The Shadow King
Page 32
Ettore walks out of the office uncertain of where to begin. He stands at the edge of the wide road leading to the other soldati. It is afternoon and mail has arrived and most of them will be in their tents reading their letters and crafting responses, trading gossip of home or relationships or sharing memories of homecooked meals. They will talk as they have always talked, without him or with him as an often-silent figure listening and nodding, laughing when appropriate, absent of stories to exchange in the name of friendship and camaraderie. He has always been there, but not there. Cautious of ways that a story can lead to a question he might not be able to answer: Where did you say your father’s from? What about your grandparents?
The men come from every part of Italy, from Milan and Turin, from the rustic, rolling villages nestled near Florence and Siena, from the ports and rocky hills surrounding Palermo and Calabria. Despite the years away from home, despite their post in this place where boredom is interspersed with moments of intense fear and paranoia, they are hopeful and devoted to the empire they are creating. Some are educated, like Ettore, though many more gave up schooling for the demands of the fields or family-run businesses. But nothing speaks of their differences more than their language.
A staccatoed Italian rolls off the tongues of the Milanese. A rippling, elegant version of the language, peppered with breathy h’s slides out of the mouths of the Florentines. And from the Sicilians, an Italian that seems to twist rebelliously in the mouth before released, at once forceful and fragmented, its grace resting on the fine balance between utterance and song. Every Italian has an accent, my love, Gabriella once said to Leo, unaware that Ettore was listening to them argue from his bedroom. We are many countries in one, what is there to hide?
He goes from tent to tent, counting the men and counting the forms. He distributes them in stacks, nods and drops them in open palms, leaves them on top of blankets, turns away before the questions and the knowing stares. The narrowed eyes that stare at him and seem to scrutinize him malevolently. At the construction site, a worker he does not know shrugs and says to him, The sooner we get rid of these antifascisti ebrei, the better, and he smiles at Ettore as if relieved. Certain other men grow silent. Others burst into laughter. Some take the form from his hand and go to sit in groups around the fire pit, new rumors and gossip starting already. He finds Fofi and Mario together, waiting for him at Mario’s tent. He feels the accusation in their glances, the hostility in the question that bursts from Fofi: And what’s Fucelli going to do for his Foto now? Ettore stays quiet and keeps moving on, then he holds the last form against his chest and goes to find the darkest corner.
Name: Ettore Navarra. Place of birth: Venice, Italy. Date of birth: 20 July 1913. Father’s name: Leonardo Navarra. Mother’s name: Gabriella Rachele Bassi Navarra. Father’s place of birth: Unknown. Father’s date of birth: Unknown. Name of maternal grandmother: Rachele Bassi. Name of maternal grandfather: Mauro Bassi. Name of paternal grandmother: Unknown. Name of paternal grandfather: Unknown. Religion: None. Where was your father born, Ettore? Can you tell the class a bit about your family, let’s practice how to spell the words. I don’t know, Maestro. Go home and ask him and tell us tomorrow. Papa, where were you born? My life began when you were born, my son.
YOU’VE GOT THE FORMS? Fucelli asks, bending to adjust the knob on his radio. He looks at his watch as a faint static hum threads through the room. Certain days, you can almost get Radio London, he says softly. He turns quickly. But we won’t tell Rome, will we? He smiles and shakes his head. It’s the only way to know what’s really going on, he adds. He straightens and holds out his hand. Give it here. He nods approvingly. You got it done in record time.
Ettore opens his bag and gives him the envelope.
The colonel opens the envelope and takes the census forms out. Where’s yours?
Ettore points to the one at the bottom.
Fucelli pulls it out and reads it, his eyes flitting across the page, pausing periodically. You know nothing about your father, he says as he folds Ettore’s form in half and slips it into one of the files on his desk. Why’s that?
I don’t know, sir. Ettore shakes his head. I don’t know, he repeats. What will happen to my parents, sir? His voice cracks, weakened by the thought.
Colonel Fucelli shakes his head. The trucks arrive in three days to collect our Jewish soldiers and workers. You need to be elsewhere when that happens. In the meantime, do you have those rolls of film for me? I’ll send them off to a studio. His eyes fill momentarily with uncommon kindness. This is war, soldato, he says. No one survives fully intact.
They can’t write me letters anymore can they, sir?
The colonel drops his head and thinks for a moment. Why don’t you go to the bar tomorrow, some ascari will take you there, they’ll let you know when you can come back. He fishes in his pocket and pulls out a folded envelope. Here, he says, handing it to him. I was saving it for another time, but take it, ask for Mimi. If there are two or three, look for the tallest one. She’ll know what to do. He smiles, boyish suddenly. These are orders. You’re dismissed, soldato.
ETTORE SITS ALONE in the tiny, crowded bar and waits for the waitress. Outside, the ascari who followed him are near the door, drinking their beers, waiting patiently for him to do as Fucelli ordered. There is only one waitress and she is gliding through the dark bar, glancing at him while spinning from table to table. The other men, mostly Italian laborers, some with their native companions, surge in her direction but the waitress wades through the noise and sways easily past the hands and craned necks. And then here she is almost in front of him with a smile frozen on her full lips, her eyes flat and observant, knowing. Ettore holds his breath. She is graceful motion in this place not meant for such tenderness.
She slows. She pauses in the center of the room as if she knows he has been waiting. As if she knows it was he who took the photographs of Hirut and Aster, of that hanging prisoner, of those falling bodies. As the bartender beckons her to collect another order, she arches her neck and lifts her chin. Light washes over the slope of her throat and flares at her collarbone. Ettore leans forward and for a moment, there is no sound, there are no voices, and he has never been made to fill out a census that will split open his life. She pivots in his direction as if she can hear his thoughts above the calls for more beer, more wine, more cigarettes. Her mouth trembles. Then she nods to him and brings his beer. She dips her mouth close to his ear and says, I’m Mimi, wait for me and we leave together.
THERE IS THE trick of light in the room and the shuffle of stirring dust. There is the creak of the bed when I settle next to the waitress. We lay back and the scrape of the metal frame against the wall is the only sound I hear besides your voice reading to me from that other Leonardo: The boundaries of bodies are the least of all things. There is more Father: there is also a rifle rolled up in one of those scarves these women use. It is leaning in the corner of the small room, and not even the soft glow of the sun that filters in can make me forget this is war. What I’m telling you is that you do not belong here, none of this is for you, but I am afraid to let you go.
She mistakes his silence for hesitation. It’s okay, she says. Va bene. She guides his palm to her waist then down to her stomach and his fingers brush the smoothness of the flesh just below.
He can feel his own rough breaths when she presses herself against him. Wait, he says. He plants his hand over his eyes: he needs to steady himself. Just give me a minute.
It is all right, she whispers, don’t be afraid. She speaks mechanically, enunciates carefully, as if her mouth must conform to the words, as if Italian were unnatural.
She may know nothing more than the sentences she’s been repeating, she may know nothing more than what she practices alone, in front of the mirror, at night. Or she may know everything. She may know why they call him Foto, a shooter of photographs, a collector of ghostly images, an archivist of the dead. She may guess why Fucelli paid for her services for him.
I
don’t do this, he says. But this is war. He feels the shadows in the room, the bristling rage of phantom voices. It is so hard to breathe next to this body.
She smiles, recognizing the word. War, she nods. Paterazm. Guerre. Pólemos. She trails a finger across his chin. She flattens her palm over his heart. She holds it there for so long the room seems to swing around them and shift the shadows closer until all the prisoners he has ever photographed stand at the foot of the bed, staring down at him: the girls, the brothers, the twins, the fathers, the elderly, the women, the boys, the young men. Ettore shuts his eyes and holds his breath. His hands have clenched to fists and he wants to bolt out of the shrinking room.
Tomorrow you go. Tonight, you stay with me. They say I can call you Foto?
I’m Ettore. I’m a soldier, he adds, I’m Italian. He stares once more at the tiny room. He is so far from home. I just turned in my census form, he says, testing her comprehension. That’s why I came to the bar. He waits for something to happen, for the door to burst open and men to drag him out and ship him back to Rome. I gave it to the colonel. That’s why I’m here, he wanted me to have this. You’re a prize. You’re a bribe to make sure I stay obedient, he adds softly, bitterly.
She nods and smiles blankly and presses closer to him until they are as still as new sweethearts, side by side, hands clasped, their nudity only a minor detail. The gesture is so innocent, he lets his head touch hers and allows his hand to relax in her palm. There is a warm pocket of pressure in his stomach.
I’m Italian, he says again, drifting on the steadiness of her breathing. When she does not respond, he lets himself say what he’s been wanting to confess: My father had another life, a son and a wife. He was someone else before I knew him. There is another side of him that he says he erased but I don’t believe him. It’s why he’s tried to cram my head with information, so I don’t realize what’s missing. So I don’t realize how much he wishes I were someone else. I’ve always been a disappointment.
Her hand caresses his leg, his stomach, then his chest and he feels the softness of her breasts as she slides on top and buries her face in his neck, her legs wrapped around his. He lifts her face and stares into it, at her liquid eyes and high cheekbones, at her full mouth and the curve of her chin. From the corner: a faint shuffle, like leaves, like a curtain, like a thought taking form.
I know why your people are always crying, he says. I know why you kept looking at the door when I came into the bar. I know why the bartender stared at me. I know many things. I know you hate me. I know I am an enemy. I know you can’t trust me. I know wherever I go, your people die. Then he cannot speak because there is that patch of shadow again, vibrating at the edge of light. He closes his eyes. This is war, he tells himself. This is what it means.
She shifts so the softest parts of her press closer, so flesh molds against flesh, without resistance, every bend wrapping into him, around him, and he pushes against her, relieved by her gentle insistence, then he is rising into her, letting go, and they stretch on the bed and move together, all sound crumbling away until there is nothing but the warmth of her and the illusionary safety of a firm embrace. They find their rhythm, slowly, gradually and in the swelling urgency, Ettore senses the solidness of his heart, the strength of his arms and legs, the broad span of his back. He is sturdy: bone and flesh, strong muscle and cartilage, a full-bodied man, a soldier. Blood rushes through him, races him toward euphoria, and yet, even in those final moments, Ettore’s eyes open briefly, cautiously, before closing again.
When they are finished, he presses his mouth against her ear to say something, to admit it is not over, that it has just started, that he will never speak of her to anyone, that he will hide it from his father when he goes home, that now he, too, has a secret. But there is a discreet knock at the door and a bell and when she slides out from the thin blanket and stands, her face is remote. Her dark skin rises like a wall between them.
It’s time to go, she says, and tosses him his clothes. She turns her back to dress and when she looks at him again, she is in her white dress. Good luck.
THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF HIRUT AND ASTER ARE DEVELOPED. THEY ARE made into postcards and passed out to Fucelli’s men. They are sent to newspapers and used by journalists. They are kept as souvenirs and discussed in administrative meetings. The photographs of the women are distributed to shops in Asmara and Addis Ababa, in Rome and Calabria, in officers’ clubs in Tripoli and Cairo. Hirut and Aster are called many things: Angry Amazon, Woman Warrior, African Giuliette. They are handled and ripped and framed and pasted into albums and from everywhere come the requests: Can we put them in front of huts with their rifles? Can we stage an attack with a few of your men? Put on your cleanest uniform, Fucelli. Put on your most ravaged uniform, Fucelli. Put on your helmet. Put on this medal. Put on these sunglasses. Stand in profile. Stand between them, Colonel, and tell us what you’ve learned about the native.
IS THIS HER? Kidane holds the photograph up to the light. It is Aster’s face and her body, but it does not look like her. He is aware of the men watching him, of Nardos standing in front of him with her hands over her face, rocking back and forth while speaking words he cannot quite hear.
Kidane drops the photograph to the ground and wipes his hands on his shamma. He knows he is in his cave surrounded by two of his men and Aster’s closest friend, but he is also alone in that bedroom on that first night, looking at a frightened girl holding her anger like a shield.
There are more pictures with Seifu and Aklilu but he will not look at them.
Did Ferres say anything else except we should wait? Aklilu asks.
Seifu is hunched over a photo of a pair of legs dangling off the ground, the bottom of the uniform trousers soaked in blood. This is Tariku, Seifu says, lifting his head, his eyes wide. This is my son, look at him. He kisses the image and holds it to his chest. Why aren’t we killing this Fucelli right now? Why aren’t we running down this mountain and slitting his throat in his sleep?
Aklilu puts an arm around Seifu’s shoulders and draws him close. In that tender gesture, Kidane can feel the accusations they are throwing at him. There have been many days since the women were taken when he has sensed Seifu’s anger and Aklilu’s frustration. They want to attack and yet Ferres keeps begging for their patience. And now the spy has sent them pictures that include Seifu’s son, Tariku. It is only Kidane’s status that keeps him safe from the man’s violent grief.
Aklilu takes the photo out of Seifu’s hand and lays it on top of the others. In the stack are pictures of Hirut that Aklilu has been careful to place at the bottom of the pile. He has tensed, visibly defiant, each time Kidane reached to pick one up.
They’re making them into postcards and passing them around, Aklilu says.
They’ve always done that, Kidane says. There’s nothing different now, except we know the women.
He looks beyond the cave entrance to the row of tall trees flanking a footpath. The sky outside is a pale blue, early morning fog still lingers as midday approaches. The wind is gaining strength outside, blowing through the haze that has helped shield them. It is getting harder to decipher sounds beyond the cave, every tumbling leaf mimics an approaching intruder. They are not so far from Fucelli’s camp, and more than once, they have spotted an ascaro in the hills below, scouting the land.
I’ll go back and finish what I started, Seifu says. He stares at Kidane, his jaw set, a manic glint in his eyes. I’ll kill him slowly.
They have been having the same conversation for days, weeks, hours now. Seifu pressing his point relentlessly while Kidane repeats his orders, increasingly more antagonistic toward the man. There was a time when he felt that same loss as a father, but he can no longer understand what drives the man.
Women’s voices and the clang of metal pots drift up from below. The villagers have come with food. They will leave it with Nardos and the other women who have been hiding in an abandoned village, making use of the few huts that have not been burned or bombed.
There are no more inhabitants in this once well-tended patch of farmland, and the name of the tiny village is unknown. The nearest church has been destroyed and there is no sign of those who would have tended to its restoration. When Kidane’s army leaves, it will crumble and disappear, and it is like this across the country: entire communities erased, sometimes in a day.
We have the emperor, Kidane says. We have a shadow king that everyone believes is real. Kidane pauses, waits for a new idea to form. He has rolled these two facts around in his head for weeks but nothing else has come from it. He sits upright, his hands on his crossed legs. He leans forward, following the path of his words, seeing where they will lead. They lead him back to the pictures, to the obscenity of his wife’s body displayed for strangers’ eyes.
Then: Imagine if the emperor came into the Italian camp, he says. Imagine if he led an ambush to rescue them.
Cut off the head, Seifu says, and you kill the body. We should go after Fucelli, throw him off those cliffs piece by piece and let his men watch before we kill them too.
Fucelli’s guarded better now than before, Aklilu says. We need a full assault on his soldiers. He’s expecting you to come back, he says to Seifu. He’s waiting for it.
They speak well into the afternoon. Every new plan has a dead end. Every reason for hope is outweighed by risk. It has been like this since Aster and Hirut were captured. They fall asleep in Kidane’s cave and wake again to the same limited choices, the same limitless dangers. Days bleed away while the Italians continue building roads and bulldozing mountains and throwing innocent people off high cliffs. They have been destroying villages and demolishing huts while constructing square homes with sharp corners and installing Italian families and merchants. While Kidane’s army has waited for Ferres’s message to attack Fucelli, they have joined other patriots to demolish railroad tracks and cut telephone wires. They have attacked laborers and destroyed supply trucks. They have poisoned water wells and stolen radio transmitters.