One of the ascari guards walking past the prison glances at her, then at the two Italians, then pauses at the fence, leans in, and shakes his head.
That one, he says softly in Amharic, sliding his eyes toward Fucelli, who’s now motioning Ettore to him. He’s not good.
Hirut looks up, startled. The ascaro is one of the older guards, one of those who has seemed the most hardened and cruel. He’s not good either, she says, pointing toward Ettore as he stands in front of Fucelli and salutes.
The ascaro shrugs. He’s just obeying orders, he says. He holds her gaze. That’s what soldiers do, he adds. Then he continues pacing.
The two men are in the middle of the field, several meters away from where Hirut watches. They are speaking too softly for her to hear, but it’s clear to see when Fucelli claps Ettore on the back. Ettore grips the straps of his bag to hold it in place. And when Fucelli pushes the piece of paper into his chest, Ettore steps back to let it float to the ground. Fucelli picks it up and holds it out and waits. Ettore shakes his head. He taps his chest, looks behind him at Hirut, turns again to Fucelli, and shakes his head once more. Fucelli grabs Ettore’s hand and pushes the paper into it. He folds his arms across his chest. He spreads his legs apart and lifts his chin. He speaks in a voice that glides easily across grass and barbed wire. He is speaking in Italian but it is coated in another language, one of urgency and demand. She watches Ettore collapse into himself. She sees the hand that trembles as it shakes open the paper. And she expects the colonel to take it away, because those who have are always seeking more.
Instead, Fucelli slips his sunglasses on top of his head and clears his throat. He angles to spit at the ground. Then he begins to speak, his voice so loud and clear, so crisp, that the hills tug at the words, elongate them and fill them with air until they float and multiply and filter back over Hirut, a cascade of sounds she can only translate by watching the way that Ettore holds his head and shakes. He turns to look at her, and in that space something tremulous and tender rises between them, an understanding absent of any language that might give it form, give it boundaries, and give it an end.
Then Fucelli finishes. He salutes. He waits. When Ettore finally salutes, Fucelli turns and strides back down the hill, as purposeful as ever.
THE HUMILIATION IS A WOUND SO PAINFUL THAT ETTORE REFUSES TO acknowledge its depth. There is no way but forward, he thinks as he sits on his cot, still shaken. There is nothing to do but return to Italy like the telegram orders and face the consequences of his insubordination. He has been found out, likely reported by someone in the camp, and there is nothing the colonel can do to stop whatever that will happen next. Fucelli will petition on his behalf but he will leave when the mail truck arrives next week. The colonel will not place him under arrest as the telegram orders; a soldier’s work is not done until he is dismissed. Ettore looks around at his neatly made bed, the crate topped with only a kerosene lamp and an outdated newspaper. He spills the contents of his bag onto the bed and picks up the photo of Hirut. She would not look at it. She could not bear witness to herself, even as a seminude figure draped in wondrous light. That was what he had wanted to show her: his ability to turn a starkly hideous moment into something else.
Ettore reaches beneath his cot and pulls out a flat metal box. It is one of those that nearly every soldier and even the colonel owns. A standard metal box easily found in Asmara or in a tabacchi in Gondar. It is a way to protect letters and postcards, small objects to save for the journey home. Inside are the letters he has written to his parents that he knows will not pass the censors, a record of his days in Africa, a memento he has kept as much for himself as for them. He sifts through the photographs, stacks labeled neatly by year and placed in chronological order. He has included newspaper clippings and notices of events that will become shorthand for other memories when he has one of those conversations he has always wished he could have with his father. There are photos that he has exchanged with other photographers in the area. There are pictures of strangers that he will never know, images he has not even looked at yet. He collected them simply to have them as proof that once, he, too, had been an Italian in Africa. He will bury this box somewhere safe and dig it out when he is free of this war and the census and its constrictions. He thinks back to his frantic rush toward the prison when he heard Fucelli was looking for him and a message from Rome was involved. He cannot explain his need to be in the presence of Hirut, to feel her disdain and let it roll over him while hoping to feel its ebb and the gradual push of something else kinder, gentler, and forgiving.
HIRUT PEEKS THROUGH the crack in the door, pressing herself against the frame, motioning for Aster to be quiet behind her. There is a tugging in her chest as she observes Ettore, a slow loosening of the knot she has gotten used to. He is at the tree, holding a square object and turning in slow circles to take in the horizon and the cliffs, then the prison and the road. He does it again as if memorizing the landscape, as if looking for something held in the crevice of light slipping over the hills as the sun sets. He drops to his knees. He crawls to the thick roots that push out of dirt and intertwine to grow as sturdy and large as human limbs. Her hand settles on her throat as he pulls up a short-handled shovel, the tool hovering in his hand as the horizon flares a burnished orange steeped in blue. He is molding into a silhouette, a dark form moving silently on a grand stage.
Hirut wants to ask aloud what he is doing as he digs, but she already knows. Her heart twists in her chest as she realizes that she is watching an old version of herself, that girl who was a keeper of things she should not have claimed as her own. He is doing as she once did, in the naïve belief that what is buried stays that way, that what is hidden will stay unseen, that what is yours will remain always in your possession. He is being foolish.
Aster stands next to her and nudges her out the door. Then they are sitting cross-legged and against the wall, tipping forward, watching as he shovels dirt to one side, sheltered by the same darkening sky that serves to make them difficult to see. The ascari are starting their usual patrol of the hills, moving quickly in the opposite direction while leaving one bored guard to stand at the cliffs. Ettore pauses to let them disappear into the trees. He stands, whistles, coughs, and when none of them looks his way, he continues to work. As he digs, neither Hirut nor Aster speak, held rapt by the soldato’s urgency, so engulfed in his secrecy and despair, that they do not pause to ask what could be in that box. They watch him as he buries it. Then he stands and stares down at the mound, kicking debris and twigs on top of it until the rocks that camouflage his efforts are no more than useless stones.
Ettore pats the covered hole into shape. He has buried everything except his father’s letter. He has given up to the earth all the letters his mother has written, all those he can never send, and all the photos he will gather strength to show his parents later. There is no other choice. It is as close to destroying them as he can get, as close to saving them as he can manage. He is afraid that the authorities will order him to turn everything over. He is worried that there is no longer any safe place for his private thoughts.
When he is finished, Ettore dusts off his trousers. He sneaks a glance toward the prison and sees a silhouetted Hirut get to her feet. He turns to her, hesitating before walking closer. She points to him. He moves toward her, drawn by the hand reaching through the fence, drawn by the voice that is no more than a whisper, propelled by this night that has wrapped itself around his secrets. He feels protected and exposed, cautious and brazen.
So when Hirut points to the mound that looks as innocent as it did this morning, Ettore nods, surprised and freed by the gesture. And when she says the Amharic word for “to bury”: meqiber, he repeats it back in Italian: seppellire. When she whispers, “secret”: meestir, he answers back, yene meestir, my secret, il mio segreto. When she pauses and looks at him and says, il mio segreto, he is forced to stop and approach her and they stare at each other through that fence that has become a border between two
countries.
Il mio segreto, he says, pointing to his chest.
Il mio segreto, she says, pointing to his chest.
He shakes his head and points to her: Anche il tuo segreto.
But she shakes her head and smiles, a somber light in her eyes, and says, Yene meestir aydellim. It’s not my secret.
And for a moment, it is he who is in the prison and they both know it. It is he who is captive to a force larger than himself. Ettore spins on his heels, his heart beating rapidly, sweat drenching his back, and he believes he can hear her as he makes his way to the camp: Yene meestir aydellim.
OF COURSE CARLO HAD TO DELIVER THE TELEGRAM TO ETTORE HIMSELF, to have let him find out any other way would have crushed the man beyond repair. He reassured Navarra as much as possible but he still cannot get rid of his uneasy feeling. It is a nagging guilt that he cannot shake loose. A sense that he is responsible even though the opposite is true: he has done as much as he could. This is why he invites Fifi to his room and lets her hold him longer than usual. He speaks to her as he has not done before: about victory and its costs, about loyalty and its burdens. He takes her hand and raises it to his lips as he talks, pressing her palm against his teeth, reveling in her caresses.
He waits until she is asleep before he slips out of bed and turns on the kerosene lamp. He taps a cigarette out of his case. He lights it and inhales deeply. He has grown to like Ettore Navarra, he realizes. He has come to feel paternal toward him. Thanks to Navarra, he now questions what it means to walk through gradients of shadow and seek brighter lights. It is not fair that the soldato will be punished for disobedience that Carlo himself encouraged, but that is an unsentimental consequence of war and law. Conflict tests the limits that make a man, even that beloved son of Leo Navarra. The order to stand trial in Rome is no more than an effort to reinstill the most fundamental task of a soldier: obedience. All will eventually return to normal.
There was nothing to worry about, he told Fifi. But it was, in fact, Fifi herself who suggested he take action tonight. It was she who told him to remove the soldato and send him to Asmara then to Massawa immediately. To put him on the next ship back to Italy. Give his camera to someone else who can take his place right away. You need the photos for your reports and records, without those, what does Rome know of what you’re accomplishing? What will he tell them of what you did with his census? Even I have to admit this, Carlo: You must reassert your authority and do it now. Protect yourself. But Carlo shook his head and told her no, and he shakes his head now as he extinguishes his cigarette and crawls back into bed.
Leo, he whispers in the tiny room as he draws Fifi close and pulls her arms around him, she wants me to strip your son of the only thing he has at the moment when he needs it most. He presses himself against Fifi as he continues. She wants me to take that camera away as if he can be so easily replaced. Carlo taps his heart. I’m not a cruel man, he says softly against Fifi’s neck. He feels her stir and kiss his cheek. I have kindnesses yet to bestow to my men. No, I’ll wait for Rome to do its work. Then he draws her nearer and falls asleep.
Chorus
The woman who cradles a sleeping man in her arms: this is not what she was meant to do. She was not born to soothe troubled men and ease their worries. She did not learn to read and speak foreign languages in order to brush Carlo’s hair from his eyes. She has always known her fate to be more than this. She has always known it to be bigger than any man. Though she embraces as if she were meant to hold children, she has never wanted those things that make a woman’s stomach into a home. She was born, she has always claimed, to be free, to roam across borders and find refuge in books and seek new loves unhindered by the rules of a villager’s life.
Here is the woman staring at the colonel as he sleeps, looking at him as he stumbles into a dream, his face a patchwork of feelings. Faven: she whispers her own name, then stops. Then: Ferres, because it is an oath and a name she has made into a wall. Does her childhood friend Seifu know this of her? Does he know of the loyalties that even now she is balancing against a young girl’s ambitions? See the hand that slides to rest against Fucelli’s throat. Feel the air that catches in his chest even as he remains asleep when she repeats: Ferres. See Fifi shrug aside his arms, stand from the bed, and turn her face so he cannot see her twisting expressions if he awakens. See Ferres slip out of the room to return to her tent and wake the cook.
THE MESSAGE TO KIDANE FROM FERRES IS SIMPLE AND DIRECT: Now, immediately. Do it now.
ETTORE KNEELS AT the spot where he hid the box. He wants to dig it up and bury Leo’s last letter. He wants to keep the letter and swear that he will die before he gives it up. Ettore wipes his eyes and swallows the ache in his throat. He feels as if he has broken a promise he never knew he made. He has betrayed his father’s words, disrespected the lessons of the man, all in the name of obedience. And now it is he who has been betrayed. Ettore sits down and settles his back against the tree and stares at the moon, waiting as a guard walks by, his faint whistle flitting across a halfhearted melody. He opens his bag and takes out one of the pictures of Hirut that Fucelli developed recently, one of those that shows her defiance and hatred while standing at attention. He flips it over and starts to write:
What are you holding in your hand, Papa, the shaded body or reflected light? Mamma, we call her donna abisinna but her name is Hirut and she is a soldier and a prisoner. He shrinks his handwriting and puts down what he knows to be both true and false at the same time. Papa, your name is Leo and it is not. You are an atheist and something else I have come to understand as light. What is reflected from you, to me? What is illumined by your life, Mamma? What does it mean to be Leo’s wife and my mother? As Ettore writes furiously, bent close to the pen, other noises seep in: the tender snap of grass, rustling leaves, a bird’s sad sweep, then whispers: urgent words spoken low. He looks up. The sentry is no longer pacing, the whistling has stopped. The silence is ominous and complete.
Ettore scrambles to his feet. He swings his rifle in front of him and for a fleeting moment, he hopes for an ambush, an attack that will shred this photo and his note and that telegram and send it to the wind and into forgetfulness. He leaves the tree and creeps closer to the jail. The voices again. For a moment, he imagines that boy hanging on the tree, twirling in that awful breeze. In how many ways can we fall, he will ask his father when they meet. Tell me so I can prepare. He steps out of the dark, into a spray of moonlight. He is near enough to the fence to see the shape of two figures, startled, step back from the gate.
Ibrahim? He keeps his own voice low.
A cold pressure falls on his shoulder. A blade slides gently across his throat. A fleshy hand covers his mouth. Ettore shuts his eyes as his rifle is ripped from his hands. His bag is taken and a kick at the back of his legs forces him to his knees. He puts his hand behind his head when the knifepoint settles against his jugular vein. He braces himself and waits. So this is how it will end, in darkness. He is the shaded object. He should have known. He sees Hirut step out of the dark in front of him. She puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head. She is handed his rifle from someone who still holds that blade to his neck. He understands the command: Hirut, kill him. Ettore swallows. He will keep his eyes open. He will look at how it all ends. He will seek that body trapped in both light and shadow. Hirut raises the gun to her chest. She points the barrel in his direction and she whispers to him:
To die. Morire. Memot. You deserve to die. Then she raises the gun high, grabs it by the barrel, and brings it down on his head.
He plummets, caught in shafts of light, an object blotted and bloated, reflecting only what it has retained. He falls, free, reveling in the thrill. What Ettore will remember as he swims through oblivion toward the sharp moon are the uniformed legs and the swish of skirts across tall grass. The soft whispers will come to him blurred of language and distinction, and what remains will be Hirut’s face peering down at him, checking his pulse, before she grabs her photo and his father
’s letter, then takes Aster’s hand and runs.
HIRUT STARES AT THE PHOTO that she takes from his possession: her own image frozen and flattened, drained of color and blood, filled with his handwriting on the back. Then Hirut makes her escape with Aster. She races through the hills and toward the caves. She rushes into the comfort of the damp and dank cave that was once hers, and sinks against Aklilu’s embrace. She holds the picture to candlelight. She narrows her world to its perimeters then presses herself to the ground and stares at the frightened girl. They are twin images: one begging for assistance while the other pleads silently for forgiveness. One alone within the folds of barbed wire, and the other catapulted into history, doomed to roam through borders and homes, never more than the object imprisoned by the eye.
THE ULULATIONS. The tears and hugs. The shouts of joy and grateful weeping. The large meal and tej. The prayers. The curses on their enemies. The dancing. Hirut stands in the middle of the large circle with Aster, gripping her hand, afraid to let it go, the two of them dressed again in uniforms, soldiers once more. Behind the revelers and the other fighters, behind the women wearing dresses and waving knives, behind the uniformed troops jumping and shivering in ecstatic eskesta, Aklilu stands with Minim, their emperor. Hirut stares at Aklilu, held in the tenderness of his gaze, unwilling to break away as he nods and touches a hand to his heart then his lips, then nods to her. She begins to understand even as she is swept up in embraces and kisses, that these moments, too, hold a power beyond simple words. These gestures, too, can puncture a night and set it aglow in unspoken promises. As Hirut nods to Aklilu and touches her heart, as she presses her own fingers to her lips and says his name, she feels her chest expand with forgotten warmth. She brings her feet together and straightens her back and she smiles when he does the same and in unison, as one, they salute.
The Shadow King Page 34