I was just a beating heart in a shell of bones and flesh. Could I slow down my heart? Until it stopped beating? I would lie here until death took me, until the wire that squeezed my brain cut off the supply of blood.
I never forget about you. Never. You are my soul, Etheye whispered. But she had forgotten. She had pushed me away, sent me so far that I could never get back.
I survived, Etheye! I live.
But I am a coward who would rather die.
“Hey, Africa dude!” called DJ.
I held my breath and my silence.
“Hey, I said. You hafta get up.” He shook my shoulder. “Them’s the rules. You know them. You don’t get to sleep in,” he said.
I was dying. Already, almost dead. Like Gashe.
The room emptied.
What had happened to Gashe? Why did he speak for unity and democracy when he had everything to lose? His position. His family. His life.
My life.
If he had remained silent, he would be busy counting his money. Sponsoring students. Giving alms to the poor.
I would still be in Addis.
Education is the only way to change a country. How often had he said that? But it was the university students who were attacked and rounded up and taken away. How could knowledge change a country if the educated were imprisoned?
I shifted in the bed. Had they killed him immediately? A bullet through his skull? Or were they doing it slowly?
I stared at the wall dimpled like the skin of an orange. My heart beat its sorrow. How could I be sad? Had I not wished he would pay for the suffering he had caused Etheye? That I would be free to choose my own life?
“Hey, Tesfaye. You have to get up.” Not Jason’s voice this time. Rob’s. He shook my shoulder and peeled off the blanket. “Come on, buddy. Get dressed. You have an appointment.”
I wasn’t even allowed to die.
* * *
◆
Rob took me to a building where I had not been before, to rooms as bland as all of the other rooms where I had been questioned. He told me not to worry, that I was not in trouble, and that he would return for me.
“Just tell the truth,” he said. “Everything will be okay.”
Did Rob think that I had not been telling the truth?
The walls of the room were painted rainy-day gray that matched the furnishings, a cheap metal table and three chairs. A man of heavy build, a glossy scalp and thick glasses had an open file folder on the table with the familiar sheets of paper covered with little boxes. His hands were meaty and large. Beside him, a man with a lined pad of yellow paper. His pen was poised, ready to write things down.
I waited to be invited to sit.
“So you entered Canada illegally? And you would like to stay?” the bald man asked. His voice was pleasant and comforting.
I wanted to return to Addis. More than anything, to go home, to stop the questions, but I knew that returning to Ethiopia was certain death.
“Yes. It would please me to stay,” I said. It was my first lie. Rob would be disappointed.
The questions made me want to rest my head on the table and close my eyes. Why did they ask me the same things?
“Why are you here?” he demanded. His voice echoed in the bare room.
A new question.
The large man, angry now with a red shining face, stood across from me. His weight rested on his hands splayed on the table. He strained his head toward me, our faces close enough for him to strike. I braced myself for the attack that must soon come, alert to the danger of quick movements, ready to dodge.
“These are not difficult questions! Why won’t you answer?”
But the questions were difficult. What answer did he want?
The man threatened me with his eyes. One hand curled into a fist. I knew the feeling of being beaten, the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Bang! He slammed the table. I jerked as if the blow had hit me and not the metal surface.
The other man bent to pick up the pen that vibrated from his hand and rolled across the floor.
“Do you even understand English?” the man shouted.
“Yes,” I nodded. “Yes, I understand English.”
“Do you know what I am asking?”
“Yes.”
He sighed heavily, scraped the chair across the floor, and dropped into it. He spoke as slowly as if I were an imbecile.
“Then why. Don’t. You. Answer. The. Questions?”
“I do not know why I am here.”
“You know that I know that you are lying.” His voice was soft, but he stared at me without blinking. He stopped speaking. It was a most uncomfortable feeling. I pressed against the back of the chair. I blinked and blinked and blinked. His eyelids did not move. My lungs squeezed out all of their air. Should I say something? He had made a statement. He did not ask a question.
“I am telling what is true.” My voice squeaked. I cleared my throat. “I saw many happy Chinese people. Some were in the uniforms of police. Or maybe guards.”
“What else did you see?” I closed my eyes to better remember, then opened them to speak. It seemed so long ago that I came here.
“Moving belts that carry people inside a shining market, and many, many people in all the colors of pink.”
He fell into the chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“You expect me to believe this? You’re kidding, right? You think I’m stupid?”
“Some people were also brown,” I added.
“You expect me to believe you entered this country by air and landed at a major international airport?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head and then yelled, “Wrong! It. Does. Not. Happen. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“We have document scanners. We have security devices. And you want to tell me you just breezed through it all? Just walked into this country like you owned it?”
“Yes. The China man said, ‘Welcome to Canada.’”
“Why don’t you answer the questions truthfully? Why not make it easy for everyone?”
“I answer the questions.” I flinched when he raised his hand as if he might slap me.
“Who are you trying to protect?”
“I protect no one.”
He sighed deeply, pushed back the chair and left the room.
The man with the writing pad did not move or speak. We sat in silence. My foot began to wiggle. A jug of water on the table sweated. Beside it were two empty glasses upside down. My dry throat felt as if it had been scraped of its flesh. Was there a polite way to ask this man for water? There were only two glasses. The water, I realized, was not meant for me.
The room was undecorated except for a dull mirror and a door. The only things to look at were the water jug or the man. My foot jiggled faster. I needed a toilet. Now, before I exploded. I wished the man would say something, so that perhaps I could ask. He glimpsed at me when I looked at him, but otherwise his face held no expression. I lowered my eyes, focused on the man’s notebook. He had thick fingers and a plain gold ring tight on his left hand. He moved his fingers in a slow pattern, smallest to index, smallest to index, smallest to index. He stopped moving them when he noticed I was watching.
The door burst open. My foot stopped shaking. The angry man raged in. He clutched a pale beige folder. He slapped it on the table.
“We know all about you,” he said. “We know who you are, and why you are here. We know how you got here. We know all of your plans.”
My teeth gripped my bottom lip. What was he talking about?
“It’s all here. In this report.” He tapped the folder.
“It is in the report?” What report did he have? Had Solomon been caught? But Solomon said he would deny all knowledge of me if he was captured. Even if we were
in the same room, he said he would deny knowledge of me. Had I made a mistake?
“That’s right,” he said. He smiled, now, with the patience of an elder. He slid the folder to the side. “Now, why don’t you start telling me the truth?” He slouched in his chair and touched his fingertips together in a triangle.
I remained silent. The police interrogator pumped his steepled fingers in a slow, languid manner.
“No rush,” he said. “Whenever you are ready.” I pressed my lips together to moisten them. Prepared for what? What did he want me to do? He reached for the jug of water and poured slowly into a plastic cup. He took a small sip. He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Want some?”
“Yes,” I said, even though the drinking of water might cause my bladder to overflow.
“So,” he said, sliding the filled cup toward me, “it seems you can tell the truth when you want to.” Another comment. Should I respond? I tasted the water. I would live as the desert lives when it rains. I sighed deeply, then bent my head and closed my eyes.
“It has been clearly established that you are involved in illegal activities,” he said when I looked up. His voice was gentle, the voice of a teacher. “I think that you acted out of desperation. That you were in trouble. That you needed money. That you saw no other way.”
I translated the words that I knew, and nodded to indicate that I understood — desperation, trouble, money. He did know about me, after all.
“So, tell me. In your own words, tell me the plan.” I preferred this reasonable man to the angry one he had been before, but I did not know what he was talking about. What plan? My eyebrows drew together.
“I did not know the plan. It was arranged,” I said. I took another sip of water. The two men exchanged glances.
“Who made the arrangements?”
“The arrangements were made by Solomon,” I said. “The arrangements were bad when I came here. At the bus ending.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one came to take me.”
“Take you where?”
“I do not know this.”
The room fell silent again. I rubbed the metal arms of the chair.
“Okay, this is what I think.” He leaned toward me across the table. “What I think is that there is only one reason to sneak into this country. And that reason is to kill people. Was that your plan, Tesfaye? To come here and to kill?”
“No! No!” I leapt to my feet. He rose, too, and pressed closer to me, his fingertips on the table. I stepped back. His mouth twisted into a snarl.
“There is no doubt in my mind why you are here.” He sneered. “Tell me. Did you come with explosives? Maybe some little incendiary devices? Something easy to assemble with a few electrical wires and fuses? Is that it? Or would you get all the parts here?”
“No! No!” My voice rose louder than it should to speak with an adult. I knew who killed. The police.
“Gashe,” I said.
“Gashe. Your father?”
I nodded. How to explain? “The police. They took him.”
The man kept his eyes fixed on me and bobbed his head in a slow, knowing way.
“He did nothing wrong!” I said.
“It is my experience, that when a man is arrested, he has done something wrong,” he said.
“That statement is not correct,” I said.
“You have broken the law in Canada. You are in a lot of trouble. And I mean, a lot.” His words hung in the silence like a low, dark cloud. “You know what happens in Canada when people sneak into the country?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. I did not know what happened in Canada when people were perceived to break the law, but I knew what happened in Ethiopia.
“Sit down,” he said, “and tell me what you know. I am in a position to help you, but first I must hear the truth coming from your lips.”
“You must hear the truth?” I asked. He nodded. The other man readied his pen.
“Have you done this many times before, or was this just the first time?”
“This is my first time in Canada.”
* * *
◆
The words he spoke were kind and soft. Tell me what you know.
I couldn’t see his face. He was in the backseat of the car, me in the front.
The words, so tender, so soothing. Yet the wire tightened around my throat. The weight of Ishi was beside me, asleep. I had to wake him. He needed to get away. Too late for me, but not for him. They wanted only me.
I struggled for air, unable to move my head.
I reached for Ishi, dug my fingernails into his arm and shook him.
“Wake up, Ishi! Wake up!” I screamed. I kicked him. He did not stir.
“Ishi!” My cry was too thin. The wire twisted. “Ishi!”
No movement. Ishi, beside me, was already dead. They had killed him first. Ishi! The scream tore my throat.
I curled into emptiness. I was alone. There was no reason to live. Hot tears cut my face. Every muscle quivered. I gasped the high pitch of mortar shells before they explode.
“Hey, man.” A hand, warm on my shoulder. “You okay?” His touch as gentle as Etheye’s.
“This is a shit hole, man, but you’re safe here.”
My eyes clenched. What was real? Why couldn’t I breathe? My breath shuddered. Let me die. Let it be over.
“Sit up,” DJ said. His hand at my back, lifting me. Feet on cold floor. “We’ll get a drink of water or somethin’.” One hand holding mine. Down the long hall. We circled the common room that overlooked the street. Around and around. My eyes open, but not seeing.
Blind. So powerless. Ishi!
DJ pressed a cool glass against my fist. My fingers opened. He cupped his hands around mine.
“You got it?” I nodded. “Come on, now. Take a drink. Just a sip. Tha’s it.”
On the sofa. Feet on the floor. Head drooped over knees. Arms encircling shins. Pain. How could I feel such pain?
I twisted from DJ’s touch. Leave me! I want to die.
“Com’ on, man. It’s over. Just a dream.”
No dream this.
“Come on. Back to bed, okay? It’s all chill.” DJ pulled the warm feather blanket over my shoulders. “We all been through it. I won’t tell nobody.”
My eyes wide now in the darkness. Could I ask him to lie close beside me?
I focused on breathing. One in. One out. One in. One out. How many breaths equaled a minute?
A nightmare. Only a dream that ripped out my throat.
And my heart.
Only a dream.
13
The next week when Rob picked me up, the boy with the name of Kenny was with him. DJ and Jason never came with Rob and me, but often, Kenny came with us to the massive indoor food markets to purchase highly polished fruits and clean vegetables. We used huge metal baskets with wheels to collect the food, then walked along the blue-green river, or played games popular in Canada.
Kenny laughed as much as a young child, and he spoke slowly with simple words so I could understand. I watched Kenny and copied what he did. I wanted to be him, to not think about the past and to think only of the succulent, creamy taste of ice cream.
Kenny had chosen chocolate, but he was not licking the coldness fast enough. He turned his head and lapped rapidly with his tongue, but the ice cream was faster. It poured over his hand and down his shirt and made a small brown beard on his chin. Rob passed him a napkin.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rob said to me. “You don’t really belong here, do you?” His ice cream was green pistachio, mine was coffee.
“I belong in Ethiopia,” I said. I twirled the cone in my hand, letting my tongue clean the edges before they dripped.
“No, I mean in the group home. There is nothing wrong with you, is there?”
&nbs
p; “No, nothing is wrong. Melissa treats us well.”
Kenny shoved his cone in his mouth and crunched. Melted ice cream drooled from both sides of his lips.
“It’s just your English that’s not perfect. You don’t always understand,” Rob said.
“Sticky hands,” said Kenny. He pressed his fingers together, then popped them open to demonstrate.
“I understand Kenny.” I grinned at my friend. “Sticky,” I said, and copied his motion with my fingers.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that you get along well with him. That’s why I thought …”
Kenny and I played with our fingers as if they had glue on their tips.
“Sticky,” I said.
“Sticky, sticky bubblegum,” sang Kenny. Rob spat on a napkin and wiped Kenny’s fingers.
“But you also get along with DJ and Jason,” said Rob as we walked to his car.
“They are my friends,” I said. I also wanted to be like DJ and Jason, but often they were angry.
“It doesn’t add up. I really don’t think you belong.”
Rob reached into the backseat of his car. He withdrew an elongated brown ball with a line of wide stitches at its center.
“You like it?” he asked.
“It is a most attractive ball,” I said.
“You want to play?” He held the ball with his fingertips on the stitching, and drew his arm back as if he might throw it. “I thought we could go to that field over there, practice a few passes …”
“Football!” said Kenny. He bounced up and down.
I remained silent and watchful.
“What’s wrong? You told me how much you like to play football with your brothers. Remember?”
“That is not a football,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” Rob said.
“You must make it rounder,” I said. I spread the fingers of both hands and curved them to demonstrate the spherical shape of a football. Rob looked confused.
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