The sight of Rosina, peering back at me as Zemui walked toward her, made me start running again. I felt a vacuum where my brother should have been running next to me.
MY MOTHER'S GRAVE, with its halo of fresh cut apothecary blooms and its inscription of σAFE in APMσ OF JEσUσ held no fascination for me. But in the autoclave room next to Operating Theater 3, I sensed her presence, a scent, a feel so linked to mine. That was where my feet took me. It wasn't the smartest choice as a place to hide.
I never understood Shiva's reluctance to visit this room. Perhaps he saw it as a betrayal of Hema, who had watched over his every breath, who had linked herself by a cord to his anklet. Coming here was one of the few things I did alone.
Seated in my mother's chair, the scent of Cuticura in the cardigan, I spoke to her, or perhaps I spoke to myself. I complained about injustice at home; I confessed my worst fear: that Hema and Ghosh might one day disappear, just as Stone and Sister were no longer in our lives. It was one reason I loitered around Missing's front gate—who was to say Thomas Stone might not come back? My fantasy was that on a sunny morning when the air was so crisp that you could hear it crackle, Gebrew would open Missing's gates, and instead of the stampede of patients, Thomas Stone would be standing there. The fact that I had no idea what he looked like, or what my mother looked like, was inconsequential to this fantasy. His eyes would fall on me. After a few seconds he would smile with pride.
I needed to believe that.
I RETURNED TO OUR BUNGALOW to face the music. There was music, all right, and the sight of Hema leading Genet and Shiva in dance. All three of them wore dance anklets, not Shiva's usual kind, but big leather thongs with four concentric rings of brass bells. They had moved the dining table against the wall. Indian classical music with a snappy tabla beat marked time. Hema had tucked her sari so that one loop ran between her legs, creating what looked like pantaloons. She'd taught Shiva and Genet a complex series of steps and poses in the time I'd been out. Arms in, arms out, arms together, pointing, dipping, drawing a bow, firing an imaginary arrow, the eyes looking this way and that, the feet sliding, a cymbal clash of anklets every time their heels thumped the floor. It hurt me to see this.
Shiva, Genet, and I had entered the world almost in unison. (Genet was a half step behind and a womb across from us, but she'd caught up.) As toddlers, we had freely traded milk bottles and pacifiers, much to Hema's dismay. Shiva's propensity to jump into buckets, puddles, or ditches full of water terrified the adults, who feared he'd drown. To keep him from deeper water, Matron purchased a Jolly Baby wading pool. Here the three of us splashed naked and posed for pictures that would embarrass us one day. Our first circus, our first matinee, our first dead body—we arrived at these milestones together. In our tree house, we'd picked at scabs until we found red, and then we took a blood oath that we Three Missketeers would stand together and admit no other.
Now, we'd arrived at another first: a separation. I stood outside, looking in. Hema beckoned me to join. She was no longer angry. Her forehead glinted with perspiration, strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. If she planned to punish me, perhaps she saw in my expression that it had already happened.
Genet, with an anklet, looked more feminine, more like a girl than the tomboy I knew. I never gave much thought to that sort of thing. In the games we played, she was like any boy. Now, as she danced, she was a step off, struggling; despite that she was graceful, extraordinarily so, as if the anklet had unlocked this quality in her. Even when she missed her cue, or bungled the turn, suddenly she was—and I couldn't help but notice—all girl.
My twin had no miscues. Hed learned the dance in a flash, I could see. He had a way of holding his chin high as if fearful that otherwise the curls he balanced on his head would slide off, and it made him seem taller, more upright than me. That mannerism of his was exaggerated in the dance. When Shiva was excited, his irises turned from brown to blue, and they were that way now as his heels hit the floor in unison with Hema's, and he matched her every dip and flourish. It was as if his anklet moved him, and that in copying the sound of Hema's anklets, the requisite movement of his body came about. I studied this lean, supple creature as if seeing him for the first time.
My brother who could draw anything from memory, who could juggle huge numbers in his head with ease, had now found a new vehicle for locomotion and a new language for his will to express itself, separate from me. I didn't want to join in. I was certain that I would look clumsy. I felt envious, almost as if I were a handicapped child, unable rather than unwilling to participate.
“Traitor,” I said to Shiva, under my breath.
But he heard me; there was nothing wrong with his ears and he'd have known what I said even if I had said it only to myself.
My twin brother, my skull mate, this little dancing god skated away, averting his eyes.
CHAPTER 19
Giving Dogs Their Due
THE WEEK BEFORE Shiva gave up his anklet, we were all driving into town when a motorcycle, siren wailing, went tearing by, waving us off the street.
“All right, all right,” Ghosh said, pulling to the side. “His Imperial Majesty, Haile Selassie the First, Lion of Judah, needs the road.”
We piled out onto Menelik II Avenue. Down the hill was Africa Hall, which looked like a watercolor box standing on its side. Its pastel panels were meant to mimic the colorful hems of the traditional shama. Outside the new headquarters for the Organization for African Unity the flag of every country on the continent had its spot. The building in its short existence had already been graced by the likes of Nasser, Nkrumah, Obote, and Tubman.
The Emperor's Jubilee Palace was on the other side of the avenue. I could see the mounted Imperial Bodyguard sentries, one on each side of the palace gate. The Emperor's residence rose behind the lavish gardens like a pale hallucination of Buckingham Palace. At night, the floodlit building glowed ivory. Since it was that time of year, one of the pines in the compound was strung with lights and became a giant Christmas tree.
Pedestrians, gharries, cars—everything came to a stop. A barefoot man with milky eyes took off his tattered hat to reveal a ring of curly gray hairs. Three women in the black cloth of mourning, umbrellas over their heads, also waited next to us. They were sweating from the effort of walking uphill. One of these ladies sat on the curb. She eased off her plastic shoe. Two young men stood back from the curb, looking displeased at having to interrupt their walk.
The seated woman said, “Maybe His Highness will give us a lift. Tell him we can't afford the bus. My feet are killing me.”
The old man glared, his lips moving as if working up the spittle to chastise her for such blasphemy.
Now a green Volkswagen with a siren and loudspeaker on top sped by. I never thought a Volkswagen could go that fast.
“I bet you His Majesty is in the new Lincoln,” I said to Ghosh.
“The odds are against you.”
It was 1963, the year Kennedy was assassinated. According to a schoolmate whose father was a member of Parliament, the Lincoln was President Kennedy's used car, but not the one in which hed been shot. This one was covered and was spectacular, not for its curves but for its impossible length. A joke had circulated in town that for the Emperor to get from the Old Palace on top of the hill, where he conducted his official business, down to the Jubilee Palace, all he had to do was climb into the backseat and come out of the front.
Of the twenty-six cars at His Majesty's disposal, twenty were Rolls-Royces. One was a Christmas present from the Queen of England. I tried to imagine what else was under a monarch's Christmas tree.
A LAND ROVER PASSED BY—Imperial Bodyguard, not police— moving slowly, its tailgate open, men with machine guns across their thighs looking out. We heard a rumble that sounded like war drums; a phalanx of eight motorcycles emerged out of the ether, two abreast, the air shimmering around the engine's fins. The sun glinted off chrome headlights and crash bars. Despite their black uniforms, white helmets, and g
loves, the riders reminded me of the wide-eyed, monkey-maned warriors who came out of the hills on horseback on the anniversary of Mussolini's fall, looking mean and hungry to kill again.
The ground shook as the Ducatis slid past, huge reserves of horsepower ready to be unleashed with a turn of the wrist.
His Majesty's green Rolls-Royce was polished to a mirrorlike finish. On a built-up seat, His Majesty looked out of windows specially constructed for monarchs to view and be viewed. In the wake of the motorcycles his car was all but silent save for a faint wheeze from the valves.
Ghosh muttered, “For the price of that, we could feed every child in the empire for a month.”
The old man next to us was on his knees, and then as the Rolls reached us he kissed the asphalt.
I saw the Emperor clear as day, his little dog Lulu on his lap. The Emperor looked directly at us, smiling as we bowed. He brought the palms of his hands together. Then he was past.
“Did you see that?” Hema said, excited. “Did you see the ñamaste?”
“In honor of you,” Ghosh said. “He knows who you are.”
“Don't be silly. It was the sari. Still, how sweet!”
“Is that all it takes to sway you? One ñamaste?”
“Stop it, Ghosh. I don't get involved in politics. I like the old man.”
The Rolls turned toward the palace gate. The motorcyclists and the Land Rover pulled up just beyond the gate. The two guards on horseback, resplendent in their green trousers, white jackets, and white pith helmets, presented arms.
A lone policeman held back the usual cluster of petitioners who waited on one side of the gate. An old woman waving her paper must have caught the Emperor's eye. The Rolls stopped. I could see the little Chihuahua, its paws on the window and its head snapping back and forth: Lulu was barking. The old woman, bowing, thrust her paper to the window with both hands.
She seemed to be speaking. The Emperor was evidently listening. The old woman became more animated, gesturing with her hands, her body rocking, and now we could hear her clearly.
The car moved on, but the old lady wasn't done. She tried to run with the Rolls, fingers on the window. When she couldn't keep up, she yelled, “Leba, leba”—”Thief, thief.” She looked around for a stone, finding none, took off her shoe and bounced it off the trunk before anyone could react.
I saw only the rise of the policeman's club and then she was slumped on the ground, like a sack. The palace gates swung shut. The motorcycle riders ran forward and began clubbing anyone near the gate, ignoring their shrieks. The old woman, motionless, nevertheless got a vicious kick to her ribs. The mounted sentries stared straight ahead, their mounts disciplined and still, only the horses’ skin twitching.
We stood stunned. The two young men behind us snickered, and walked quickly away.
The woman next to us, her hands on her head, said, “How could they do that to a grandmother?” The old man, hat in hand, said nothing, but I could see he was shaken.
As we drove away, I saw the motorcycle riders had turned on the policeman, giving him a good thrashing. His mistake was not clubbing the old woman down before she opened her mouth and embarrassed them all.
THESE MANY YEARS LATER, even though I have witnessed so much violence, that image remains vivid. The unexpected clubbing of the old woman, seconds after the Emperor had greeted us so warmly, felt like a betrayal, and with it came the shock of knowing Hema and Ghosh were powerless to help.
In my mind, that bug-eyed Chihuahua was a party to the cruelty. She was the only creature permitted to walk before His Majesty. She ate and slept better than most of his subjects. From that day forth I had a new perception of the Emperor, and of Lulu. And I definitely didn't like that overweened dog.
IF LULU WAS THE CANINE Empress of Ethiopia, our Koochooloo and the two nameless dogs were the peasantry. A Persian dentist whod worked briefly at Missing christened her “Koochooloo.” To name a dog in Ethiopia is to save it. Missing's two nameless dogs had mangy coats that were so mud- and tar-stained that one could not be sure of the origi nal color. During the long rains, when all other dogs sought shelter, these two stayed out rather than risk a boot to the head. It was quite possible that they were in fact a succession of nameless dogs who happened to visit in twos.
Sister Mary Joseph Praise fed Koochooloo when the Persian dentist disappeared. After her death, Almaz took over.
Koochooloo's eyes were expressive dark pearls. They hinted at a playfulness, a mischievousness, that life's disappointments hadn't quite snuffed out. Dogs aren't supposed to have eyebrows, I know, but I swear she had folds that could move independently. They conveyed apprehension, amusement, and even a befuddled look that reminded me of Stan of Laurel and Hardy fame—we saw their films at Cinema Adowa. There was no question of Koochooloo coming into our house. Cows were sacred; dogs were not.
We didn't know Koochooloo was pregnant until the day after New Year's. We hadn't seen her for two days and then, just before we left for school, we found her behind the woodpile in a crawl space. Our flashlight revealed her utter exhaustion. She could barely lift her head. The fur balls wriggling at her belly explained everything.
We ran to Hema and Ghosh and then to Matron to tell them the exciting news. We thought up names. In retrospect, the adults’ lack of excitement should have warned us.
OUR TAXI DROPPED US at Missing's front gate after school. We had just crested the hill when we saw it, though at first we had no idea what we were seeing. The pups were in a large plastic bag whose mouth was tied with cord to the exhaust pipe of a taxi. We found out later that the driver had seen Gebrew making off with the litter, and he'd proposed a less messy means of getting rid of the pups than drowning them. Gebrew, always in awe of machinery, was too easily convinced.
Under our eyes the cabbie fired his engine, the bag ballooned out, and in a few seconds, the car stalled. Koochooloo, who that morning could hardly walk, tore around the wheels of the car, nipping at the smoke-filled bag. Inside it, her puppies, their snouts overblown when they pressed against the plastic, tumbled over one another looking for an exit. Koochooloo's expression was beyond grief. She was crazed and desperate. Patients and passersby found it entertaining. A small crowd had gathered.
I was numb, disbelieving. Was this some necessary ritual in the raising of puppies which I didn't know about? I took my cues from the adults standing around—that was a mistake. But inside, I felt just like Koochooloo.
Shiva took his cues from no one. He ran to the car and tried to untie the plastic bag from the exhaust pipe, burning his palms in the process. Then he was on his knees, ripping at the thick bag. Gebrew pulled him away, kicking and fighting. Only when Shiva saw that the puppies were quite still, a hillock of fur, only then did he stop.
I glanced at Genet and was shocked by her deadpan expression: it said she was well aware of the undercurrents of the world we lived in and had known well before us. Nothing surprised her.
How Koochooloo could forgive us and live on at Missing, I never understood. She knew nothing of Matron's quotas and edicts for Missing dogs. Just as we didn't know that several times in the past, Gebrew, under orders, had plucked Koochooloo's newborns from her teats and drowned them.
SHIVA HAD SCRAPED HIS KNEES and blistered his hands. Hema, Ghosh, and Matron rushed to meet us in Casualty.
Ghosh put Silvadene on Shiva's burns and dressed his knees. The grown-ups had nothing to say about the pups.
“Why did you let Gebrew do that?” I said. Ghosh didn't look up from the dressings. He was incapable of lying to us, but in this case he'd withheld knowledge of what would happen.
“Don't blame Gebrew,” Matron said. “They were my instructions. I'm sorry. We just can't have packs of dogs roaming around Missing.”
This didn't sound like an apology.
“Koochooloo will forget,” Hema said soothingly. “Animals don't have that kind of memory, my loves.”
“Willjyou forget if someone kills me or Marion?”
&
nbsp; The adults looked at me. But I hadn't spoken. Moreover, I was a good eight feet away from where Shiva was getting bandaged. His irises had gone from brown to a steely blue, his pupils down to pinpoints, his chin thrust higher than ever, exposing his neck so that he was sighting down his nose at a world populated by people for whom he seemed to have the greatest disdain.
Will you forget if someone kills me or Marion?
Those words were formed in the voice box, shaped by the lips and tongue, of my heretofore silent brother. For his first spoken words in years, he'd crafted a sentence none of us would forget.
The adults looked at Shiva and then at me. I shook my head and pointed to Shiva.
Finally, Hema whispered, “Shiva … what did you say?”
“Will you forget about us tomorrow if someone kills us today?”
Hema reached for Shiva, wanting to hug him, tears of joy in her eyes. But Shiva drew back from her, drew back from all of them, as if they were murderers. He bent down, rolled down his sock, and snapped off the anklet, placing it on the table. That anklet had never come off except to be repaired, enlarged, and three or four times replaced by a new one. It was as if he'd cut off a finger and laid it on the table.
“Shiva,” Matron said at last, “if we let Koochooloo have her litters, we'd have about sixty dogs around Missing by now.”