The Shadow King

by Maaza Mengiste

  It is a close-up of an elderly native man, his wrinkles carving deep ridges and draping his filmy eyes. A series of tiny moles form a circular pattern on one cheek. On the other side is a birthmark the size of a thumbnail, a dark moon floating in the gaunt recesses of his thin face.

  At some point, Fucelli says, you understand you’re not trying to kill anyone. You’re not trying to defend land or a fort or whatever they tell you to go out there and fight for. You’re just trying to survive until it’s over. Because it will be.

  Fucelli points to the photograph. They’re types, all of them. Easily categorized. The colonel’s breath is tinged with coffee and cigarettes.

  Ettore nods. Yes, sir.

  You’re studying their language and you don’t know? Fucelli grabs the photo. Come on, look at him. A typical Tigray, he says. You see the nose, the eyes? Fucelli tosses the photo onto Ettore’s lap. Look at this one here, he says, pulling another picture from the same pile of papers. Afar, quite distinct by the hairstyle. He takes another out of the pile. This one, he continues, shaking it in front of Ettore, this one’s magnificent, isn’t it? Fucelli speaks rapidly, taking out photo after photo, discarding them on the ground, not caring if Ettore can see them.

  Finally, the colonel stops and stares at the disarray at his feet. He kicks aside the photos and stands. They call you Foto, don’t they? Fucelli asks. Very clever. But tell me what we’re missing. Fucelli pulls out a loose cigarette from his pocket and slips it into his mouth. They move like rats, they’re too hard to catch, he says. This is the only way to hold one still. A picture. Understand? He gestures toward the photo of the elderly man.

  Yes, sir, Ettore says. He glances down at the image still on his lap, looking for distinguishing characteristics.

  Fucelli picks up a picture from the floor. In it, a young woman stares angrily into the camera.

  This one, Fucelli says. Rome keeps bragging about the new colony but we can hardly keep Addis Ababa intact. It’s still a war zone everywhere else, and these people seem to fight even though their emperor’s run away. Though I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors too.

  Ettore leans back though the colonel has not moved toward him.

  Fucelli exhales a long thread of smoke and watches it fan and disappear in front of him. I’ve got reinforcements coming, he says slowly. We’re building this prison a little further away, higher up in the mountains, and we’re going to do it right. We’re going to suffer more attacks, but we’re ready. We’ll have prisoners soon enough, and you’re the photographer, not me. Am I making myself clear or do I need to spell this out for you?

  I think I understand, sir, Ettore says.

  Go meet my convoy when it arrives. We’ll start documenting this new prison from the beginning. We’ll record everything. They’ll remember what we did to build this empire. You’re dismissed.

  Yes, sir. Ettore stands and salutes.

  Be at the bottom of the hill first thing tomorrow, Fucelli says. There’s only one road leading here from Axum, you can’t possibly miss it.

  TO OLD JEMBERE, the soldato perched at the top of a nearby hill and pointing his camera toward the road below is just another strange sight in a country straining from confusion. The soldato, breathless from exertion, arrived just after sunrise, zigzagging down the narrow path where he, Jembere Kefyalew, was waiting once again to thwart the enemy. Jembere had to drag his bike out of the way so the ferenj could pass, quietly insulted by the Italian’s lack of response when Jembere saluted with all the proper etiquette of a victorious military man. What does he know of what it takes to win a war, the old man thinks now as he watches the soldato lean forward and aim his camera at an empty road. If he looks, he would see nothing but an aged man standing next to his flimsy bike. The ferenj is as most ferenjoch are: too arrogant and ignorant to know that he is Jembere Kefyalew, loyal servant to the late Emperor Menelik, trusted soldier to the late Empress Taitu, proud warrior come to fulfill his lifelong promise to never let Ethiopia fall into foreign hands.

  Every day since Mussoloni’s invasion, Jembere has put on his best clothes and come out to stop the ferenj advance. He waits for convoys in the dark and witnesses the sun spill across the valley. He positions himself at the top of the highest hill so he can see the Italians approach and gauge their distance. Many mornings, he has waited in vain, but he knows this, too, is the course of war. Some days, there are planes that dip close to trees and hover over hills and huts. At first, he mistook them for dragons and fell to his knees to pray the evil away. But even then, Jembere Kefyalew, loyal servant to Emperor Menelik, trusted soldier to Empress Taitu, proud warrior of Ethiopia, did not fail in his promise to keep his country safe. He stood straight and rigid while the planes performed slow circles around his land. He refused to flinch. He moved not a muscle when they barreled toward him, gleeful in their spite. He did not even bow his head to avoid a treacherous, dipping wing. He simply loaded one of his bullets and aimed, then he let them rattle away, fearful of his diligent might.

  Today, the convoys will come, he is sure now of the pattern that has emerged: first those planes, then the trucks, then the soldati in their cumbersome leather boots trampling this road that was once part of the land that was his son’s birthright. One follows the other like an awkward dance and he, once more, will be ready.

  THE CONVOY IS at a standstill. The marching columns have stopped. It is difficult to see past the settling dust but that old man in the tattered suit and rusted bike is plain to see. He stands in front of the halted row of trucks that unfurl in front of him like sheet metal stretched across the land. It is a silent spectacle in the valley. Ettore cranes his neck to get a better look ahead. Angry camionisti lean out of their windows. A few of them begin to honk.

  Come on, move it! Get out of here! Vai via! Jembere, get the hell out of the way!

  There is a steady heat filtering back, choked with fumes and dust and noise.

  Ettore glances around, tensed for the signs of another assault, but there is no movement or sound coming from the surrounding hills. The thick patches of greenery in the near distance are undisturbed. The trees sit peaceful and picturesque. Only a lone bird soars high above the undulating landscape, a graceful kite sliding through rays of early morning sun. It is tranquil except for the unfolding, baffling scene below him.

  The old man is a startling sight. He is dressed in a tailcoat and wool trousers faded to a dingy gray. His well-tailored shirt has a high collar that once stood neat against his slender neck. All but one button is missing. The shirt has yellowed with age, and where a bow tie would have been there hangs a thin black ribbon. A rope at his waist keeps his trousers at the perfect length, grazing his ankles and stopping just above his bare feet. He is an apparition from a forgotten era, a lovely ghost on the verge of disappearing. Just in front of him, a solidly built man in shorts and a sagging T-shirt steps out of his truck, his boots unlaced, his socks bunching at his ankles. Several others climb down from the backs of other trucks, the marching columns collapse into groups of men getting closer to the front to see what is the matter. A large circle is forming around the old man.

  Ettore lifts his camera to take a picture then pauses. It is not the old man that his eyes are dragged toward, however. It’s the women on the periphery who are watching everything. White-clad and rigid as guards, they are a neat row several paces above the chaos. Their undetected arrival on the hill feels almost like a gift, this chance to capture what Fucelli was trying to explain in his tent. Ettore takes a picture then notices the driver who first stepped out of his truck turn in his direction and salute.

  He waves to Ettore. Come meet my old friend, Jembere! He grins and digs a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his forehead.

  Ettore slides down the hill to the road and approaches.

  I’ve met most of the journalists in the area, the driver says. He has kind eyes, a gentle mouth. Anyway, take a picture if you want before I move him along.

  The old man is one of tho
se natives who hides their years behind tiny wrinkles and bright eyes. There is a papery softness to his skin, fine creases draping over his delicate bones. Ettore takes a step forward and lifts his camera. The old man narrows his eyes and glares at him. He squares his shoulders and puts his feet together. The hand gripping the handle of his old rusty bike tightens. He is impervious to the rippling menace surrounding him.

  Jembere, amico mio, don’t scare the man! The driver chuckles.

  The sun is a gentle sheet of light falling across the native’s shoulders, leaving touches of silver sparking off his unruly white hair. Ettore nods as he winds the film. Jembere doesn’t respond, he doesn’t blink. Taking a step closer, trying to imitate one of Fucelli’s photos, Ettore sees the rage that simmers beneath that stern expression. There is nothing here that speaks of feebleness and placid old age. Anything could happen. The native might charge. Then a thought: What if this old man is just a distraction set up by the Ethiopians?

  He turns to the driver. You’re not afraid of an attack?

  The driver laughs. His gun doesn’t even work. He takes out his handkerchief again and wipes his face. He turns to the old man. Jembere, ibakot, he says, then continues haltingly in the native tongue. He puts an arm around Jembere’s shoulder. Once I had to carry him off the road, he adds. Light as a child. The driver pats Jembere’s chest. Come on, amico mio. There’s tenderness in the man’s voice. They’re like children, he adds, just remember that. He takes the bike from Jembere and pushes it toward the side of the road.

  Ettore stops to watch them, then looks around and sees the women walking away to disappear on the other side of the hill, as quiet as they arrived.

  Jembere stares one last time at the soldiers and trucks then he gets off the road to take his bike back from the driver, the tails of his jacket flapping in the wind, his back straight.

  COLONEL FUCELLI DIRECTS ETTORE TO WALK WITH HIM UP AN INCLINE and closer to the large boulders overlooking the edge of the cliff where the new prison is being built. The colonel steps delicately into the center of the V-shaped gap, looks down, and then turns around. Behind him, there is barely enough room for one more step. There is nothing but soil the width of a child’s foot, then the plummeting fall.

  They’re going to ambush our trucks, Fucelli says. What we build, they intend to bring down. What we lift, they will collapse. Rome wants me to treat them as simple bandits, but they’re going to fight like dark sons of Apollo. Memnon was shielded by Zeus, why doesn’t Rome understand this? He pulls down his sunglasses.

  Clouds gather overhead as a chill sinks against the mountains. Blackbirds shiver and caw from the flat tops of squat trees.

  Ettore tries not to stare at Fucelli. His uniform reveals an unnatural girth. His jacket bulges slightly in the middle. Rumors have been circulating that he now wears two belts. That the ambush has made him so paranoid that he no longer sleeps at night. Some of the ascari have begun to whisper that he is mobilizing a secret army, mercenary bandits that terrorize Ethiopian and Italian alike. They have now begun to say that his madama is trained to kill with poisons that mimic the taste of beer and wine. That her cook knows how to mix it into foods. That together, they are waiting for Fucelli’s orders to test it on army rations, selecting those Fucelli feels most likely to betray him.

  Navarra, take a look over here. Fucelli places a hand on one of the boulders. He stretches his other arm to try to touch the opposite side. Can you get a shot like this?

  The light behind him is pale and even, bleached by the clouds and altitude.

  It’s quite dramatic, Ettore says. He takes several steps back. Colonel Fucelli is a tiny figure dwarfed by an imposing landscape. The V that opens reveals the undulating mountain ranges, the horizon disappearing in stark clouds. The top of the V expands until the space between those great, hulking stones lets the sky pour in. Just above it all, two birds soar majestically through the wind.

  Now, soldato, really take a look, the colonel says after a few pictures.

  Ettore moves next to the man, aware of the breeze slapping against his face, a threatening force that could push him over if he turned at just the right angle. There is a magnetic quality to the edge, a suctioning force coming from the gorge below. He puts his hands against a boulder to stop the sensation of tumbling forward. He dares to raise his eyes: the landscape has no end, it stretches far beyond what he can see, one sharp peak giving way to another. That it is impossible to see how far the drop below is, is a thought that makes him weak at the knees. He is sweating again, even in this cold.

  How long do you think it takes for an average Ethiopian to reach the bottom, Navarra?

  There are only sharp, jutting stones that lead to the deep gorge below. There are no easy paths.

  They’re good climbers, sir, Ettore says. They’re fast and they know how to handle this terrain, but still, I think it would take some time.

  Fucelli puts an arm around his shoulder and tugs Ettore closer, his fingers dig into his arm painfully. Think, Navarra. If we pushed, how long? How many men could we do in a day? That’s the question. Your father taught you how to estimate, I’m sure. Does he still have his job, by the way? You know what’s happening back home. Terrible, terrible thing.

  Sir? News has come from Italy about increased restrictions on Jews, about a coming purge of Jewish professors from universities, about the establishment of a government office to deal with the country’s “Jewish problem,” but his parents have said nothing to him. He has received no letters at all.

  The wind flattens Fucelli’s hair back, gives him a sleek look that transforms his narrowed eyes into a hateful squint. He wipes his hands on his shirt then shoves them in his pockets. Think you could get a picture mid-fall? the colonel asks.

  LEO NAVARRA TO HIS SON, Ettore Navarra, on the day of his departure for war:

  King Minos says, Daedalus, my faithful servant, build a labyrinth impossible to escape. O great solver of riddles, fashion it so we can capture and hold what is both man and beast. Great Daedalus, you of the spiraling mind, work yourself into this winding maze. Let no one see your solution for escape. Keep it secret from all, even that boy who sits beside you and watches, arms itching to stretch across a span of wings and leap into the sun.

  And when Daedalus built the labyrinth, Ettore, how could he have imagined his own imprisonment? What we raise up, my son, will follow us down. Build what is good in Africa, son of mine. Build what you want to carry with you always in here: and his father taps Ettore’s uniformed chest as the Cleopatra’s horn blares and the cheering crowds roar and wave goodbye to their departing soldiers. Did I really raise a son to be a soldier? Leo Navarra asks as he embraces Ettore quickly then turns his face.

  HOW MANY YEARS has it been since that day? Ettore keeps his head turned away from the prison site and presses his back against the tree that grows like a lone soldier on the opposite side of the plateau. On a footpath just beyond him, a group of villagers stare in quiet confusion at the activities of the construction workers. He tries to focus on writing a letter to his parents instead, ignoring the pressure of his camera against his leg, that steady reminder of all the photographs he has not taken today, the photographs that Colonel Fucelli expects of him. Papa, they are making a prison that will hold no prisoners. They are going to fling men into the sky who have no wings. They are going to test the laws of gravity and terror and order me to photograph the ascent and fall. We are going to make Icarus and hurl him into the sun.

  Ettore pauses to watch two laborers balance a wooden plank up the last steps of the incline to the plateau. A swath of land has been cleared for the foundation, and a pile of stones and rolls of barbed wire for a fortified wall sit next to the patch of ground unnatural in its evenness. He should be reporting to Fucelli each night with a roll of film for the colonel to send to Asmara to develop. But today, the fourth day of this task, is also his father’s birthday and he has waited with growing anxiety for any news from home. None has arrived.


  A sharp whistle sails above his head and Ettore looks up. One of the truck drivers is pointing to the ridge where the Ethiopians were standing. He is gesturing frantically. There is no one there anymore. Ettore stands and grabs his camera, tucks his notebook into his bag, and rushes to the camionista. They have been too lax, even the guards that Fucelli sends to watch the site have been sitting in whatever shade they can find, bored from the monotony after so many days.

  They just left, just like that, the driver says, snapping his fingers and wiping his face with the edge of his dirty T-shirt. The man looks around, worried. Should we leave? He slaps his hat on his head then takes it off and shoves it in his back pocket. Did you hear what happened in Addis Ababa?

  It is all that anyone can talk about: the relentless reprisals for the assassination attempt on Viceroy Rodolfo Graziani. The suspects have all but vanished. Thousands have been arrested. Blazing fires have raged in Addis Ababa and even towns across the highlands, some for as long as three days. Civilians and soldati alike have been given free rein to do what they want with any Ethiopian found on the street. Jan Meda and other fields around Addis Ababa are filling with mass graves. Rivers are flowing with burned bodies. The prisons are beyond capacity and the requests to take some of the captives and expedite their death sentences have been sent out to every military base across the country. Truckloads of prisoners: men, women, and children are crisscrossing the highlands, heading toward prison camps in Danane and other sites not put on maps.

  Fear and paranoia are thick in every military base. Graziani’s brutal retaliations have been embarrassing for Rome. The details of the massacres are being retold in newspapers, in whispers around campfires, in bars across East Africa and Libya. And now, the newest rumor: the guerrillas are getting stronger. They are increasing in number due to these reprisals. Villagers report seeing their emperor. They have seen him in the northern highlands, gathering more troops.