When would this confusion end? When would I wake up and know for certain? When could I go home?
4
“Hey, buddy.”
The English words came from far away. Muffled. Down a long hollow tube.
Who would speak English here in the market? I turned from the sound. I had to follow Etheye’s bright headscarf, not lose sight of her. Ishi and I gripped hands as we cut through the thick haggling crowd, trying to keep up with her.
“Hey! Buddy!”
The English voice shook my shoulder. I blinked into a dream. An elder, pink skinned, haphazard white hair, bushy eyebrows.
I recoiled. The eyes of a wolf wearing a uniform.
“Buddy, it’s time to go. This is the last stop. Where you get off,” he said.
I uncurled from the high-backed chair, eyes of fear and confusion reflected in the dark window. My arms were wrapped not around my sleep-talking brother but around the backpack with the DC logo. The smuggler, Solomon, had given me the pack, filled it with a puffy coat and food.
Someone will tell you when to get off, he had said.
“You okay, man?”
I nodded. I understood he meant for me to leave the bus, but the words he spoke were gibberish. My muscles ached when I stood. The top of my head felt disconnected from my body, as if my skull had lifted open, and my brain was floating above it.
I had fallen asleep on the bus with a slave girl beside me and awoke alone, an old man, heavy with aching limbs who must grab the top of seats for balance as I followed the wolf man down the aisle of the empty bus.
“Go that way,” the wolf said. He pointed to a ragged line of people scuffing through a corridor, shoulders curled beneath the weight of their possessions. Some had headphones clamped to their ears like the girl on the bus. Acrid smoke drifted from lit cigarettes. The sulfur of burning matches. A woman clutched a squalling infant that arched its back as if to do a backflip from her arms. Her wrist twisted when the bag she rolled behind her flopped onto its side.
Calgary Terminal, the sign said. I knew the word “terminal.” The end.
Calgary. The end.
The line of people spread and filtered into a large room with a glass ceiling. All around, handshakes, hugging, kissing, walking arm in arm, holding hands. Exclaiming. Laughing and crying. So many white faces, fat and thin, pink and pale blending all into one. Smiling. So much smiling. Just like the airport in Toronto. And so much English, even the children could speak it. So few words I knew.
Who was here to collect me?
I stood alone, a little to the side. No one approached.
What now? Where do you go when you are at the end? When no one comes for you?
I spotted the slave girl from the bus, black sweater with hood pulled up, her back to me, talking to elders. She would help. She would know the customs.
Through the crowd, around the suitcases and boxes on the floor. I tapped the girl’s shoulder and grinned.
“What?” The voice aggressive as she pulled away from me. It was not the girl with the Sweet Chili Heat. Where was she? Not on the plastic chairs all joined together. Not at the telephone kiosks, or at the blue metal cupboards. No slave girl with hair as black as Solomon’s anywhere on the glossy brown tiles. Where had she gone? Like Ishi reflected in the bus window, she had vanished.
I followed the people who trickled in groups through glass doors. One door, two. Doors that opened without pushing or pulling.
Outside, a frigid world of gray and beige, frosted with white powder. Rows of thick wires that carried electricity strung tightly between poles. Parked at the curb, a line of yellow presidential taxis, and above, a curved cement bridge on stilts with racing vehicles.
A dark sky stirred with heavy clouds. The air tasted cold and smelled thick with exhaust laced with the scent of clean clothes. The street glistened dark gray, edged with white. A snake pit of roads writhed with a tangle of shiny cars, SUVs and pickups. One blue wall. A sign. Chevrolet Buick, GSL, Certified Service. English letters, but what did they mean?
A train stacked with metal boxes and decorated with street art rumbled like a tank. The screech of metal wheels on rails. Doors and trunks slammed.
How could this be real? How could this not be a dream?
Wake up! Wake up and let this strange delusion end.
A dagger of ice cut from the west, the setting sun a thin red line. The chill reached through my shirt and jean jacket to clench my bones, yet I remained standing on the bricked edge of the road. Like a rock in a river. Not like a boy who has lost his mother, his brother, and his home.
Remain visible. Someone needs to find you.
Who would come? Who would welcome me in a language I knew? Kiss me on each cheek and take me to a safe house?
People flowed around me. The vehicles pulled away slowly, one after the other. To the right. Only to the right. No vehicles traveling left.
No one approached. Day faded into curfew.
You need to go. Far away, Solomon had said. So far that they cannot find me.
But where? How far? What country?
You are safe here, he said. In this country. Even if you are caught.
Why could I not have stayed in Canada, where it was safe?
Where was I now? How many days had I been on the bus? Three days? Four? Why had I not asked questions?
The people were gone. The vehicles gone, and still I stood, shivering and alone. My teeth clashed together as if they would break. My arms wrapped my chest, ears brittle.
Someone must come.
Only four presidential taxis left, tinted windows, top lights lit. Where were the officials, the ministers of government they were meant to pick up? The Ethiopian drivers lounged beside the cars, leaning on them, talking. The tips of their cigarettes fired red when they brought them to their lips.
I took a step forward.
Trust no one, Solomon had said.
One of the drivers noticed me. Expensive leather coat. Long face and hooded eyes. Short nose. Age of a university student.
Was he looking for me?
Another step.
Two small scars above the eyebrow. The flash of teeth of a jackal.
Tigrayan.
I froze.
The tribe in power. They took Gashe.
He blew smoke from his mouth as he studied me, dropped the butt and ground it into the pavement with his polished shoe. His movements slow and deliberate.
I turned from the wind. Legs shaking. Too heavy to run. Walk. Fast.
“Hey!”
If someone hunted you, it would be … to make a statement … I do not think they come for you. They lose interest.
A glance over my shoulder. He stood by the car. Arm in the air.
Not following.
I rounded the curve of the brick building, head up, as if I knew where I was going.
Get away. Keep out of sight.
Before me was a vast wasteland. Cars rushed overhead, but below, where I walked, there was nothing. No people crowding the streets. No shops. No animals.
Where was the life of this place? Crisscrossed roads, paved, with yellow markings in the center. Ramps and bridges. Which road in this stark landscape was I meant to follow?
The wind snapped a row of flags on tall metal poles, the sound like whips. A clang of metal on metal. A building shaped from glass, topped with a Mercedes-Benz symbol. A yard outlined with a shiny rainbow of luxury cars, so real I felt I could touch them. These had been Emperor Haile Selassie’s cars. He liked them the way Gashe liked Peugeots. Why was I seeing the Emperor’s cars?
Across the road, cone-shaped trees, dark green, like the ones I had drawn to win the international art prize. Others black-barked with outstretched arms and fingers, like feelers that grasped at the wind. Faded grass streaked with white. A path through i
t, worn by feet or hooves.
In the distance was a grouping of monoliths, like a futuristic sculpture that reflected the end of day.
Curfew would be soon, or perhaps it had already passed. Is this why the cars moved with such urgency? I needed to be off the street. Where would I hide?
There were no narrow spaces between buildings, no alcoves.
The plain buildings in the distance glowed yellow with electric lights. Electricity meant people. Would someone help me?
Pushed by the terrible wind, I followed the footpath. The wet grass cold on my ankles. A tight line of cement blocks beside the pavement. Cars swooped and flew in all directions, in and around, over and in front of me. So fast. Everything so fast. An orange fence of plastic. A low barrier of thick steel cable bolted to square wooden posts. Electric wires hummed.
Keep walking. Move away from the danger. The Tigrayan can drive his car only to the right. Focus. Walk. Quickly. Keep moving.
The cement path stopped.
Just stopped. A dead end. Across the road, nothing. No tracks, no path. The buildings in the distance, gray on gray, like something shrouded in fog. So close, they seemed, so real, but so far. How could I get to them?
Darkness loomed. Terrible things happened at night.
Nowhere to hide.
A bus roared past, the wind of it flapped my clothes.
The bus was safe. The warmth, the rhythmic hum of the motor would take me home. It could take me back to Yosef where I could get a good job cleaning dishes. I had money. I could buy a ticket. I would go back. I could wash dishes beside Yosef. I could … I could …
I turned.
The wind snatched my breath, pressed my chest. I had to get back to the bus. The tips of my ears burned to ice. My hands froze into talons. Eyeballs on fire from the cut of wind dripped tears.
I was almost there. I could see the building. Red bricks. Curved wall. Not far.
Help me. Someone.
Etheye, tell me what to do.
How could it be so cold?
Toe of sneaker snagged the cement edge. Face slammed the careful rows of bricks. Blood gushed as water from a hose. Stained shirt and jacket, smeared the back of my hand when I lowered it from my nose. My hands would not unfurl. Without hands, my future was that of a beggar. I sobbed like a child.
Crying will not help you. Gashe’s voice in my head. It is through adversity that one learns best the skills of a man.
Useless words, Gashe. Useless!
It is your time to be a man. Solomon’s words.
I didn’t want to be a man. I wanted to be a child who was loved and taken care of by his mother. I wanted to be safe and protected and told what to do in the perfect life I had with my family.
I took baby steps toward my destination.
So cold. Let this nightmare end.
Three taxis remained at the curb, the drivers facing away.
Stay quiet. Invisible.
Past a wooden bench. A newspaper rack. Five metal doors. Glass with steel edges, the one I had come out. IN painted in large white letters. A lock but no handle. How to get in a door with no handle?
Three more doors beside those. Identical but with handles. OUT! OUT! OUT! they screamed. My claws gripped the freezing edge. I pulled. Door locked. I pushed. No movement. Locked.
All locked.
What if the drivers turned? What if they saw me? I had to get in.
I pounded with my fists on the glass.
“Kifeti! Kifeti!” I cried. No light. No movement within.
The door grew hazy through tears as I sank to the rubber mat. I forced the fingers of one hand against the other, but they did not straighten.
Crouched between a brick wall and a locked door. I drove the heels of my palms against my eye sockets.
Stop crying, idiot, think!
You must live, Etheye said.
I was too tired. So heavy. So cold. I rocked back and forth as I wept. I was worse than a beggar outside of Gashe’s compound, lost and useless and alone.
“What’s wrong?” The words in Amharic. My head snapped up. The taxi driver in the leather coat.
My back pressed hard against the bricks. I would tell this enemy nothing.
My eyes ran like a tap left open. Stop the embarrassing tears!
“Come, I will help you.” The familiar mistakes, the pse of a Tigrayan speaker. Like Isaias.
He extended his hand. Palm up. “Come with me.”
I swallowed fear, the taste of it like brass, and ran the back of my hand beneath my nose. A smear of mucus.
5
A single door slammed. A car drove away. Two taxis remained. Engines running. Exhaust seeping from the back.
The two drivers studied me, one in front of me with his hand extended, the other older, standing beside his car. Well-fed body, hand in pocket. He glanced sideways. Middle Eastern looks. A straight, attractive nose.
Eritrean.
Two men left in the world. Both enemies.
One whose tribe imprisoned Gashe. The other an enemy of war. A devious neighbor trying to steal my country bit by bit.
Neither could be trusted. Why were they together?
“Come,” the younger man said. “You can trust me. No one here will hurt you because of the shape of your nose.”
I rose slowly, but I did not take his hand. Tears stilled by fear. Eyes watchful.
The Eritrean was older, but not as old as Gashe. He would be the one in charge. The one most to fear.
The younger man spoke into a cellular telephone like Solomon’s, then snapped it closed.
“I must go,” he told the other driver. “He’s all yours.”
He pulled his taxi from the curb. Alberta, Wild Rose Country on the licence plate. Red tail lights disappeared.
Just one left. The Eritrean.
“What’s the matter with you?” He spoke Amharic with surprising fluency and only a slight accent. His tone was fierce and gruff.
“I don’t know where to go,” I said. My eyes felt like the eyes of my youngest brother trying to avoid punishment. Kato’s tears dripped down my cheeks before I could wipe them. I was failing miserably at being a man.
“Get in my car. I will take you home,” he said. He circled the back of the vehicle and got in.
Solomon had been kind. Yosef had been kind. The girl on the bus had been kind.
But this man, how could I trust him?
The passenger window slid down. The driver leaned across the seat.
“Get in!” he commanded. “I don’t have all night.”
If he left, I would be alone. On the street. In the dark. In the freezing cold. Past curfew.
I opened the front door. Checked the rear seat. Empty, as was the floor. I sat on the far edge, pressed against the door. My left hand clenched the straps of my backpack, my right hand poised over the door handle. Every muscle tensed.
Heat rushed from the vents in the dash. It smelled pleasantly of a flowery perfume with a hint of spice. Warm, at least.
The man picked up the handheld radio, the cord coiled and tangled.
Abrupt English words. “Ahmed here. I’ll be off the air for thirty minutes. I have a small errand.”
An identification card on the visor, held there by an elastic band. The name said Gabriel Bakir and the picture was not of this man.
The man switched to Amharic. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” I said. How much to tell? Be careful what you say. “No one came for me. Someone should have come.”
I shrank into the seat when he reached over my right shoulder, ready to bite if he grabbed me, and to bolt out the door. He yanked the belt and clipped it in place so I couldn’t escape. He pulled from the curb.
I was trapped.
“Where do you liv
e? I will take you.”
“You will take me home?” I asked. The nightmare would end.
“Yes. Tell me where.”
“It is far, I think. Addis Ababa.” I said.
“Yes, I know by your language. But now. Where now?”
My home was with Etheye. Was she still in Addis?
“I don’t know.” Etheye had to pay the smuggler. Did she sell the house? Where would she go?
The driver sighed. A long, slow, dramatic exhalation.
“Why are you so scared? I will not hurt you. You can trust me,” he said.
Trust an Eritrean? He must think me a fool. I would be careful, watchful, ready to escape.
The streets curved and rose. We drove toward the towering buildings with lights that I had tried to reach on foot. So quiet after curfew. So empty.
“You cannot go from Ethiopia to Canada on the bus. You know that. I know that,” he said. “You think I don’t know you are running away from something?”
“I came on a bus,” I said. Ahmed said nothing. His mouth became a straight line. “And an airplane,” I offered.
“So? You want me drive all night while you tell me nothing? I don’t want to know. I have enough troubles. I don’t know why I brought you.” He pulled into a car park, stopped and released my security belt.
“Get out,” he said. He made a sweeping motion with the back of his hand, shooing me like a bad smell. “Go! Leave! You cost me money.” Before me was emptiness lit by streetlights.
“Here?” my voice squeaked. “But there is nothing.”
A woman’s gravelly voice on the radio called cars and read numbers.
“I have work. Customers. Money to make. You think I have the night? You think I want to help you?”
He couldn’t leave me here, could he?
“I cannot go home. They will kill me,” I said.
He shook his head. “Why I do such things?” he muttered.
He shifted the car into gear and pulled onto the street. Where was he taking me now?
Cold White Sun Page 15