‘And don’t go whining to your mother, do you hear? It’s high time you learned to leave her alone and face up to things like a man. She’s a sick woman. You don’t realize how serious it is. The least worry is bad for her.’
He turned sharply on his heel and went out of the room.
‘Baba!’ Dani heard Meseret shout delightedly, and Ato Paulos’s voice changed at once as he bent down and swung her up into his arms.
‘There, my little jewel. Come and sit beside your baba while he eats his supper.’
4
Mamo lost count of the passing days. Each one was like the last, and the next, and the next. Every morning he was woken by the snuffling and trampling of cows in the round barn, where he slept on the floor near the door. Then he devoured the little bit of food the girl brought him, before he drove the animals down to the river.
He wasn’t scared of the cows any more, and he managed them nearly as well as Hailu or Yohannes. The difference was that the other boys loved their beasts. They called them by name – Black Sides, Broken Horn, Wild One – and fussed over every small stumble or scratch. Mamo tolerated his little herd and occasionally even took pleasure in their quiet lowing and their gusts of sweet-smelling breath, but he feared and loathed their owner, the farmer, his master.
Nothing Mamo did was ever right in the man’s eyes. Mamo always came home too late or too early. He didn’t latch the door properly. He forked down too little hay from the stack, or too much. On Saturdays, when he loaded the donkey with sacks of grain for the farmer to take to market, the load slipped because it was too loose, or it chafed the donkey’s back because it was too tight. Mamo cowered every time the man came near him, dreading the vicious thump of the stick on his back.
He didn’t understand, either, why Tesfaye seemed to hate him so much. The boy would come back breathless after his long run home from school every day, and lean against the wall of the house, watching Mamo at his evening chore of sweeping out the barn.
‘Muck sticks to muck,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t you dare come near me. There’s shit in your hair and shit in your armpits and shit between your toes.’
Only one thing would shut Tesfaye up. His father’s curt growl from inside the house would make him stiffen, and he’d throw one more malevolent glance at Mamo before hurrying obediently inside.
The worst thing was that Mamo was always hungry. He thought of food all the time, from the moment he woke up in the morning till the moment he went to sleep at night.
For the first week or two, the farmer’s wife had seemed to resent feeding him at all. She had given him the barest scraps left on the dish when everyone else had eaten, and an occasional length of sugar cane or a corn cob to chew on.
One day, when she had put only a tiny handful of food into his cupped palms, his eyes had filled with tears. He felt them splash down his cheeks as he looked up at her.
She had stared down at him for a brief moment, and he had seen a flicker of pity in her eyes. She had lifted some of the food from the small amount reserved for herself and given it to him.
‘Perhaps next year, if God is good and the harvest is better, there’ll be more for all of us,’ she had murmured, then she’d leaned down to quieten the toddler, who was crying on the floor.
It was a bit better after that. She saw to it that Mamo had just enough to keep body and soul together, though it never filled his belly, and it was never as much as she gave to Tesfaye, who was ravenously hungry every night after his five-mile run to school in the morning and five-mile run home every afternoon, and who frowned jealously at every scrap of food that made its way into Mamo’s mouth.
The herd boys Hailu and Yohannes, though their mothers sent them out every morning with something to eat for the middle of the day, were endlessly hungry too. They were always on the lookout for ripe prickly pears, and when the chickpeas were nearly ready for harvest in the fields, they would surreptitiously help themselves to a few plants at a time, stripping off the crunchy green peas and eating them raw, one at a time, relishing their sharp bitter flavour.
‘What a dump the countryside is. Everyone’s always hungry here,’ Mamo said one day, furiously flinging away a prickly pear that had turned out to be rotten inside.
‘It’s not always like this,’ Hailu said defensively. He’d started to get annoyed when Mamo criticized country life. ‘The rains failed last year, that’s all. It’ll be OK next year.’
Little Yohannes never seemed to notice these moments of tension.
‘Let’s play that game again,’ he’d say sunnily. ‘You know, riding motorbikes like you showed us, Mamo. Like what they do in Addis.’
Mamo couldn’t help liking Yohannes. He couldn’t help smiling back into his cheerful round face, or laughing at his voice. Yohannes had a lisp at the moment, since his two top front teeth had fallen out, and the new ones had only just started growing through.
Some of the time, Mamo didn’t mind joining in with Yohannes’s childish games, for which there was plenty of time as the cattle grazed along the banks of the stream, but he got bored with them long before Yohannes did.
He had retreated into himself one day, as he often did, and moved away from the other two to perch on a stone and look out across the endless patchwork of little fields, while black depression settled on his heart and loneliness ate into every corner of his mind.
No one in the whole world cares about me, he thought. No one knows I’m here. Tiggist thinks I just walked out on her, I expect, and even if she knew what happened, how could she find me? She could never come here and rescue me. She probably wouldn’t even bother to try. I bet she’s having a great time at Mrs Faridah’s shop, anyway. She’s probably forgotten she ever had a brother at all.
A delighted shout made him look up.
‘Here comes my father!’ cried Yohannes, dancing up and down on the spot. ‘Look, he’s riding Silk Ears.’
Yohannes’s father trotted up on his black mule. He reined it in when he saw the three boys.
‘Hello, lads,’ he called out cheerfully. ‘Have you driven off any cattle thieves today?’
‘Hundreds, Father,’ said Yohannes. ‘And a leopard. It was as big as Silk Ears.’
His father laughed, then he noticed Mamo.
‘Who are you?’
‘That’s Mamo,’ Yohannes said proudly. ‘He’s the one I told you about, from Addis. He knows about TV and football and soldiers and everything. I told you, Father. He’s been in a bus.’
Mamo stood to attention, looking up warily at the man. He couldn’t see a stick, but a whip might be concealed inside the man’s brown coat. But Yohannes’s father was smiling down at him, and his eyes were kind.
‘A bit slow for you here, after life in Addis, I expect.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Mamo stiffly.
‘Missing your family, are you?’
Mamo’s throat suddenly felt tight. He jerked his head in a kind of nod.
The man hesitated.
‘It’s been a bad year. Hard for everyone. Not enough to go round. But God is good. Next year, maybe . . .’
Something was growing inside Mamo, a feeling that was too big for him to bear. It welled up and burst out in words that he couldn’t control.
‘Please, I can’t bear it. I can’t stay here. I want to go home. To Addis. Please help me. He’ll beat me to death one day, I know he will. Let me go with you. Show me the way home.’
Yohannes’s father said nothing for a moment, while the mule’s long glossy tail twitched back and forth across its rump. Mamo stood stock still. He was almost faint with horror at what he’d said.
He’ll go for me now, he thought. He’ll tell the farmer and they’ll kill me between them.
But Yohannes’s father only bent down and put a gentle hand on Mamo’s shoulder.
‘It’s not for me to interfere in a neighbour’s household, however much . . . I can’t do that. But don’t despair, Mamo. Have faith in God. Don’t despair.’
He d
ug his heels into Silk Ears’ sides and the mule moved forward, breaking quickly into a trot.
‘Father!’ shouted Yohannes, running after him on his small hard bare feet. ‘I want to show you my catapult. I made a catapult! Come back and see it, Father.’
But the man had ridden on, and the drumming of Silk Ears’ hooves was already fading into the distance.
Tiggist had never been so happy in her life. She had a good place to sleep in, at the back of the shop in the storeroom, and every morning she rolled up her mat and blanket and put them neatly away behind an oil drum. She had some nice clothes now, too, a skirt, two blouses and a jumper that Mrs Faridah’s sister had grown out of, and a blue dress with long sleeves. And then there were the shoes. They were nearly new, with pointed toes, and they made her look completely grown-up.
Best of all, was the tiny but growing store of worn birr notes, her wages, stowed away secretly in a tin, which she kept hidden in a high dark corner at the back of the storeroom.
She’d been nervous at first of the watchman, who slept outside against the door of the shop all night, wrapped in his ancient shamma. He’d given her some funny looks and come a bit too close to her once or twice. But Mrs Faridah had seen him at it, and she’d let out such a screech, telling him to keep his dirty old hands to himself, that the watchman had got quite scared of losing his job.
He was all right after that, almost fatherly sometimes. Tiggist didn’t mind him any more. She even stopped to chat with him occasionally.
She didn’t mind the boy who served the fruit and vegetables out in the front of the shop, either. He was Mrs Faridah’s nephew. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and his hip hurt him badly sometimes. He kept himself to himself and hobbled off home every night without usually saying a word to her.
She had to work hard. She was on the go from morning to night, sweeping out the shop and washing the floor, running errands, doing deliveries and looking after the baby. At first, Mrs Faridah kept a sharp eye on her. The last girl she’d had, she told Tiggist, had been secretly pinching stuff all the time, packets of sugar and biscuits and candles, all sorts of things, and passing them to her brother, who was always hanging around the front of the shop.
The word brother made Tiggist think guiltily of Mamo. She’d gone back to see Mrs Hannah a couple of times, hoping she’d have heard something from Mamo, but he hadn’t turned up again. Another family was living in their leaky old shack now. She’d left a message with the worn-out-looking mother, asking her to tell Mamo where she was if he came and asked. She didn’t know what else to do.
She thought uneasily sometimes about the uncle Mrs Hannah had mentioned. He couldn’t be a real uncle, she knew that, but Ma had had plenty of boyfriends at the bar, and some of them had stayed around for months.
Perhaps he was one of those, and he’d really liked Ma, and had really wanted to help Mamo. Perhaps he’d got him a wonderful job, and Mamo hadn’t had any time off to come and tell her about it.
She tried not to think about the stories she’d heard, about children being taken off and sold as cheap labour. But even if that had happened to Mamo, what could she do about it? Where could she start to look for him?
She worried about him all the time at first, prayed every night and morning, and ran in to kiss the wall of the church of St Michael, pushing through the crowd of other supplicants there, whenever she went past the gates. But as the weeks passed, Mamo began to fade from her mind, and she became more and more engrossed in the world of the shop, the customers, and above all Yasmin, Mrs Faridah’s baby.
‘Come along, come along, my flower,’ she’d say, bouncing the little girl up in her arms, loving the feel of the chubby little arms round her neck.
Yasmin loved her back, crowing with delight when Tiggist came near her, and crying when strangers took her out of Tiggist’s arms.
Mrs Faridah watched approvingly.
‘You’ve got quite a way with her,’ she said once or twice, and Tiggist glowed with pleasure. Mrs Faridah didn’t often dish out words of praise.
It was a while before Tiggist began to wonder about Mrs Faridah’s husband, Mr Hamid, and it was the watchman who explained.
‘Sick man, isn’t he,’ he said. ‘Lost an eye in the northern campaign. It gets infected. He’s down in Awassa where his family comes from. Left his missus to run things up here until he’s well enough to take over again. He’ll be back. Not that he bothers me. She’s the one who runs the show. Always has been.’
Tiggist had put Mr Hamid out of her mind after that. In fact, she’d almost forgotten he’d existed. But one afternoon, the woman from the bigger shop next door, which had a telephone of its own, came running in, almost barging into the stands on which the fruit was displayed in front of the shop.
‘Faridah! Come quickly!’ she was calling out. ‘There’s a call for you from Awassa!’
Mrs Faridah had been serving a customer at the till, but she ran out at once, leaving Tiggist to take over. Tiggist had only been at the till once before, having her first lesson in how to manage it, and she was so intent on making sure that she was doing it right, ringing up the prices properly, and giving out the correct change, that she was hardly aware of the commotion in the street outside.
It was only when there was a lull between customers, and the little crowd around the till had melted away, that she could hear what people were saying.
‘Don’t worry, Faridah. He’s a strong man. He’ll pull through.’
‘You must go right away. First thing in the morning. My cousin’s got a taxi. He’ll take you down to the bus station.’
‘Can’t your brother-in-law take over the shop for you? He did it before, when Yasmin was born.’
Tiggist had stood paralyzed, her heart seeming to turn over in her chest.
If Mrs Faridah was going away, she might not need Tiggist any more. She’d take Yasmin with her, and at least half of Tiggist’s job would have gone. Perhaps she’d get the sack. Perhaps she’d be thrown out, like the last girl was, the one who was caught stealing. She’d have nothing then. No one to turn to. Nowhere to go.
‘Come on, are you asleep, or what? I said I wanted a bottle of oil. One of those big ones, on the shelf behind you.’
Her heart still fluttering, Tiggist fetched down the oil and took the money from the impatient man who was standing at the counter in front of her. She must be careful. She mustn’t slip up now. If she gave the wrong change, and the till didn’t add up this evening, she’d be for it.
Mrs Faridah came hurrying into the shop.
‘Where’s Yasmin?’ she said distractedly to Tiggist.
‘She’s still asleep. She always—’
‘You’ll have to stay there and mind the till,’ said Mrs Faridah. ‘I can’t – I’ve got to—’
People were pressing round her, trying to comfort her and giving her advice in loud conflicting voices.
Out of the corner of her eye, Tiggist suddenly caught sight of a ragged boy, who had sneaked into the shop with the crowd, and was stuffing a packet of batteries up his filthy sweater.
‘Thief!’ she shrieked. ‘Stop him!’
The boy, lithe as a cat, was out of the shop and away down the street, wriggling out of the grasp of the many hands that clutched at him.
The excitement seemed to shock Mrs Faridah into action.
‘We’ll have to close,’ she said, ‘till my brother-in-law gets here. Where’s the watchman? Tiggist, tell him to put the shutters up. I’ll go and pack. And Tiggist, go down to the bus station, and buy seats on the earliest bus out to Awassa tomorrow morning. Wait now, till I give you the money.’
‘Seats?’ said Tiggist. ‘Won’t Yasmin just sit on your knee?’
‘One for me and one for you,’ said Mrs Faridah. ‘You’ll have to come with me. I’m going to have to spend all my time nursing my husband, and his mother’s too old and blind to manage Yasmin on her own. You don’t mind, do you?’
Tiggist felt as if a huge fl
ower had opened in her chest. She wasn’t going to lose her job. She was needed. Mrs Faridah couldn’t manage without her. And she was going in a bus, out of Addis Ababa, to exciting new places she’d never seen before.
‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to pack Yasmin’s clothes? Can she wear her little yellow dress tomorrow? She looks gorgeous in that one.’
Something unexpected and wonderful had happened to Dani. His father had gone abroad. There had been days of turmoil at home. Zeni and his mother had fussed endlessly over Ato Paulos’s clothes, and Ruth had spent hours making up little packages of Ethiopian treats for homesick relatives in London. Ato Paulos’s temper had got shorter and shorter.
‘Business worries,’ Ruth had said soothingly to Dani. ‘He’s got so much on his mind. Nothing to do with you, darling.’
Ato Paulos had been gone for five weeks now, and Dani was happier than he had been for years. There were no interrogations to face every evening, no curt commands to pull himself together and stop daydreaming, no threats, no harsh remarks. He spent hours curled up at the end of his mother’s bed, chatting and looking at old photographs with her. Then he’d go off to his room and draw elaborate pictures, and he’d take them to show her, and she’d tell him they were brilliant, and ask anxiously if he’d done his homework. He’d say yes, of course, and then he’d feel guilty, and sit down for a while in front of his pile of books.
The delightful thing was that time seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. There was the occasional phone call from his father in England. Business was going all right, but it was slow. Ato Paulos needed more time over there. He couldn’t say when he’d be coming home, but it wouldn’t be for a while yet.
I’ve got to get on with it, Dani told himself. I’ve got to learn all this boring stuff. I’ll start properly tomorrow. It’ll be easier then.
But the next day the words in his schoolbooks danced around as confusingly as ever. They bounced off his mind without going in. He would read the same sentence three times and nothing would stick. Then he’d look up and stare out of the window, allowing himself to be half mesmerized by the patterns of sunlight glancing through the stiff blue-green leaves of the eucalyptus tree outside.
The Garbage King Page 5
