The Parking Lot Attendant

by Nafkote Tamirat

  He snorted.

  “Your mother loved a lot of things that didn’t do her any good.”

  I looked at him, he looked back, and I thought I could see fright in his eyes.

  “You know my mother.”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you say that.”

  Neither of us raised our voices; neither of us dared.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Don’t swear.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “The real question is, how could I know her?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Isn’t it obvious that someone who married your father probably doesn’t have the best judgment? Don’t you think that’s a fair assessment of character?”

  He was recovering now.

  “You don’t know my father.”

  He threw up his hands.

  “I sometimes think I don’t know you, so who’s to say?”

  I left him there, with something that tasted like vomit making it difficult for me to swallow.

  Ayale would later buy a television from the back of a man’s truck. I’ve always wondered why it took him so long. I wonder if he was afraid of what he might see.

  ON THE SUBJECT OF LOVE

  It was on Christmas Eve, not a creature stirring, not even a mouse, that an apartment building in “Best Place to Raise Your Kids” Malden was torched. Twenty-five people stumbled out of bed, twenty-five people tried to reassemble the universe, twenty-five people ran toward exits that seemed farther away than yesterday, twenty-four people died in various attitudes of grotesque suffocation. The only survivor was seven years old and immediately christened “a miracle.” Of the twenty-four, twenty-three were Ethiopian. This had been a well-known gathering place for the people of the Horn, thanks to the first-floor community rooms that could be rented out for free, provided you knew a tenant. Many a wedding, baptism, birthday party, and funeral sitting had been stationed here, with celebrations often overflowing into the surrounding lot—whose evening “residents only” policy caused drunken merrymakers to scramble—and first kisses being gingerly planted in the ill-lit park in the back, the building’s glass-walled rooms looking out on these unhappy couples of the future.

  For the first time, the killings attracted attention beyond the Ethiopian clusters. This was front-page news, this was the-war-at-home, this was round-the-clock investigation, this was could-be-terrorists, this was is-our-immigration-policy-flawed, this was American-Dream-under-attack. As the victims’ names were released, there came a flood of articles, probing the coincidence of so many from the same ethnic group being burned alive. Maps of Africa with Ethiopia indicated via helpful circles and arrows were displayed next to these texts, to provide context, but also establishing a subtext that the authors had perhaps not intended. I was asked in class to explain my views and met with bafflement when I couldn’t present satisfactory or reassuring interpretations. Some of my classmates were even more perplexed by the fact that I wasn’t related to any of the victims. Ethiopia’s seventy-three million inhabitants didn’t appear to be adequate justification for my grievous lack of blood relation, but the questions died down after the Herald unleashed a five-page spread headlined, “Was It Their Fault?”

  Damning materials found on-site proved arson, but by whom and for what purpose was the shimmering mystery.

  My father and I didn’t leave the house for the rest of my school vacation. There was no discussion of the matter. He called in sick for the first time since I’d known him, and our only interaction with the outside world came with the Chinese delivery people, who, as fellow strangers to America, soothed us. We watched movies, read books, and finally, truly spoke to each other. It was slow at first, brief observations and the like, but this soon blossomed into sometimes hours-long conversations.

  These were not biographical in nature; we had both lost interest in childhood anecdotes. Instead, we wanted to know what the other thought about politics, the upstairs neighbors, eighties sitcoms, white people. I finally understood that fundamentally, my father neither liked nor enjoyed nor treasured children. Beyond my being his daughter, there wasn’t much about me that interested him until he could relate to me in the only way he knew how: as a friend.

  Ayale didn’t call. We watched TV, mocking nightly news programs’ usual patterns of human interest stories combined with inflammatory language, and still, Ayale did not call. He was the one subject I actively avoided with my father, and I appreciated that he didn’t broach it, either. My sadness overwhelmed me, and for the first time, when I cried, I didn’t shut myself in my room, and he didn’t leave to get cigarettes.

  Returning to school, I sensed the shift on the street. There were eyes everywhere, that hadn’t changed, but they were different ones. There were no visible bodies to attach them to like before. There were only my neighbors and the usual denizens of the area, but the mass had tripled nonetheless, and the thickness of the air made it hard to breathe. The weight was too great to be sustained; I knew that the cataclysm was imminent.

  It was when I was taking my usual route home that the summons came, delivered by a disciple pretending to be lost: “Come by the lot, no time to waste.” When I arrived, I saw that the weight I sensed on my street had lodged itself inside Ayale, making his skin swollen, his eyes bulging, his body more capable of hurt. He didn’t bear the usual signs of his anger, but there could be no doubt that whatever he was feeling was a kissing cousin to it.

  “Are you all right?”

  I almost laughed.

  “It took you a while to ask.”

  He wasn’t paying attention.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here.”

  His eyes kept ticking over to the right and left before alighting on my face and then repeating the movement.

  “You asked me to come.”

  He seemed taken aback until he remembered. I felt such tenderness for his confusion: at last, I could relate.

  “It’s terrible, what happened,” he whispered.

  “It is.”

  We waited.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll pay you double! And it’s safe.”

  I took a step back.

  “I didn’t think it wasn’t safe.”

  “Well, because it is.”

  “So why did you say that?”

  “Just … these are uncertain times.”

  The silence stretched forward, interminable, until for reasons still unknown (although I have a few educated guesses), I nodded yes.

  “You’ll only have an hour, and you have to be here at five in the morning.”

  “I can’t get a bus at five! Can you pick me up?”

  He was practically pleading.

  “If I could, I’d do it myself. This is the last time, I promise. And it’s extremely important.”

  Despite myself, I laughed.

  “Relatives from Ethiopia, huh?”

  He tried to smile back.

  “Only the best for my customers.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I called over my shoulder as I left.

  I never set foot in the lot again.

  This was to be my last year in Boston. I had gotten into a college farther north, one that had agreed to subsidize me, provided I maintained a certain average, wrote annual thank-you notes to my coma-bound patrons, and didn’t cause any trouble. (The Ethnic Students Admissions student volunteer gently advised that I stay away from unsavory associations like the African-American House, the tennis team, the Liberal Party, the Conservative Party.) I didn’t quite believe I was leaving. Whenever I imagined abandoning this city of color-coded trains, sadistic bus drivers, contaminated rivers, and nasality, I would become terrified and then furious at myself for not embracing a good thing. College was my means of escape. There would always be more education to excuse my pulling away forever.

  On that bus rid
e home, I began feeling nostalgic about Ayale. I would say it was as if I knew that our time together was coming to an end, but I’ve never been the kind of person who knows anything soon enough to make a difference. I tried to remind myself that he was a dangerous man to whom I had become far too attached. I would forget him once I was nestled in the blissful ignorance of too little sleep and too much alcohol. Thanks to talk shows, I knew that institutions of higher learning were knee-deep in the stuff and that if I wasn’t careful, I would be alcohol poisoned by my second week. I looked forward to this new way of forgetting.

  But until then, I couldn’t let go of the feeling that everything was on the brink of collapse, that I’d soon find myself smothered by the debris. I changed buses and, in what felt like too little time to prepare for truth, was standing in front of Fiker’s building. I dove in as soon as he opened the door, afraid of what was lying in wait, outside and inside.

  “What’s really in the boxes? Has Ayale been lying this whole time? And, honestly, why me? Of all the people, ever, why me?”

  He led me to my usual chair. It was taking him so long to respond that I assumed he wouldn’t but also couldn’t think of anything to say in this breach of not knowing. He straightened, as if having arrived at a decision.

  “It’s a bit hard to explain.”

  I had never known Fiker to find anything even slightly difficult to explain.

  “Because this is actually too complicated a plot? Or because you don’t think I should know?”

  “Ah, plot. Story, scheme, parcel of land, all three: which definition were you leaning toward?”

  “It’s just a word.”

  “That’s too easy.”

  “Nothing is too easy.”

  “I’m just trying to help you understand—”

  “Let’s skip to the part of the movie where I’m bleeding and tied up and you’re the guy who tells me everything I should have known for the first half, except that I was too good-looking and cocky to notice.”

  “As much as I don’t want to feed into any James Bond complexes, I take your point.”

  Fiker reached for the laptop I’d been jiggling around with my knees and started typing with a speed that was insulting. Once finished, he reread his message, tapped a few other keys, pushed the laptop toward me, and then leaned back in his chair.

  “How long have you known Ayale?”

  “Fairly long.”

  “In human time?”

  “About two years.”

  “Not long at all.”

  “For me that’s long.”

  “I forget you’re very young.”

  A pause, a cigarette, an appraisal before he continued.

  “I shall take the liberty of assuming that Ayale hasn’t shared the particulars of his vision with you, namely because it took a bit of force on my part to be taken into his version of confidence.”

  “What vision?”

  “He’s creating a country. One of his very own.”

  “What?”

  “A nation with cultural authenticity from Ethiopia and the latest in technology, medicine, and entertainment from America. First and third worlds coming together in a marriage of equals.”

  I took a breath and tried to find a way to make any of this seem real or right.

  “But how do you even get a new country? Do you go to … a land store?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s ridiculous?”

  “The only way to acquire anything on the higher end of valuable is through definitive action.”

  “Who would be the recipient of this … definitive action?”

  “There are a few targets.”

  “Explain.”

  My jaw hurt, and I was getting a headache.

  “You may not know this, but there’s contested land between Somalia and Ethiopia. It’s the usual game: Ethiopia claims divine right, Somalia puts its finger on its nose—”

  “Why would Somalia do that?”

  “—and says that Ethiopia’s a bully, taking land by night and saying it was there by day, etcetera. So there are battles. One- or two-day skirmishes during the lean years, to keep up morale. Ethiopia says the inhabitants of the area consider themselves Ethiopians. Somalia scorns the notion. No one knows what the inhabitants say, because they’re never asked.”

  “Okay. I’m following you, I really am, I just have no idea how you take over a piece of land that two whole countries can’t settle between themselves.”

  “No one’s taking over. Ayale became interested for personal reasons: a good friend died while trying to fight his way out.”

  I had to remind myself to breathe.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Most people don’t. But he couldn’t let it go without trying to do something. And he decided that the only thing he could do, that would actually make a difference, was to join those caught in the middle: fight against their oppressors, channel all the supplies and money at his disposal toward their cause, do everything in his power to make sure they won their war of independence.”

  “But then … they’ll be independent. I thought he wanted his own country?”

  Fiker looked uncomfortable.

  “It seems more than likely that in return for his aid, Ayale can expect to receive recognition.”

  I thought about this.

  “You mean that he wants first shot at running the place.”

  “It only seems fair.”

  “Does it?”

  “Unusually, I have no desire to discuss the semantics of morality with you, especially the morality of another.”

  “You’re involved in this?”

  He bowed in what I believe was meant to be a gesture of humility.

  “How?”

  “I have been directing our people who are already in situ: we have messengers going door to door, disseminating Ayale’s message, garnering support. Others are making themselves indispensable through their skills and participation in communal life. The inhabitants see them as one of their own. I’ll admit that they were hesitant about independence before, even though it was clearly their best option. But they falter no longer. We’re winning them over with respect, with brotherhood.”

  “With love.”

  “Precisely.”

  I looked at a stain on his desk.

  “Is Fiker your real name?”

  I didn’t look up until I was sure he was done laughing.

  “You weren’t part of this originally. You said he didn’t want to tell you anything.”

  “Your point?”

  “Why did he keep it from you? How did you get him to tell you?”

  “Next question.”

  I sighed.

  “The boxes?”

  “We have scouts in Somalia and Ethiopia, collecting information from government assemblies, determining where everyone stands on the land. You’ve been delivering their reports.”

  The last word triggered something painful.

  “Are the people who died part of this?”

  My heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. I put a hand there as feeble defense, as he reached across and took my other hand.

  “Neither Ayale nor I laid a finger on anyone.” He patted my hand before releasing it. “Not one finger. Remember that.”

  I was torn between doubt and profound relief.

  “Why is he so obsessed with this online stuff?”

  I tried to wipe off where Fiker had touched me without his noticing. He rubbed his eyes.

  “He needs a base in the States. Father helps him guide forum discussions.”

  “And … Washington, D.C., is…”

  He nodded.

  “Meetings where he pitches the idea of a different kind of homeland.” He noted my confusion. “He needs talented people to settle there once everything is ready. Preferably young, no families, a thirst for adventure. With what they have to offer, he’d have a greater chance of creating something sustainable on the first go-round. Ayale�
��s been doing quite well. It helps that Father has such an extensive network there.”

  “Who’s Father?”

  He leaned back far enough that his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

  “Do you remember a little monk, in a little house, on a little street?”

  I sprang up and began to pace as much as the confines of the room would allow.

  “And do you remember a little island he told you about? A little island called—”

  “Get to the point.”

  He chuckled.

  “That little island on the back of the postcard is Ayale’s test run. He needs investors for his plan, and they need proof. He’s set up, on a small scale, what he believes to be the ideal structure for our new nation; if it keeps going well, they’ll chip in, and he can move forward with greater speed, and even more firepower.”

  He smiled the widest of his questionable dental productions.

  “Why did Father talk to us?”

  “He was recruiting in Boston before he went to D.C.” Fiker rolled his eyes. “I challenge you to find another city with more small-minded, unimaginative specimens of our people. Father talked to every single Ethiopian here, trying to find anyone who might be suitable for our island community. He liked you, especially your father, but he had a feeling you wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Why didn’t we hear about him from other people?”

  He looked startled.

  “Since when do either of you ever speak to other people?”

  I pressed on.

  “Fine, you’ve got people, maybe investors, but you need money to … of course.”

  “The lots. Exactly.”

  “But he has to pay off so many people. There’s no way that he could have enough.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure about anything! But he said he barely has enough to pay his own bills.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Jesus, if you don’t agree, just say it. You don’t have to humor me.”

  “I respect the fact that you love Ayale”—he raised his hand to fend off my protests, waited until I’d subsided—“and that you want him to be as much in the right as possible. But we’re talking about a man who picks and chooses the truths he tells people, based on what he thinks he can squeeze out of them. That being said, I do think he’s been more forthright with you than he’s been with most, and I’m not saying that to humor you, I’m saying it because I think it’s true. Nonetheless, you can’t change someone’s nature, especially one like Ayale’s.”