Beneath the Lion's Gaze Read online

  Sara came into the living room, smoothing her long skirt and tucking hair back into her orange scarf. “Tizzie won’t sleep,” she said. Just the way she walked, with sturdy, graceful steps, eased his anxiety.

  Yonas made room for her on the sofa. “Didn’t you try to get her to lie down earlier?” He wrapped an arm around her and drew her close to him. “She’ll fall asleep when she’s tired.”

  “Selam started getting sick as soon as Tizita was born,” Hailu said. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the door.

  “Was it at the same time?” Sara said. “I was so weak.” She laid her head on Yonas’s shoulder. “Those early days,” she said, shuddering. “Tizita was so tiny.”

  “It was Emaye’s first trip to the hospital,” Yonas said.

  “Tizita will be four soon. Shouldn’t we give a party?” Sara asked. She looked up at Yonas. “She’s old enough to remember it later.”

  Yonas was surprised by the idea. He looked at his father but Hailu was staring into the distance. “It doesn’t seem right. Not now.”

  “Emaye likes parties,” Sara said. She smiled gently at him. “She was talking about giving Tizzie a party. Abbaye needs to relax, seeing his friends will be good for him.”

  “Abbaye, what do you think?” he asked his father.

  “Four years,” Hailu said. He shook his head, the lines of his mouth lengthening. He stood with effort. “I’m going to lie down.”

  A HARD RAIN FELL. Thick drops that pooled and shimmered on the asphalt road. A bright moon hung in the starless pitch. Dawit drummed on the steering wheel of Yonas’s Fiat, speeding when he shouldn’t have been. He’d left the hospital and gone to meet with the organizers of the student union in a small house near the Sidist Kilo university campus. Solomon had tapped him to head recruitment for the next rally.

  “People like you,” Solomon had said, grim-faced though he gave a compliment. “Talk to your friends, tell them to talk to their friends. We’re gaining momentum, we need more people. Choose them wisely.”

  Dawit made a mental list of his friends: Lily, Meron, Markos, Teodros, Zinash, Anketse, Tiruneh, Gebrai, Habtamu, Getachew—there were so many who would be willing. He ran through the names of those he knew in passing, and as the asphalt road crumbled into dirt in front of the stately French Legation, he thought of Mickey, the friend who was a brother in all but blood.

  They were seven years old when they met. He was a thin, wiry child with a reputation for fights and inattentiveness; Mickey was the son of a widow, a heavy-breathing boy with a soft heart and nervous eyes that never seemed to stop blinking away the light. They’d met at the bottom steps of Dawit’s veranda, Dawit staring, along with the rest of the compound, at this newest addition to their community. Mickey and his mother carried only one bag between them, a small leather case no bigger than Hailu’s medicine bag. Mickey waved shyly to Dawit and squinted, his neck jutting forward like a chicken, and Dawit realized he had poor vision. Hello, Mickey said, my father died, so I’m going to live here. Dawit had returned his wave and said he had a father, and given the new boy a tentative smile.

  Mickey had followed his mother to their one-room home, a tiny structure squeezed between others just like it on a thin pathway barely wide enough for two people. He set their bag at the door, then came back to the veranda. Can your father be mine, too? Mickey asked.

  His father had accepted Mickey’s offer to be his third son with a seriousness that left Dawit jealous.

  “What happened to your father?” Hailu asked, bending low to meet Mickey at eye level. He was holding the boy’s chubby hand.

  “He’s dead,” Dawit had said, leaning closer to his father. “He told me.”

  “What happened?” Hailu asked, his smile fading, his hand moving to a firm, gentle clasp around Mickey’s shoulders, drawing the boy near.

  “He fell down,” Mickey said, squinting at nothing, looking away. “He was working and then he fell.” Mickey looked past Dawit and his father and took in the house. Its two-story structure suddenly seemed too large and imposing to Dawit, who followed Mickey’s eyes. “Your house is big,” he said.

  Hailu guided the boys up the veranda, Dawit holding on tightly to one of his hands, looking for a way to get his father’s attention back. “You’ll go to school. You won’t have to work like your father.”

  Mickey’s mother, Tsehai, had been watching. “Mickey, come here!”

  Hailu had let his hand go. “Tell your mother we’re all a family. If she needs anything, just let me know.” He’d patted Mickey’s head, pulling his hand out of Dawit’s grip to give Mickey a hug.

  The two boys grew inseparable. At school, Dawit’s protectiveness of him prevented many of the other children from saying anything about Mickey’s shabby clothes and worn shoes. In the classroom, while Dawit’s mischief and laziness earned him lashes or kicks, Mickey’s earnestness warmed even the strictest teacher’s demeanor. The two boys were closer than brothers and Dawit shared everything with him: his marbles, his lunch, even his pet turtle. It was only after they’d finished secondary school that things changed. Mickey had to work and could not attend university, though his grades and scores had been better than Dawit’s. He’d joined the military, waving aside Dawit’s guilty looks and mumbled condolences.

  “I have new clothes, now,” Mickey had joked. “Finally, I look as good as you.”

  And now Mickey was in Wello. His letters becoming increasingly enraged, showing Dawit a side of Ethiopia, and his friend, he’d never seen.

  9.

  THE EMPEROR WASN’T sure how these soldiers had crept into his meetings. Somehow they’d managed to crawl out of their barracks and into Menelik Palace, their distaste for educated and cultured men clear in their haughty glares. They had been meeting at the Fourth Division headquarters when one day a few of their select had driven in their jeeps onto his grounds, pushed past his startled guards, and settled themselves around his table. This defiance brought Endalkachew’s already-dwindling cabinet to stunned paralysis. Endalkachew, stripped of all semblance of power, most of his ministers jailed, was forced to resign, and then was arrested himself. These low-level officers selected another one of his men, Mikael Imru, as prime minister, all the while bowing in deference and murmuring their unending loyalty.

  He’d become confused by how many they were, these men in dark green fatigues who now cradled his elbow in palace meetings and whispered that he must remember their demands, he must remember his people. He no longer knew their numbers. Did not know which of these earnest soldiers had taken control of his radio station and breathed these words into every home and restaurant in his city: “We do not believe in an eye for an eye. We will bring to trial all those who misused their power. There can be justice without bloodshed.” And was it only the wind or had his people sent joyous shouts into the night sky? In the whirl and speed of so much happening so fast, the bodies of these men had disintegrated into mere voices in his ear. They seemed molded out of the shadows that clung to dark corners of his palace, drifting in and out of his line of vision, leaving traces of smoke and the scent of burning wood in their wake. They talked to him in his sleep, their words nestling against his head and burrowing into his brain. The emperor slid through his days shaking the noises loose from his ears, trying to bat the prodding requests away. Let us help you lead the country, you are old and we are young, you are one, we are many. We will do everything you ask.

  The pressure built in Emperor Haile Selassie’s head, drilling behind his eyes. Thoughts collapsed into a hundred scattered words floating in front of his face, pinned onto pages that were shoved under his pen. He found himself numbed by the honeyed smiles that sliced his resistance more than their hard, sharp eyes. Your name here. And here, these officers he’d never known before said. Sign this and dissolve your ministry and the Crown Council, we have a new and better way for you to rule. They were mere men instructing God’s chosen, the monarch with blood that could be traced to wise King Solomon of the Bible. Soo
n, the voices floated from the radio and called his best men to submit to the wishes of all and go to jail. There will be no bloodshed, the radio said, only justice. His senators and judges, cabinet members and ministers, his noblemen, began to leave their posts and walk with grim confidence to turn themselves in. Sign here, and here, no time to read, we must hurry, trust us. Don’t sit, there is no rest. We must show that change is coming. Don’t you hear your people? The emperor stood. The emperor walked. The emperor followed the backs of the uniformed men from one meeting into another. What has become of us? he asked himself. When will angels lead us out of this fray? Emperor Haile Selassie tried his best to become immobile. To stand rigid without following. To sit without signing. To watch without nodding, without expression, without revealing the panic that fluttered through him. But things kept moving forward. We must not be anything other than what we are, he reminded himself. We are and so we will be. We are here, in these days of locusts and noise, but it has been written that this shall pass, and so it will.

  THERE WAS NO ONE IN Jubilee Palace today. No footsteps approached his room in the hallway, no shuffle of servants’ slippers moved through cavernous rooms. There was only the scent of overdried wood dying into ash, pungent and strong. A faithful servant shifted restlessly in front of him, waiting for his next orders. Emperor Haile Selassie held a crisp white piece of paper and extended it to the man. Write this, he said to his servant, and heard his own voice drift back to him. Write this, it said, floating to him, fading. They must remember, my subjects must be reminded that I was once in exile in a country beyond these borders and even from afar, I ruled victorious. Remind them of those terrible days of Mussolini’s mustard gas and tanks, when I stood before nations and battled bigotry with truth. Write. Write, the echo returned, softer and less insistent. Emperor Haile Selassie handed a pen to the old servant and watched the man tremble. Write, he ordered. Write so they are reminded, so that they know the Conquering Lion of Judah still sits on his throne. Tell them I have not left my people, that I rule still, over eighty years old and wise, kin to God’s most blessed of kings. The emperor looked outside his window at his lions pacing in their cages, their growls like far-off thunder. We have not finished our time. The servant, eyes cast low, bowed. Call the minister of the pen, the emperor said, looking to the red sun falling in the distance. He will write for us. Call him here. The servant whispered: He is gone. Where is he? the emperor asked. Where are they all? Where are my people?

  10.

  THE LIVING ROOM was more crowded than it had been in a long time. This celebration was to honor New Year’s Eve and Tizita’s birthday, but all Hailu could think about was that his watch was slow—once again, he hadn’t wound it. He was forgetting his most routine habits.

  “We needed this party,” said Kifle, a pleasant-faced man with a long scar near his ear. “I’m glad you invited us, in spite of everything you’re going through.” He smiled. “We’re all praying for Selam. These days, that’s all we can do.” His smile wavered.

  Kifle’s gentleness, so characteristic of the man who was one of the emperor’s most trusted financial advisors, threatened to bring tears to Hailu’s eyes. “We’re supposed to listen for a report at five o’clock,” Hailu said as he stirred the ice in his fresh glass of whiskey, careful not to spill any on the traditional white tunic and white jodhpurs given to him by Selam. “My watch isn’t exact.” He’d been walking through his days disorganized, unprepared for what lay ahead.

  “It’s about the famine, and the emperor. The whole city’s been so quiet today,” Kifle said. “My sister in Gondar said they’re all waiting to get the news. None of the officials up there have come out of their houses all week.”

  The doorbell rang and Kifle stiffened. No one moved until Sara came in from the dining room.

  “It’s just the children,” she said. “Even though there’s no bonfire tonight, at least all traditions won’t get thrown out this year.” She opened the door and smiled down at a group of little girls holding meskel flowers, the yellow petals vibrant against their new habesha chemise. She fished in her pocket for coins as they started singing. “Abebaye Hoy!” she exclaimed. “I used to go to every house in my neighborhood and sing the same song on New Year’s Eve,” she said to them, taking the flowers and dropping coins into their palms. The little girls squealed excitedly and ran to knock on another door, their new white dresses stark against the setting sun.

  The record scratched to a stop.

  “I’ll put the music on when the announcement is over,” Dawit said to the guests.

  Hailu swallowed his anger and forced himself to smile. “Wait and I’ll fix it.” The record was one of Selam’s favorites, the collection of 45 singles among her most prized possessions. “You’ve ruined it.”

  Radio Addis Ababa blasted on and a breathless announcer reminded all citizens to watch special programming on Ethiopian Television that night.

  “Hailu,” Kifle said, “let’s enjoy. It’s a little girl’s birthday and tomorrow is the beginning of a new year.” He raised his glass. “To Ethiopia.” He extended his glass in a solitary toast and froze as yet another announcement came on asking more government officials to report to the palace and turn themselves in.

  “If they don’t call your name, then they come to your office or find you at home,” Kifle said. He rubbed his neck. “No one’s safe.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Their lawyers will clear everything,” Hailu said, patting the man’s arm. Some of those whose names were read aloud were close friends of Kifle. “Tefera will be released soon, you’ll see.”

  Yonas walked to the group of men, his camera in hand. “It’s purely symbolic. These military advisors want us to know who’s in charge.” He adjusted the lens. “Did you hear the new name they have for themselves?”

  “I forget. It’s not an Amharic word, is it? It’s much older,” Kifle said.

  “Derg,” Hailu said. “They’re calling themselves the Derg. It means committee in Ge’ez.”

  “Why use the ancient language of priests for this debacle?” Kifle muttered.

  Yonas held up the camera. “A picture, please.” The men gathered close together and stared sternly into the camera.

  “Kifle!” One of the women on the sofa gathered her purse and hat as she called to him.

  Kifle turned to Hailu. “We have to get home.”

  Kifle’s wife Aida approached Hailu. “Prime Minister Endalkachew was arrested. Did you hear?” she asked. She glanced in the dining room where Mickey sat in his uniform. “The military makes me nervous.”

  “Mickey?” Hailu said. “You’ve known him since he was a boy.”

  In the dining room, Dawit, Mickey, and Lily watched the elders with curious intensity.

  “We turned in a timetable for a transition to civilian government after the emperor’s gone, but the Derg hasn’t responded.” Dawit turned to Mickey. “Is the military going to talk, have you heard anything?”

  Mickey shook his head and smiled proudly. “The major was happy with my report. He wants to give me a chance to rise.” He waved cordially to Kifle, who took one last glance at the party before leaving. “The committee said people would be punished.” The smile slid from his face.

  “Only those who should be.” Dawit patted his leg. “I’m glad we’re fighting these people together. You and me,” he said.

  SARA LIT THE FOUR CANDLES on the round, freshly baked dabo she’d decorated with small plastic yellow flowers the way her own mother had done for her birthdays, and ran a hand down her daughter’s back. “Who am I if not your mother?” she whispered. She kissed Tizita’s forehead and took the knife before the excited girl tried once again to grab it. She cut the loaf of bread.

  Lily clapped her hands and hugged Tizita. “You’re grown up now!” she exclaimed. She turned quickly to kiss Sara’s cheek. “Congratulations,” she whispered. She kissed her cheek again. “You have a beautiful girl.”

  Sara felt herself reach up t
o pat her hair in place. Lily’s energetic personality, her wild curls and exotic beauty made her feel plain and simple. The younger woman was dressed in the popular denim jeans and wide-collared shirt favored by college students, an American style that contrasted with the more formal Ethiopian way of dressing. Sara’s skirt suddenly seemed matronly.

  Hailu called Tizita into the living room.

  “Let’s go,” Yonas said, taking Tizita’s hand. Sara let her daughter go.

  Lily hugged Sara. “I have to go soon, I’m sorry.”

  “Can’t you stay?” Sara grinned. “We haven’t started asking you when you’ll accept Dawit’s marriage proposal.”

  Lily sighed. “Mickey started that fight already this afternoon.” She shook her head. “How can I think of anything else when I have these exams?” She checked her watch. “Tell Dawit I’ll call him later. Mickey’s leaving, I’ll follow him through the side door.” She went down the corridor.

  In the living room, Yonas and Dawit were glaring at each other. Sunlight spilled and widened in the gap between them. Sara approached with square slices of dabo, hoping she could defuse what seemed like an escalating argument.

  “What do you know about peasant rights?” she heard Yonas ask Dawit. He had both hands shoved into his pockets. Yonas’s temper was as volatile as Dawit’s, but his control over his emotions was far better than his brother’s, though today he seemed close to an outburst.