Beneath the Lion's Gaze (11 page)

In the car, he had tried to ask the guard beside him where he was being taken, but a sharply dressed officer had turned around from the front seat and shone a flashlight into his face to silence him, making his eyes water so much the collar of his dirty jacket was soaked. No one spoke for the rest of the ride. He looked out the window instead, his view shadowed by the guard’s rigid profile, and became the only one in
this
forsaken city who wanted the King of Kings to reign supreme once again.

He’d been taken to the great hall that had once belonged to the late Empress Zewditu. All of the furniture had been emptied out of the big room and only a small cot with thin sheets and a blanket sat in its center. Soldiers were posted outside his door, which was locked in triplicate and then chained. Their fear of him was heartbreaking, compounding his loneliness and the largeness of this empty space he was trapped inside. They walked backwards into the room whenever they escorted his old servant inside with his food, doubly armed and wearing sunglasses. They scurried out as quickly as they could, too afraid to glance his way. The mournful whimpers of his old lion, Tojo, lulled him to sleep, and he tried to make himself forget about the garden just outside his window which he was no longer allowed to walk in. Under the weight of this solitude, all of the emperor’s hours, minutes, and seconds blurred and ran together like a slow, dying river.

18.

HOW WOULD EMPEROR
haile selassie later describe the moon that night? Voluminous, as thick as milk, a thousand melted stars that sliced the sky with razor-sharp edges. Even in the dark, from his window, he could make out the outlines of trees shivering in the breeze. A truck with squealing brakes pulled up and a barking order, followed by the confused mutterings of soldiers, made the emperor move back to his cot. There was nothing here he would want to see. Lying on the bed, he raked his fingers over the spider-bite scabs that dotted his arms, picked at one, and took comfort in the tiny pinch of a peeling wound. This was evidence, he reminded himself, that he was still alive. They hadn’t killed him yet. He closed his eyes, let himself float in the darkness, and picked at another scab. He couldn’t help smiling.

Quick footsteps echoed beneath his window, then came an order: “Why aren’t they ready? Get them into the truck. Tie them up. With this.” The thud of a heavy object falling to the ground.

Silence. Then a voice. “But they’re officials and royals. Major Guddu, they’re—” the man said, his voice trembling.

“They’re traitors. Their greed created the famine. Put them in the truck, Mickey,” Major Guddu said.

Guddu. The emperor recognized the name of the short, dark man who’d been one of the five to take him out of his palace and place him under arrest.

“Major, what about the trials …”

“The Council agrees with me. Are you a traitor like them?”

“But—”

Footsteps, then a gentle click.

“I can start with you, if you’d like.” Guddu was calm.

The emperor drew his knees to his chest. He pushed himself as far from the approaching footsteps as possible and hunched into the corner. He mumbled a prayer, louder each time he heard the jingle of keys,
then
the creak of a door, then the grunts of prisoners herded past his window. He tried not to listen, but for a moment he stopped praying long enough to note the soothing rhythm of their footsteps. Their shuffling feet sounded like the rustle of fallen leaves in the wind.

THE CITY WAS QUIET
that night. There was no sound but the crunch of gravel splitting under the weight of military trucks full of frightened prisoners. Nothing to break the thick black of night except a large wide moon. Mickey sat towards the front in one of the trucks, next to Daniel, holding his rifle and pressed against a glass window that revealed their path from Menelik Palace to Akaki Prison. The prisoners huddled in the center of the truck bed, shoved together by the prodding rifles and sharp kicks of other soldiers who dangled off the sides. A thin wind cut through Mickey’s shirt and flattened against his chest like a cold hand.

“Give them room,” Daniel instructed. “Come over here.” He pushed himself deeper into a corner, tucked his legs tighter.

The prisoners were all shaved, still dressed in the same clothes they’d been arrested in, now torn, stained, and hanging limp on thin bodies. A thick rope snaked around and between their hands and legs, connecting one man painfully to the next. The rope cut each time the truck jerked over a rock.

“I can’t move,” Mickey said. He tried to get closer to Daniel and looked up to find himself staring across heads and straight at Hailu’s friend Kifle. The long scar on the side of the man’s face glistened in the moonlight like a string of oil as it curved over his jaw. Mickey felt his throat tighten and he dropped his head, ducking out of view.

“My shoulder might be dislocated,” Kifle said, his whisper carried by the wind to Mickey. “I can’t breathe.” Kifle tried to raise his hand to his chest, but the man sitting next to him whimpered.

“You cut me when you move,” the man said.

Some of the prisoners tried to hunch into themselves and further away from Kifle.

“Someone help me,” Kifle said, starting to cry. “There’s a mistake. They arrested me last night. What did I do wrong?” He tried to rest his head on his own shoulder.

“Sit up,” an angry voice commanded. “Die like an Ethiopian.”

Mickey recognized the sharp tones of famed war veteran Colonel Mehari. Next to him, he saw the stoic, grim profile of ex-prime minister Aklilu Habtewold, dressed in a tattered suit and shoeless, sitting upright and gripping the hand of his brother, the former minister of justice, Akalework. Mickey flattened himself against the glass plate and hoped Kifle would stop crying. In front of their truck was another truck, and in front of that truck, another, then another. All were packed with prisoners, and Mickey was sure each prisoner was surrounded by vengeful angels who sat amongst the soldiers and memorized their faces. He hunched as low as he could, dipped his head into the heat trapped by the sweating bodies, and gagged from the stench of fresh urine.

Some of the men were biting the rope that was mercilessly tight around their wrists, splicing bloody stripes across their mouths. He caught the frustrated sobs of one man who couldn’t curl himself into a ball, every move he made knocked his companions over. Mickey saw the silhouette of the heaving man, a body squirming on its side. Then he closed his eyes to blot it all out.

The truck lurched into a pothole. Prisoners screamed. Mickey opened his eyes. All he could make out were tumbling arms and legs connected by the steady straight rope.

“Slow,” Daniel whispered, his hands cupped over his face. “Go slow.” He tapped on the driver’s side window. Tears were rolling down onto his neck. “Do you see the men who are here?” he said to Mickey. “We’re not worthy of their company.”

“Why is God punishing us?” a man said.

Mickey saw a man old enough to be his grandfather start to move in the huddle of bodies. Prime Minister Aklilu and his brother shifted to their knees so he could kneel. The old man faltered, then slowly raised his hands. His movement lifted the others’ arms.

“Let him hear all his children,” the man said. One by one, hands closed around each other in the dark. Mickey imagined a thick-rooted tree pushing through dirt. Kifle moved with the men next to him, and it was then that he finally saw Mickey.

“Help us!” Kifle said, his arms spreading, moving with the men next to him. “Mickey!” he pleaded. He knelt with his hands in the air, arms wide like naked wings. “Mickey,” he repeated again and again, sobs shaking his thin frame, digging rope into skin.

“Our Father, who art in heaven …” The men prayed loudly, their voices drowning out Kifle.

Mickey felt shivers run through his body and put his hands over his ears and turned to Daniel to say something, to cower with him, but saw that he, too, was kneeling with his lips moving rapidly, his head shaking from side to side in his own private protest.

19.

THE OLD WOMAN
was dressed in black and carried a small horsetail fly swatter on a handwoven leather handle. She stood at the door of Hailu’s house silhouetted by a bright moon, knocking.

“Emama Seble, please come in,” Hailu said. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you. I was listening to the radio. Mogus called and said he heard shots near his house, but there’s no news about anything like that.” He bowed to the woman.

Emama Seble offered no greeting. She moved past Hailu into the living room and sat down in his chair, next to the radio. “Everything’s censored anyway,” she said. “What do you expect to hear?” She flicked the swatter and turned off the radio. “Two sick people in one family must be very hard.”

“We’re grateful Tizita’s home.” Hailu frowned and sat on the sofa next to her.

Emama Seble was the great-aunt of one of Yonas’s friends, and she lived alone in the compound. Childless, she’d moved in when her husband died. All of the children in the neighborhood tried to avoid the heavyset woman who, since her husband’s death ten years ago, dressed only in black, even though the mourning period was only one year. Stern mothers frightened their children by claiming she had the
budah
and that she would lay a curse on anyone who misbehaved or dared look into her evil eye.

“Has she improved?” Emama Seble asked, wiping her forehead with the edge of her long-sleeved sweater. She stared at the frayed ends while waiting for an answer.

“No.” Hailu sank into the soft cushions. “They don’t think there’s anything left to do. She eats very little that stays down.” He adjusted the pillows.

“How is Sara?”

“Not good. She goes to the church every day before even Yonas wakes up. She hardly eats. She doesn’t sleep.”

Emama Seble twirled a black thread on her sleeve. “She wants to die with the little girl.”

“How do you know that?” Hailu asked.

Emama Seble smiled. “I was once a mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Hailu said. “I didn’t know.”

“These things happen.” Emama Seble met his gaze. “It must be very hard for you. There’s no logical explanation for what’s happening.”

“Some tea or coffee?” Hailu stood up. “How rude of me not to ask.”

“No need. I want to see Sara.” She hoisted herself up with Hailu’s help.

EMAMA SEBLE BOWED
three times in front of the prayer room. An edge of moonlight peeked through the door to her right.

“She went to church early this morning. I moved Tizzie in my room to let her rest.” He knocked on the door as he opened it. “Sara, Emama Seble has come to visit you.”

Sara had lost weight, her eyes stared ahead vacantly, and her skin had the ashen coat of dried tears. Emama Seble enveloped her in a hug.

“
Lijjay
,” she said. “My child. You feel as if you’ve fallen into this hole alone, don’t you?” She held on despite the young woman’s stiffness.

“Move. I want my daughter,” Sara said.

“I’m watching her,” Hailu said.

“No one can watch her but me.” Sara reached for the door. “Let me go.”

The old woman’s broad hands traveled over the knots in Sara’s back. The look on her face was tender. “Let me talk to her alone, Hailu.”

Sara struggled against her embrace, a frantic light in her eyes when she saw Hailu walk out.

“Sit,” the old woman said once Hailu left. “You don’t think I know? Let me see your legs.” She was brusque again.

“No.” Sara gathered her skirt around her.

“Lift your skirt so I can see,” Emama Seble commanded. She shook Sara’s shoulders gently. “Lift it or I’ll do it myself.”

Sara pulled the hem of her skirt up slowly.

There were tiny punctures all over her legs, bright and deep. As Sara lifted her skirt, the holes deepened and lengthened. Pockets of pus poked through broken skin and the tiny shards of glass still embedded in her legs sparkled.

“How many times have you crawled around the church?” Emama Seble asked, wiping her brow, then her upper lip. She was sweating.

“Six,” Sara said, staring at the wall in front of her.

“What God would want this?” Emama Seble muttered. She took Sara’s skirt and pulled it higher. Sara’s knees were open wounds. “Oh no, no. You can’t do this anymore.”

“I promised Angel Gabriel I would go seven times,” Sara said, her voice small and thin. She tried to cover her legs but Emama Seble held the skirt tight.

“Nobody else in the family knows about this? These foolish men think you’re just walking?” Emama Seble glanced at the door. “They haven’t asked you anything?”

“They don’t need to know anything.”

“Let me clean these wounds for you,” Emama Seble said. “I’m not letting you go to the church again.”

“No.” But Sara’s voice was flat; it held no force. “My daughter’s dying. Another one is dying, Emama. Leave me alone.” She tried to stand but Emama Seble pushed her back down on the bed.

Emama Seble rang the bell near the bed. “Bizu, my dear, bring me warm water and a clean towel,” she called out.

“Lie down.” Emama Seble motioned. “Close your eyes. Let me take this weight for now.”

“She’s mine.” Sara looked at her knees. “He’s not taking her away.”

It had been six days since they brought Tizita from the hospital. Six days: so much time in the life of a small girl. Six days of barely any food or water, continual shivers, and never-ending pain. In those six days, Sara had felt her own stomach sink further against her hips, her breasts ached. In those six days, Sara had begun to beg at the foot of the statue of Saint Mary. Tell me how you did it, she pleaded. Tell me how you watched this son of yours die his death, and you did not curse his father. Tell me how you listened to his cries and did not offer yourself in his stead. Tell me what you knew that I do not know. Tell me how you could call yourself a mother, then become a spectator on that spiteful day. Tell
me
. And it was on the sixth day that Sara remembered, finally, that even Mary had not mourned alone. She’d been sheltered in the arms of her other children, full-bodied evidence of mercy and grace.