The Shadow King

by Maaza Mengiste

  Hirut lays her head back against the wall. She has been sitting in the same place by the door the whole night, afraid she might be sleeping when Aster gets up. The woman is curled into herself, her breaths so quiet that several times Hirut leaned closer to make sure she was alive.

  One of the guards whistles and taps against the gate. There’s food, he says. Coffee. There’s enough for both of you. His Amharic is fluid, natural.

  She lets him walk away. She wants to starve herself, she wants to fade away and seep into the dirt and slip out of this place. She rubs her eyes. She cannot remember the last time she slept and she is dizzy. Her stomach hurts and her throat is dry.

  Kidane, Aster mumbles. Kidane. She moans, her feet kicking, caught in a dream of momentum. The feeble dawn light is streaming in, still blanketed in night. It spills a soft haze over her shivering figure.

  Aster, Hirut whispers. You’re here with me.

  She clasps Aster’s hands. She knows the places the mind roams in the dark. She knows how easy it is to spiral away when given too much time in those corners. She traces the ridges of the scar on her own neck, feels the rough skin that sinks against her collarbone. She did not know until days ago that there were different kinds of nakedness. She did not understand until seeing Aster that there is a different kind of exposure, one that is indecent and upsetting. That some bodies were not meant to bend, and that this makes them weaker rather than stronger, unable to withstand what those like her can walk through their days locking into pockets and ignoring.

  Aster raises her head. A thread of panic shakes her voice. Kidane? Aster sits up slowly. I’ll lead. She feels around her, groping in the dark. Where’s my gun, you stupid girl?

  We’re in prison, Hirut says. We got caught, I don’t know where anyone is. Her chin trembles, tears spring to her eyes: speaking the words again solidifies them as true.

  Aster props her back against the wall and looks around, then glances down at herself and gasps. She crosses her arms over her chest, tugging the dress around her. The necklace, didn’t he put it on me? Then she presses her ear to the wall. They’re listening, aren’t they? Please take me home.

  We’re in an Italian jail.

  Aster holds her face between two trembling hands. The dress slips to the ground. She touches her bare shoulders, her bruised face, and feels along the inside of her thighs. What they did. It happened? She presses herself straighter against the wall. It was me? That was me?

  Her hands fly up in the air, then collapse into her lap. She stares at them, blinking away the shock. Where’s my husband?

  The face Aster raises to the crude ceiling is a canvas of cuts illuminated by the early sun. She makes the sign of the cross and then takes a deep breath and does it again, and the last exhalation saps her of strength. She folds into the ground. Where’s my Kidane?

  Hirut looks away. Put on the dress. There’s food outside, she says, getting to her feet. I’ll ask for blankets. She lifts the hem of her own dress, once belonging to someone taller. The collar hangs lower on her chest and she has to pull it back to hide her scar.

  They can’t keep us here. Why are we here? Aster turns her face to the wall and begins to cry softly.

  Hirut stands at the door, her hands at her sides. She is afraid to open it and let the sun crash in. She does not want to see what sits in front of her, reflecting something that she has always been. Carefully, she turns the knob and slips out, eyes stinging and tearing in the sudden light. She sways on her feet, unsteady and disoriented, until a guard points to the tray of food just inside the fence: chunks of dry bread and two cups of cold coffee. The other two guards are standing behind him, aiming their rifles in her direction.

  Hirut glances farther behind the trio: there are more guards pacing in front of the path that leads to the camp down the hill. And just steps away, those two large boulders that open like pleading hands toward the sky.

  INSIDE THE COOK’S TENT: an extraordinary and vocal trembling. Fifi watches her through the opening in the flaps. The woman paces back and forth in that cramped space, her trusted spoon slapping against her leg, her murmurings unwinding and drifting through the canvas as an extended, agitated question. Fifi taps from the outside again, waiting for the cook to notice her and let her in, uncertain what has come over the woman who is usually so punctual with her daily routines that even one missed meal is cause for alarm.

  Today, the cook did not come out to bring her coffee. She did not serve injera or bread or offer to sit with her and eat before they started their day. She has not come out of her tent since they finished dinner the night before, hunched quietly over the tray in Fifi’s tent, barely speaking, always alert to noises coming from the prison and the newly arrived prisoners.

  Last night, Fifi had dared to ask her: Do you know those women they captured?

  The cook had stared down at her food. Then after a long silence, she said, Don’t let him hurt them. Her mouth had been trembling. He’ll be cruel, but you can stop it.

  Who are they? Fifi asked.

  The cook shook her head. I know what he does, she said. I know the kind of man he is. Enough, she had added. Enough is enough.

  Let me in, Fifi says now, knocking against the tent flaps.

  The cook motions her in. They stand, facing each other in the small tent, unsure of what to do.

  What did they do to the older one? Why was she naked? The cook looks down at the spoon in her hand and, as if realizing how hard she is clutching it, sets it down gently on her cot. She rubs her hands against her legs, the gesture quick and vigorous, angry. I saw them dragging her to the prison, she continues. What happened?

  Fifi shakes her head and sits down on the bed. You know, she says. I don’t have to tell you, do I? And I haven’t seen Carlo since they came, she adds. He won’t speak to me. I know he’s taken their uniforms, he’s given them abesha chemises to wear now. That’s all I know.

  It is hot in the tent and the scents of turmeric and cinnamon are thick in the space. The cook looks down next to Fifi’s feet and drags a small basket out from beneath the cot. Give this to them, she says. Give it to the girl, she’ll know what to do with it.

  Fifi shakes her head. I can’t get close to them, she says softly. You know them. She waits for the cook to say something, to deny it, to confirm, but the cook straightens and waits for her to continue. There’s nothing I can do, Fifi adds. Trying to say anything to Carlo will make it worse.

  There’s always something you can do. The cook is sweating and behind her eyes, a startled and frantic light. You do so many things, she says, the sarcasm thick.

  Fifi folds her arms across her chest and steps close to the woman. She is tall enough that the cook is forced to look up. I’m not afraid of you, she says. I’m not afraid and I’m not ashamed. You think what you do is beneath you, she continues. I know my place.

  The cook takes a step back and stares at her hands. I didn’t mean that, she says. I mean that you can do whatever you want. You’re beautiful.

  And the look that the woman gives Fifi is filled with that wary jealousy that wants to assert and deny its existence, and it is now Fifi’s turn to step back, to prepare for the envy that is certain to follow, the resentments that lead to dissolving trust and camaraderie. Because it has happened so many times before, since childhood, and she curses herself silently for thinking the cook would be any different.

  The cook continues: You’re free and you can talk to him like no one can. He’ll act like he’s not listening, but he’ll listen.

  Fifi shakes her head and drops her arms. She smooths her dress and walks toward the exit. She pauses at the threshold. You mistake my powers with that man.

  He loves you, the cook says softly.

  Fifi laughs. You don’t know what love is, then.

  And immediately, she regrets it, regrets the jagged pain those words invoke in the cook, the flash of anger and resentment that settle fully in her round face.

  Without a word, the cook bends to p
ut the basket she pulled out from beneath the bed back in its place. When she stands, her face is a mask. Do something, she says.

  FIFI POURS HER COFFEE AND SETS THE DJEBENA ON THE FLOOR NEXT to her feet. She does not need to look at Carlo to know he is again wearing his two belts. He is pacing slowly in the small new building that is now his office, his steps awkward because of the tiny knife he has bound to one ankle. There are deep circles under his eyes, red lines that trace the curve of his thick eyelashes.

  When did you eat last? she asks. She looks around. There is only one window behind his desk and she can make out the two bodyguards in front of it outside, so tall that they nearly block the sun. When he sits, he is staring directly at the door. A chair is propped on its back legs against the wall, as if he uses it to jam the door shut when he is inside. Another small door to his right leads to what could be a storage space.

  He reaches into his pocket for a cigarette and lights it. You’re tense, he says as he smiles through smoke. The curtains of his office are still closed, but a soft, warm light filters past the bodyguards and into the room. It drapes his face, smooths the sharp lines of his new gauntness.

  Your soldiers are excited about the new prisoners. She sets her cup on the tray and spoons a tiny bit of sugar into the coffee. It’s hard to sleep sometimes, she adds.

  The noises in the camp have ballooned since the prisoners were captured. The men are louder. Their laughs have gotten more robust and jarring, and even the way they walk has become more pronounced, more forceful. The camp has shifted to accommodate the new prisoners, loosened restraints on everyday behavior.

  They were in Italian uniforms, Carlo says. And armed. He leans into her. What women are these? What do you breed in this country?

  He opens the storage door and pulls her into a second room. Inside, there is a cot, a short bookshelf with stacks of his files, a squat lamp, and a metal chair. It is a windowless, cramped space, no larger than a closet. There is a T-shirt crumpled at the foot of the bed, a pair of dirty socks are on the floor. A newspaper lies folded over the back of his chair.

  He pulls back the thin blanket on the cot and sits down. He tugs her closer to him and presses her hands to his mouth. He kisses her palm. Do you want to know how many your people killed in the last week, only kilometers from here?

  Fifi looks at the pistol protruding from his jacket. She is sure that beneath his pillow is the knife he sleeps with. The other is strapped around his ankle. He has at least seven bodyguards outside. I haven’t seen you in days, she says. She pulls her hand back and rubs his head.

  He buries his face in her stomach. You’ve missed me? He looks up. Or you’re curious? He sits back.

  He reaches for the newspaper hanging over the chair. He opens it carefully and lays it in her lap. There is a tiny article sandwiched between two stories of new phone lines connecting military posts: Haile Selassie Returns? Then below that headline is a brief account of excited villagers claiming to have seen the emperor, il Negus. Carlo reaches under his bed and pulls out the flat steel box that he uses for storage. Its latch is undone, the lock sprung open. He wipes the bottom before setting it on the blanket, between them. He takes out a leather-bound Bible, written in Ge’ez, illuminated by drawings of angels with large, soulful eyes. It takes her a moment to recognize it: a gift from her brother, Biruk. Carlo flips the book open. Inside is her name, her birth name in her brother’s handwriting, followed by her own tight script. He turns the page, then another, his actions deliberate, all his agitated energy channeled into the steady palm balancing the book.

  She knows where she has kept the book hidden since her arrival. She knows it has been in the bottom of the bag with her European clothes and perfume. It is a personal reminder of her former life, a way back, on difficult days, to who she used to be: Faven from Gondar, the beautiful daughter of a merchant, the sister to an earnest artist slowly going blind.

  You can read. You can write, he says. He sets down the Bible on the floor and pushes the newspaper aside. You primitive people, he continues, his lips quivering. You think you’re so civilized, but you can’t get rid of your superstitions and hysterical visions. You get your witches to predict we’ll only last five years in this country. He pauses to laugh. And now you say you’ve seen the man who was just photographed in England, in Brighton. Stupid, savage, ignorant slaves, all of you. He is trembling. He hands her the book, then he chuckles, the lines around his mouth deepening.

  She sits up. Ever since you were attacked . . . She stops. I was the one who saved you. Not one of your faithful guards or soldiers. Me. If it weren’t for me, she says, that Ethiopian would have killed you.

  So your people think Haile Selassie was part of Kidane’s ambush? Is that so? He can just miraculously enter the country and go back to England between meetings? The tiny muscle near his right eye is twitching. All those books you own in Asmara and you’ve never once said anything about them, he says. You’ve never once talked to me about what you read. You want to pretend you’re just a simple whore. You must think I’m stupid or that I love you.

  She stiffens. What do you know about love, Carlo? She watches him glance over her shoulder, unable to meet her gaze. She traces the outline of the top belt around his waist, notices the way he jerks away then forces himself to stay still. She taps on it. Nothing but me kept you alive, she whispers into his ear. What’s wrong with you?

  She unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt. She runs a finger along the scar on his chest, feels the tiny hairs around the wound. He is wearing a small wooden Coptic cross that she didn’t know he owned, similar to the one she wears, similar to the one the cook also has. She drops her hand.

  You don’t know as much as you think, he says.

  Fifi clasps her hands together and waits for what’s next. Outside, she hears loud voices and whistles; the men are starting again with the prisoners. Soon, they will gather around the jail and badger the women with lewd shouts. She has heard it from her tent, prevented from leaving by a guard’s ever-watchful gaze. It is the cook who has taken to stationing herself as close as she can to the prison, hiding and watching the men then reporting back to her, trembling with an uncommon fear.

  He takes hold of her face, his palms warm and damp on her cheeks. He brings his forehead close to hers. He blinks slowly. I know what my men are doing. And you know how the prisoners react? They stare at them with faces like stone. All you people are the same. Inscrutable.

  Carlo slides his hand under her dress and rubs her thigh. Take it off.

  Fifi pulls the dress over her head.

  He flings it aside then presses his palm against her breast. He holds still and watches her carefully. Your heart’s beating so fast, he says.

  He bends his ear to her heart. She can feel it picking up speed, pounding loudly. The body reveals our every deception, it finds ways to see everything: her brother told her this on the day he confessed he had gone completely blind.

  Fifi pushes Carlo’s head away. I can read, but you know that, you’ve always known that. I wasn’t trying to hide what’s right in front of your face. You’re looking in the wrong place for whatever you’re looking for. It was me who saved you. Your men would have let you die. You think they’re protecting you out of goodwill? You think Ibrahim cares anything about you? Yes, I’ve read every book you’ve seen on my shelf. Dante, Aristotle, Psalms, Dumas. I like them all, but who do I have to talk to about them now that you’ve bought all my time? You? She laughs. My cook? She shakes her head. I gave up so much to be here.

  He grabs hold of her jaw and sinks his thumb into the tender place where her jawline meets her ear. It is so painful it makes her head spin.

  You hide everything, just like your people, jumping out of hills and grass and God-knows-where. Coming at us from every direction, your witches cursing us and casting spells. Your emperor appearing and disappearing. He wipes the back of his neck, his face is flushed. You’re a people of lies, full of lies and myths.

  Fi
fi nods. So you had someone come into my tent while I slept, she says slowly. Who was it? Your faithful Ibrahim? She turns to him and pushes her face close to his. And why wouldn’t some of us read, Carlo? Why not? You can find an Ethiope in the earliest books. We are older than this Roman culture you’re so proud of. We existed before you, when you were all just peasants, not even a people.

  He licks his lips and blinks slowly. I could put you in prison right now. He grabs her wrists and squeezes.

  Carlo, she says softly, Carlo, why fight? She pulls out of his hold, still naked, her hands flat at her sides. She stands in front of him. Is this really what’s going to be in your next report to Rome, that you think your Abyssinian whore can read? You don’t think some of those who read your reports are old clients of mine? You’re going to tell them the emperor attacked your camp and that you want to put me in prison? She makes her laugh brittle and thin. For what? You’re the one breaking the law by sleeping with a native. And every book in my home that you’ve seen, I’ve read, some twice. I can read Italian and I can read Amharic. I’ve been reading since I was a girl and one of your kindhearted priests gave me books in exchange for some affection. Lonely men, all of you. You’re no different from any of the others, Carlo. Show me something they haven’t done.

  He spins her around and drops to his knees, then settles his mouth between the dimples just above her buttocks, his lips dry as sandpaper. He kisses along the curve of her waist then his thumbs rest on either side of her lower back. His fingers grip the curve of her waist, digging into her stomach.