream but she is breathless as she bends gracelessly into the unnatural momentum. When she collapses to the ground, it is with a muffled groan, her scream broken by the impact of her body.
Kidane drops down beside her. Then he is pushing his knee into her side, yanking at the strap of the rifle. He’s a dying soldier, he says. What are you?
&
nbsp; From somewhere, Aklilu’s voice: Dejazmach Kidane, I’ll take it back to Dawit and get her out of here.
There is Aster: Kidane!
For a moment, everything trembles in silence.
Aklilu’s voice: Dejazmach, let’s find Hailu and give him the gun.
Shut up! Kidane says.
She hears Kidane add: Leave, all of you. Now!
Then: departing footsteps.
But Kidane’s rough hands are forcing her flat on her stomach and then Kidane is on top, his breath at her ear, his chest moving against her back, flesh expanding, fitting into the dips and curves of her figure, grinding her into the dirt until she can feel her ribs bend. She turns her head and sharp pebbles dig into her cheek and through the dense fog of her tear-filled eyes, her father shakes his head sadly.
Kidane whispers into her ear, What did you think? What did you expect?
His flesh hardens in the crevice between her legs and he pushes in, through her dress, and her mind slams into that space where meaning is absent, where nothing but confusion awaits.
It’s that woman’s fault, Kidane is saying. It’s all her doing. All of this.
This: the body is blood and flesh, and always a blow away from falling apart. This soft stomach, this arched back, these kicking legs, the flailing arms, her marked flesh, all of it is a traitor. Then Kidane pushes himself off her. He jumps up and grabs the Wujigra and strides away. Hirut stays on her stomach, feels that spot between her legs where her dress digs in, tight like second skin, and begins to cry.
Interlude
Everything has its place, Teferi, and there are some like you who must learn this so they can lead. You are just a boy, Ras Teferi Mekonnen, but you are destined to be a king amongst kings. All men live and die by the will of God, there is no disorder in His world. Teferi, do you believe? Yes, Father. Yes, Father what? Yes, Father Samuel, I believe. And Ras Teferi Mekonnen, now grown into Emperor Haile Selassie, knows it to be true even now, even on this day when he is trapped on the edge of forgetfulness trying to find his way to safety. The Italians have intercepted his messages, they know where every one of his northern armies will attack. They know where his columns are stationed and they intend to find them. He should have never trusted the transmissions, should never have relied on manmade tools. Teferi, we are explaining Simonides again. Did you study your Quintilian? Memory is the gift of the divine. It is vast and labyrinthine. Imagine it a palace, a building with many rooms. Put details in each room. Give them their rightful place. Light a candle inside the room and illuminate it brightly. Nothing is ever gone. It is always just within reach. Father Samuel, I have forgotten where I put my son’s picture. I cannot find it and we are at war.
Teferi, imagine Simonides in the banquet hall just before its collapse. He is preparing for his speech, like one day you will do. Imagine that moment he is called outside, just before the earthquake destroys the building. The relatives of the dead come to find him, the sole survivor, and what do they want? They want to find those they’ve lost, Father Samuel. Do as he did, Teferi. Close your eyes and tell us everything you remember. But they are bombing my people, Father, they are throwing poison on the children. Women are dying. I have led them all into danger and I cannot find where I packed my son’s picture.
First he is afraid, then he is staggered anew by the thought: he cannot remember where he put his favorite photograph of his son Mekonnen and him, the one that the American journalist George Steer gave him as a gift. The man had come to pay a visit and waited politely for him to finish a meeting. That day, Steer wore a gray shirt and dark-blue trousers and a pen stuck in the pocket of his blue jacket. Haile Selassie took the photograph, pleased, and thanked the man profusely. They sat and spoke for nearly thirty minutes about Italy, about Wal Wal, about the northern highlands and the southern front and defense. The man’s socks were an elegant shade of gray with thin blue stripes. As soon as he could, Haile Selassie found a frame for the picture, then he set it on his desk. It stayed near his elbow, a photo so precious that he allowed no one to touch it. And now it is gone, as if it did not exist. As if the Italians snuck into his office and found that, too. Simonides reconstructed a collapsed building from memory. He looked at ruins and recognized their former glory. He found a way to resurrect the dead by remembering where they sat. He helped them find a way back to their grieving relatives. He called them to life by calling them by name.
Teferi, all we have is what we remember. All that’s worthy of life is worthy of remembrance. Forget nothing. Haile Selassie stands in the corridor and gazes into his nearly empty office, the unsteadiness creeping up. He must leave Addis Ababa and go to his headquarters in Dessie. He will fight the war from there. The Italian advance into Addis Ababa has become undeniable and his head is thick with dread. His desk is clean. Cardboard boxes are piled next to the door. There are no more books on the shelves. Everything has been put into its rightful place, carefully marked and sealed. Just hours ago, at dawn, he stood in this office and slipped some of his last remaining items into one of these boxes, then he walked on a beam of light lying across the floor like it was carpet, and went up the stairs to rest. Now he cannot remember what each box contains. He cannot remember packing the picture away. He shuts his eyes and there is a lone figure of a man standing in rubble. Behind him, women and men, bent in half by grief, point to the fragments of bodies buried in dust and stone, and weep.
Simonides, he whispers. Simonides, he says. Haile Selassie touches the split in his chest held together by the sternum. It is there, in a place no human hand can reach that he feels himself fading away, rubbed out in increments by his enemies. It is a disappearance that begins like this: with forgetfulness and boxes.
A gentle cough behind him. Haile Selassie turns around and it is his aide, his hair unruly, the curls starting to fall into themselves. He is barefoot, still dressed in the same suit he has been wearing for two days, his tie unknotted and sloppy. He stands there holding a stack of files to his chest like a shield, his face drawn and dark circles beneath his eyes. Over his shoulder and down the hallway, light skips across the gramophone that a servant is packing with the utmost care.
The cars and trucks are nearly full, Your Majesty. I just confirmed with the driver. There’s not a lot of room left.
The runners? Haile Selassie asks.
His aide nods. We’re locating Kidane, he’ll know they’re planning to ambush him. We’ll get to him before they do. Then the aide turns to stare at the servant packing the gramophone.
The emperor waits. He knows what the aide wants to say; the young man has found the most polite ways to repeat himself, and he won’t be able to resist trying once more.
On the narrow table next to the servant, Haile Selassie sees the new box of needles he ordered from Djibouti. There is also a stack of 78s given to him by dignitaries as gifts: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Edvard Grieg, the American Duke Ellington, the German Comedy Harmonists, a rare Japanese recording. These are records he has listened to once, maybe twice, more often as war became inevitable and defeat loomed. He has hoped that their unfamiliar tunes would help drown the repetitive vulgarities of “Faccetta Nera” and those other hateful Italian songs that detail skinning him alive.
Make sure they pack it, the emperor says. Move other bags out of the car to the trucks if there is no room.
The emperor can feel the aide’s frustration. He cannot seem to understand why the gramophone must come. We are existing in a moment beyond reason, the emperor wants to say. We are now firmly in the irrational.
The aide sweeps a careful eye into his office and through the house. I’ll make sure all the doors are securely locked.
Past the sloping valleys of his capital city, across rivers and dry savannah, Kidane is marching toward ambush. Haile Selassie can almost hear the shouts and cries that will soon echo through the hills. He has ordered the fastest runners in the country to speed to the north and find Kidane and his men. He has sent his drummers across the city, their
urgent rhythms announcing new danger, beating so loudly that the sky grew dark with birds: the Italians will invade Addis Ababa soon, they will come in and burn the city and claim it as their own. His messengers have bypassed the rubble of bombed homes to raise the alarm: Jan Hoy, our emperor, the divinely appointed Haile Selassie, our guiding sun will himself lead his men against the devils, he calls every soldier of the north to gather strength and join him, God will lead the way. Arise, soldiers!
The emperor can outline Kidane’s journey in his head. He thinks now of each village Kidane will pass. He knows every river he will wade through. He can imagine the kilometers of rough terrain. He knows the two mistresses who would weep at any news of Kidane’s death. He knows which of the man’s enemies would breathe sighs of relief. He has learned to store countless details in the palace of his memory. He has divided his men into separate rooms, giving their wives the bed, the children the windows, the mistresses the rugs. He has let each sharp detail claim a space in that room until he can see them all in place, rooted and immovable, waiting for a candle’s illumination in order to step forward and be remembered. He has done it this way since he was Ras Teferi, the ritual now so rote it is automatic, faster than conscious thought.
From upstairs, a soft voice filters down. The emperor can hear his second youngest, Mekonnen, call for him: Abbaba. Abbaba. Are you gone?
I am here, lijé, he thinks. But there is a headquarters in Dessie and a battle in Maichew he must organize and more officers he must contact. There is no time to be this child’s father. He hears his wife, Menen, call the boy. He looks up, aching for a glimpse of this beloved son, his father’s namesake, subject of a picture now lost.
Then another voice drifts in, a memory resting in the corner of his mind. Zenebwork calling to him as a child: Abbaba. Abbaba, don’t go. He turns his head so the servants do not see him flinch. He cannot leave her no matter where he goes. This is not an arrangement of his making, nor is it one of her choosing. It is the preordained balance between this world and the other. Between the living and dead.
The Shadow King Page 13