But in the aftermath of the coup, in the light of Ghosh's arrest, the city looked different to me. The squares which commemorated the bloodshed of Adowa and the liberation from the Italians were now fitting places for a mob to conduct a lynching. As for the villas I had once admired—pink, mauve, tan, and hidden by bougainvillea—it was in these houses that men like the General or his counterparts in the army and police plotted the revolution and its betrayal. There was treachery in the streets, treachery in the villas. I could smell it. Perhaps it had always been there.
SOON WE WERE AT the green gates of the prison everyone called Kerchele, a corruption of the Italian word carcere, or incarcerate. Others called it the Alem Bekagne, an Amharic expression that meant “Goodbye, cruel world.” The entrance was past a railway crossing on a busy trunk road. There was no pavement here, no shoulder, just asphalt falling abruptly off into dirt, dirt now stirred by the feet of hundreds of anxious relatives, who became our kin in suffering. They stood rooted in their helplessness, but they let us pass between them till we reached the sentry office.
Before Matron could ask, the man said without looking up, “I don't know if he or she is here, I don't know when I will know if he or she is here or not here, if you leave food or blankets or whatever, if he or she is here, they might get it, if not somebody else gets it. Write his name on a paper with whatever you are dropping off, and I will not answer any questions.”
People leaned against the wall, and women stood under umbrellas unfurled out of habit even though the sun was behind clouds. Almaz found a spot to squat where she could observe the comings and goings, and then she did not budge.
An hour passed. My feet ached, but still we waited. We were the only foreigners there, and the crowd was sympathetic. One man, a lecturer at the university, said his father had been in this jail many years ago. “As a boy I would run the three miles from my house, once a day, to bring food. He was so thin, but each time he would feed me first and make me take back more than half the food. He knew that for him to eat, we had to starve. One day, when my older brother and mother came with food, they heard the dreaded words ‘No need to bring food anymore.’ That's how we knew my father was dead. And you know why they arrested my brother today? For no reason. He is a hardworking businessman. But he is the child of one of their old enemies. We are the first suspects. The old enemies and the children of enemies. God knows why they spared me. I was in the demonstration by the university students. But they took my brother instead. Because he is the oldest.”
Bachelli took a taxi to the Juventus Club to see if he could get the Italian consul involved, and then he had to return to Missing. With one doctor arrested, and his wife waiting outside the jail, it all rested on the shoulders of the third doctor, namely Bachelli. He could keep things going, oversee the nurses and Adam, the compounder.
Shiva, Hema, Matron, and I returned to the car to rest our feet, to get warm, to huddle. After fifteen minutes we returned to stare at the gates. Back and forth we went, reluctant to leave, even though we were accomplishing nothing.
WHEN IT WAS QUITE DARK, a man with a shama covering his head, mouth, and upper torso walked by, just as we emerged from the car. But for his shiny boots and the fact that hed come from the narrow lane on the side of the prison, he might have passed for just another man heading home. In his hand he swung a cloth showing the outline of a covered pot—his lunch or dinner. He stared at Matron. He paused behind the car, his back to the road as if he were taking a leak.
“Don't turn this way!” he said harshly, in Amharic. “The doctor is here.”
“Is he all right?” Matron whispered.
He hesitated. “A little bruised. Yes, but he is fine.”
“Please, I beg you,” Hema broke in. I had never heard her beg anyone in my life. “He's my husband. What is going to happen next? Will they let him go? He had nothing to do with all this—”
The man hissed. A large family walked by. When they passed, he said, “Talking to you is enough for someone to accuse me. If I want to be safe, I must accuse someone. Like animals eating our young. It's a bad time. I'm talking to you because you saved my wife's life.”
“Thank you. Is there anything we can do for you? For him—”
“Not tonight. In the morning at ten o'clock, be in this spot. No, be farther away. See that post with the streetlight? Be there and bring a blanket, money, and a dish just like this. The money is for him. Go home now.”
I ran over to fetch Almaz, who had not left her spot, her voluminous skirts ringed around her like a circus tent, her white gabby wrapped around her head and shoulders, only her eyes showing. She wouldn't hear of leaving. She was going to stay the night. Nothing would persuade her. Reluctantly we left her, but only after we forced Almaz to put on Hema's sweater and then wrap herself with the gabby.
At home, mercifully the phones were working. Matron got the British and Indian embassies to promise to send their envoys in the morning. None of the royals would talk to Matron; if the Emperor's own son was under suspicion, so were his nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. We heard that there were rumblings of discontent among the junior army officers who felt their generals erred in not joining the coup; there must have been some truth to that, because that day the Emperor authorized a pay raise for all army officers. The word was that only the intense rivalry and jealousy between the senior army and Imperial Bodyguard officers had saved His Majesty.
THAT NIGHT SHIVA and I slept with Hema in her bed. Ghosh's Bryl-creem scent was on the pillow. His books were piled on the nightstand with a pen wedged in French's Index of Differential Diagnosis to mark a page, and his reading glasses balanced precariously on the cover. His bedtime rituals of inspecting his profile and sucking his belly in and out ten times, of lying across the mattress for a few minutes so his head hung back over the edge—”antigravity” maneuvers, as he called them—were unexciting, but in his absence, their importance was revealed. “Another day in paradise” was his inevitable pronouncement when he settled his head on his pillow. Now I understood what that meant: the uneventful day was a precious gift. The three of us lay there and waited as if he'd just gone to the kitchen and would fill the doorway any second. Hema sobbed. She voiced our thoughts when she said, “Lord, I promise never to take that man for granted again.”
Matron, who'd decided to sleep in our house, in the bed that belonged to me and Shiva, called out, “Hema, go to sleep now. Boys, say your prayers. Don't worry.”
I prayed to all the deities in the room, from Muruga to the Bleeding Heart of Jesus.
IN THE EARLY MORNING Almaz was back. There'd been no news. “But I stood up whenever a car came and went. If the doctor was in the car, I wanted him to see me.”
Hema and Matron planned to go to the arranged spot at ten o'clock, carrying food, blankets, and money. Then they'd make the rounds of the embassies and the royals. Hema convinced us to stay at home. “What if Ghosh calls home? Someone needs to be here to take the message.” Rosina and Genet were there, so we weren't completely alone. Almaz, after rejuvenating herself with bread and hot tea, insisted on going back to Kerchele with Hema and Matron.
By noon, they were still not back. Shiva, Genet, and I fixed sandwiches while Rosina looked on, distracted. She was red-eyed and hoarse. “Don't worry,” she said, “Ghosh will be all right.” Somehow her words weren't reassuring. Genet, pale and strangely listless, squeezed my hand.
KOOCHOOLOO WAS THE KIND OF MUTT who rarely made any noise. At Missing, barking at strangers would have been a never-ending proposition. So when I heard Koochooloo bark, I paid attention. Looking out of the living room window I saw a scruffy man in a green army jacket stroll up the driveway and disappear behind our house. Koochooloo turned rabid, unleashing a volley of deafening yelps. Her message was A very dangerous man is at our doorstep.
I ran to the kitchen where Rosina, Genet, and Shiva were already at the window. Koochooloo was just below us, loud as I had ever heard her. She moved forward, her neck disappear
ing in a collar of raised fur, her teeth bared. The man pulled open his heavy jacket and drew a revolver which was tucked in his pants. He had no belt, no holster, and no shirt, just a white vest. At the sight of the gun, Koochooloo fled. She was brave but not stupid.
“I know him,” Rosina whispered. “Zemui gave him a ride a few times. He is army. He used to stand just outside the gate, hoping Zemui would come by. He was always flattering Zemui. ‘Envy is behind flattery’ I told Zemui. Zemui would pretend not to see him, or he'd tell him he was going in another direction.”
The army man tucked the gun back into his pants, then he walked over to the BMW and caressed the seat.
“See! What did I tell you?” Rosina said.
“Come out, please,” he called, looking our way. “I know you're in there.”
“Stay here,” Rosina said, drawing a deep breath. “No. Don't stay. You all go by way of the front door and run to the hospital. Wait with W.W. Wait till I come for you.” She threw the bolt back. “Lock the door behind me,” she said, as she stepped out.
I cannot tell you why the three of us, instead of obeying her, simply opened the door again and followed her. It wasn't bravery. Perhaps the notion of running away felt more dangerous than staying with the one adult we could count on.
The intruder's eyes were bloodshot, and he looked as if he'd slept in his clothes, but his manner was jocular. The bulky camouflage jacket was big enough to swallow him, and yet his arms stuck out of the sleeves. He was missing his beret. He had a dark vertical furrow in the middle of his forehead, like a seam where the two halves of his face met. Despite the scraggly mustache, he looked too young for his uniform.
“This,” he said, almost purring as he stroked the motorcycle tank, “belongs to … to the army now.”
Rosina pulled her black shama over her hair, the gesture of a woman entering a church. She stood silent and obedient before him.
“Did you hear me, woman? This belongs to the army.”
“I suppose it is true,” she said, eyes downcast. “Perhaps the army will come and get it.” Her tone was deferential, which was why her words took a few seconds to sink in. I wondered later why she chose to provoke him and put us at risk.
The soldier blinked. Then he exclaimed in a high-pitched voice, “ Iam the army!”
He grabbed her hand and yanked her to him.
“ Iam the army.”
“Yes. This is the doctor's house. If you are taking anything, you should let him know.”
“The doctor?” He laughed. “The doctor is in jail. I'll let him know when I see him again. I'll ask him why he hires an impertinent whore like you. We should hang you for sleeping with that traitor.”
Rosina stared at the ground.
“Are you deaf, woman?”
“No, sir.”
“Go on. Tell me one good thing about Zemui. Tell me!”
“He was the father of my child,” Rosina said softly, refusing to look him in the face.
“A tragedy for that bastard child. Just tell me something more. Go on!”
“He did what he was told. He tried to be a good soldier, like you, sir.”
“A good soldier, huh? Like me?” He turned to us, as if asking us to witness her impudence.
Then, so quickly that none of us saw it coming, he backhanded her. It was a tremendous blow, sending her reeling, and yet somehow she didn't fall. She held her shama to her face. I could see the blood. She brought her feet together and stood upright. Shiva and I instinctively clasped hands.
I felt something wet running down my shin. I wondered if hed notice, but he was preoccupied with a nasty gash on the knuckle of his middle finger. I could see a flash of white, either sinew or tendon or a tooth fragment.
“The devil! You cut me, you gap-toothed bitch.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Genet moving. I knew that look on her face so well. She flew at him. He raised his foot, caught her in the chest, and pushed her off before she could get near him. He pulled out his gun again, cocked it, pointed it at Rosina. “Do it again, bastard child, and I'll kill your mother. Do you understand? Do you want to be an orphan? And you two,” he said, addressing us, “stay out of my way. I could kill the lot of you right now and I'd get a medal.”
We all recognized the plastic key chain that he pulled from his pocket. It was in the shape of the Congo. There was only one like it in our world, and it belonged to Zemui.
In getting the motorcycle off its stand, he almost fell over. After straddling the bike, he looked around for the lever and, finding it, he tried to kick-start the engine, but the bike was in gear, and so it lurched forward, almost toppling him again. When he got his balance, he looked to see if we'd noticed.
He tromped on the pedal, trying to find neutral. It was such a contrast to Zemui, who merely toed the lever and who handled the BMW as if it were featherlight. Zemui would prime the cylinders with a slow-motion stroke, followed by a brisk kick, and the motor would chug into life. Thinking of Zemui, who'd fought to the death rather than surrender, I felt ashamed. It made me want to act in a manner befitting the bike's true owner. I squeezed Shiva's hand. ShivaMarion was on the same page, I could tell, because he squeezed back.
The soldier flailed at the kick-start lever, as if he were stomping an enemy, his face getting flushed, sweat pouring off his brow. I smelled gas. He'd flooded the carburetor.
It was a cool day, the sun filtering through a few clouds and glinting off the chrome of the motorcycle. He paused to get his breath, then took off his jacket, slung it on the seat behind him. He shook out the hand with the bloody knuckle. He was a scrawny, thin fellow, I saw. Annoyed and humiliated by the engine resisting him, his lips drew back in a snarl. His frustration was dangerous.
“Let us push it for you. You flooded the engine and that's the only way to start it now.” This from Shiva.
“When you get to the bottom of the hill, just put it in first gear,” I said. “It'll start right away.”
He looked over, surprised, as if he didn't know we were capable of speech, let alone in his mother tongue.
“Is that how he started it?”
He never ever flooded it, I wanted to say.
“Every time,” I said. “Especially if he hadn't started it for a while.”
He frowned. “Okay, you two help me push the motorcycle.” He shoved his gun deeper into his waistband, behind his belt buckle. He tucked the jacket that he had thrown over the seat under his buttocks.
From the top of our driveway, the gravel road leading down to Casualty started off flat and then descended and seemed to disappear over a ledge, beyond which one could see the lower branches of trees that were just within the perimeter wall. Only when you were halfway down did you see how the road turned sharply, well before the ledge, and then went on to the roundabout near Casualty.
“Push!” he said. “Push, you bastards.”
We did, and he helped by leaning forward and walking the machine. Soon he was rolling, licking his lips, happy. The bike weaved and the handlebars made wide excursions.
“Steady!” I called. ShivaMarion was pushing in unison, a three-legged trot that soon became a four-legged sprint.
“No problem,” he shouted, putting his feet on the pedals. “Push!”
We gathered speed on the down slope now.
“Open the gas cock! Open the valve,” Shiva called out.
“What? Oh, yes,” he said and he took his right hand off the handlebars to feel for the petcock under the tank, precious seconds ticking away.
“It's on the other side!” I shouted.
He switched hands. He'd never find it and it didn't matter because there was enough fuel in the carburetor to take him at least a mile.
The bike was traveling at speed now, springs squeaking and mudguards rattling, its weight accelerating it down the hill, aided by our efforts. He'd taken his eyes off the road to find the petcock. By the time he looked up, ShivaMarion was running as fast as it could, adding every ounce of t
hrust possible to his progress. I saw his white-knuckled grip on the throttle, while his left hand was undecided whether to continue its search or return to the handlebars.
“Put it in gear, quick,” I shouted, giving the bike a last desperate push.
“Full gas!” Shiva yelled.
He was slow in responding, first twisting the throttle all the way, then glancing down to stamp on the gear lever. For a heart-stopping moment when it slipped into first, the bike seized, the back wheel locking, we had failed …
And just when I thought that, the engine sputtered and roared to life, revving to its red line with a vengeance, as if it were saying, I'll take it from here, boys. It surged forward, the back tire spitting gravel at us, nearly throwing the rider off, which only made him cling harder, squeezing the throttle in a death grip instead of letting go.
A howl emerged as he saw what was ahead. He had only a few feet and a few seconds to negotiate the turn before the ledge. It is an axiom of motorcycling that you must always look in the direction you want to go and never at what you are trying to avoid. His gaze, I was sure, was fixed on the approaching precipice. The BMW roared ahead, still accelerating. I raced after him.
The front wheel hit the concrete curb at the ledge and stopped. The back wheel flew up in the air; but for the weight of that big engine, the motorcycle would have somersaulted over. Instead it was the rider who sailed past the handlebars, his howl now a scream. He flew in an arc, shooting over the ledge and then falling until his motion was arrested by a tree trunk. I heard a whump, an involuntary grunt as the air in his lungs was evicted. His momentum snapped his neck forward and smashed his face into the tree. He tumbled down and rolled another ten feet.
The BMW, after standing on its nose, fell back to the ground and onto its side; the engine stalled but the back wheel kept spinning. I had never heard such silence.
I CLAMBERED DOWN. I got to him first. Id wanted this to happen, but now I felt terrible that it had. Amazingly, he was conscious, flat on his back, blinking, stunned, as blood trickled into his eyes and poured out of his nostrils and lips. There was no more army in him. His expression was that of a child whose reach had exceeded its grasp with disastrous results.