Dani was too polite to tell his joviro to be quiet and go away, although Million’s attentions were distracting.
Mamo had been almost as pleased as Dani at the success of the story idea. He felt like a parent whose late developing child had suddenly learned to walk. The odd friendship between the two boys took a new and deeper twist. Neither said anything about it, but they both felt even more bound to each other, their mutual trust stronger than ever.
Selling Dani’s stories, which he was now writing busily every day, was the only bright point in Mamo’s life after his visit to Tiggist. Seeing her again had cast him down into a horrible pit of despair. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, there’d always been the idea that if he could only find her again they would go back to their old life. She’d make a home for him and look after him. But everything had changed between them, he could see that now. Tiggist had her own life now. There was no room in it for him.
So what? he thought to himself angrily. What do I care? I don’t need her. I’m doing all right.
But he felt miserably ashamed. He hated the memory of the way she’d looked at him, seeing all the dirt on him, smelling on him the aura of the beggar.
I’ll keep away from her, he told himself, until I’ve got myself out of all this.
It was selling Dani’s stories that cheered him up. The others were no good at it at all. They waved the stories uselessly under the wrong people’s noses, and soon gave up in disgust. But Mamo was beginning to discover that he had the talents of a salesman. Only certain people, he reasoned, would want to buy what he had to sell. He would have to seek them out.
It didn’t take him long to realize that he should try the university. The people there did a lot of reading. Dani’s stories might appeal to them.
It worked. It took a while, sometimes, but nearly every day he made at least a couple of good sales. Every morning he set off up the hill, a sheaf of Dani’s written pages in his hand, towards the university at Siddist Kilo.
He would target people carefully. There was no point in trying to sell to foreigners, who couldn’t read Amharic, or to students, who were too hard up themselves to part with any money and were anyway only interested in each other. The best chance was with the middle-aged, bespectacled teachers and professors, who came and went through the magnificent stone gateway to the huge university compound, their books and files clutched under their arms.
They sometimes stopped for him as he hovered outside. They’d read a few lines, smile and reach into their pockets for a couple of dog-eared birr notes, then they’d walk on under the carved archway into the tranquil gardens, reading what Dani had written and chuckling to themselves, and he’d watch them with satisfaction, till they disappeared down one of the little pathways between the big old trees and grey stone walls.
Every time Mamo made a sale, his self-esteem rose a notch. Perhaps, he allowed himself to dream, he could be a peddler one day, one of those boys who sold chewing gum and paper tissues and cigarettes from neat little boxes. Then, if he saved a bit, he could work his way up, and . . .
But the dream dissolved every time he returned to the pitch and put the money into Million’s outstretched hand. He was only one of the gang. How could he possibly branch out on his own? He needed them too much.
He had worked the university gates for several days, selling the stories well, when the guards, who vetted everyone coming in and going out, ran out of patience with him, and yelled at him to clear off, waving their fists at him. He wasn’t particularly bothered. They were only making a show of it, he could tell. If he stayed away for a few days, then slipped back again, they’d probably leave him alone. In any case, he’d sold stories to everyone round here who was likely to buy them. It would be a while before they’d want to come back for more.
He decided to try somewhere else.
He walked slowly away from the university gates. It wasn’t the only place in town, after all, where people liked to read. There were the big schools where rich children went. The teachers there might be poorer than the university teachers, but it would be worth giving them a try.
And yes, now he came to think of it, there was a big school between here and the pitch. It was now mid-afternoon, and the timing would be good. When he got there the boys and their teachers would be pouring out through the school gates at the end of the working day.
He trotted off down the road and arrived outside the school just as the boys were starting to come out through the gates in a steady stream of royal blue uniforms. They were cheerful and laughing, pushing at each other, some jumping into waiting cars, others striding off down the hill.
Look at them, Mamo thought enviously.
He shook his head. Dani had been one of those boys, but he’d given it all up. Things must have been really awful at home to make him do it.
OK, thought Mamo, so it was daft of him, but at least he’s not soft, like they are. He’s all right, Dani is.
Almost too late, he remembered the unsold story in his hand. There was a bunch of teachers coming out now, a group of them together. He ran up to them, his salesman’s patter ready.
‘A story, look, a wonderful one. The king and the beggar woman. It’s got a really exciting ending. Please, look at it. Very interesting. To help me, for the sake of Mary. No food today. No mother, father dead, for the sake of Jesus . . .’
That wouldn’t do. His sales talk had wound down into the usual beggar’s plea. That wouldn’t impress anyone. It certainly hadn’t impressed the teachers, who were walking past him, ignoring him completely.
Two more brushed him aside too. The flood of pupils and teachers had slowed to a trickle now. Mamo redoubled his efforts, darting from one adult to the next, thrusting Dani’s stories under unresponsive noses.
The school guards were about to swing the heavy gates shut, and Mamo was about to give up and turn away, when one last man came out. He was short and unkempt. His tie was coming adrift from his collar and the shirt buttons strained across his large stomach. He went to stand at the side of the road, and put up his arm to flag down a taxi.
‘An original story, look,’ began Mamo, running up to him.
The man waved him away, but Mamo persisted.
‘It’s a wonderful one. The king and the beggar woman. Really exciting. Only three birr.’
The man smiled.
‘Three birr? Are you crazy? What do you take me for?’
‘OK, two birr,’ said Mamo eagerly, scenting a sale.
A taxi had responded to the man’s wave and was pulling into the kerb.
‘One fifty,’ said Mamo desperately.
The man put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a one-birr note and a few loose coins. He put them into Mamo’s hand.
‘An entrepreneurial approach to literary endeavour ought, I suppose, to be encouraged,’ he said, took the story and jumped into the taxi.
Mamo counted the money. It came to one birr eighty cents. Delighted, he pocketed the money and set off down the hill. There was no need to go back to the pitch just yet. He’d stop near the music shop and listen to whatever they were playing there. It was ages since he’d heard any music.
His skin tingled with pleasure as he approached the tiny shop. It was no more than a corrugated-iron booth with a lopsided painted sign over the door, and a loudspeaker fixed to the roof, but the tinny music crackling out from it sounded wonderful.
Bob Marley! They were playing Bob Marley, his favourite! The familiar voice, full of magic, drowned out for him the din of the heavy trucks and buses which were wheezing up the slope out of the dip at the bend of the road.
Mamo almost laughed aloud. He loved these songs. And now that Dani had told him what some of the words meant, he loved them even more.
He mouthed the lines under his breath, trying to imitate the unfamiliar English words, but when it came to his favourite chorus, he shut his eyes, threw his head back and sang properly, just as he’d done all those months ago for Hailu and Yohannes, out in th
e open fields.
‘We are the survivors! The black survivors!’
The chorus ended. He opened his eyes. The shopkeeper was standing in the doorway of the booth, grinning at him.
‘I wondered who it was. You’ve got a nice voice. Very nice,’ he said. ‘You don’t often hear one like that.’
Mamo walked off, glowing, a smile spreading over his face. He cleared his throat and began to sing again, softly now that he was away from the masking support of the canned music.
Would that be something he could do? Sing? Would anyone ever pay him to do that?
With his head full of daydreams and the money for Dani’s story in his pocket, he was happier than he’d been for a long time.
Ato Mesfin, Dani’s old Amharic teacher, sat in the back of his taxi, staring down at the closely written sheets of paper in his hand.
‘But I know this handwriting,’ he was muttering to himself. ‘It’s Daniel Paulos’s. Now how on earth did it get into the hands of that street urchin?’
He looked unseeingly out of the window as the taxi hooted its way across a busy intersection.
I never quite believed that story the boy’s father told the headmaster, he thought, about taking Daniel out of school in Addis Ababa to send him off to Jigjiga. Jigjiga! Who in their right mind would send a child down there?
He shifted himself, easing his bulk into a more comfortable position on the cracked brown leather that covered the sagging springs of the taxi’s back seat. He’d missed Dani in his classes since the boy had left school. It wasn’t often that he came across the real thing, a real talent, waiting to be nurtured. He’d found just that in young Daniel Paulos.
I’d better go and see the father, he thought. There’s something odd about all this. Something that’s not quite right.
It took Ato Mesfin several hours to summon his courage before he felt brave enough to call on Ato Paulos. The man was a tartar, everyone knew that. He was famous in Addis for the ruthless way in which he’d built up his business, and his temper was legendary. He wasn’t likely to welcome the visit of a shabby old school teacher.
‘Not one to suffer fools gladly,’ Ato Mesfin murmured to himself as he waited for the bus that would take him down to Bole. ‘But then neither am I.’
It was already dark, and the crowds on the streets were beginning to thin out when the bus dropped him off at the garage on the Bole Road. Some shoe-shine boys were perched like a row of hopeful young storks along the wall on the corner. Ato Mesfin beckoned to them.
‘A birr for whoever takes me to Ato Paulos’s house,’ he said.
They leaped off the wall and crowded round him.
‘Me! Me! Please!’
He picked one of them. The chosen boy began to scamper off, beckoning Ato Mesfin to follow him.
‘Good. Go on with you now,’ he said, when they reached the big green gates, giving the boy a crumpled green note. ‘No, don’t wait. Shoo!’
The boy ran off. Ato Mesfin waited a moment until he was out of sight. He didn’t want anyone to witness the humiliation he was expecting.
Taking a deep breath, he rapped on the gate. It opened almost at once. The old watchman, his blind eye half covered by the thick shamma swathing his head and shoulders against the cold night air, stared out at him suspiciously.
‘Yes? What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to see Ato Paulos,’ said Ato Mesfin, trying to look dignified.
‘Does he know you? Is he expecting you?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Then he won’t see you,’ Negussie said. ‘No one comes calling at this time of night,’ and he began to shut the gate.
‘Wait!’ said Ato Mesfin, though he was talking now only to the gate. ‘Tell him it’s about his son.’
The gate opened a crack. Old Negussie was looking round it, staring at him.
‘Stay here,’ he said at last, and he hobbled off towards the brightly lit porch of the house.
A few seconds later, the front door burst open and Ato Paulos came running down the steps.
‘Don’t go!’ he called out. ‘Who are you? Come in. Negussie says you have news of Daniel?’
Ato Mesfin stared at him. He would hardly have recognized the man. His face was haggard and his eyes, which had always been so sharp and haughty, looked almost imploring. Ato Mesfin forgot the speech he’d prepared. His suspicions had been right, then. There was a mystery here. Something terrible must have happened. Ato Paulos looked like a man on the rack.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure if I’ve got news of him or not. It’s this story, you see. I was very surprised when I recognized his handwriting. I thought you ought to see it.’
‘What story? Daniel’s handwriting? My dear fellow, please, come inside and tell me.’
Ato Mesfin followed Ato Paulos into the house’s big sitting room and sat down on one of the elaborate gilded chairs that lined the walls.
‘Please,’ said Ato Paulos, putting out his hand. ‘Show me.’
Ato Mesfin pulled out the story he’d bought from Mamo and passed it to him. Ato Paulos stared down at it and his hands began to shake.
‘Where did you get this?’ he whispered.
‘I bought it from a street urchin outside the school. I’m Daniel’s Amharic teacher. Mesfin.’
‘I know. I remember you.’
Ato Paulos was still staring down at the pages in his hand.
‘What’s happened?’ Ato Mesfin said gently, amazed to find that the terrifying Ato Paulos was filling him with pity. ‘Daniel’s disappeared, is that it? Has he run away?’
‘Yes. Weeks and weeks ago. I’ve searched everywhere. I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘So you didn’t send him to Jigjiga?’
Ato Paulos shuddered.
‘No. Look, it’s a long story. Let me get you a drink.’
Ato Paulos talked for a long time. He wouldn’t have believed, a couple of months ago, that he would ever have given more than a curt greeting to this crumpled old school teacher, but he found himself pouring out everything, his past irritation with Daniel, his efforts to undo his wife’s spoiling, Feisal and the Jigjiga scheme, the awful realization that he’d scared his son into running away, and his desperate fears for Daniel’s safety.
The relief of telling someone at last was wonderful.
Ato Mesfin listened without interrupting, his head on one side, drawing his breath in from time to time sympathetically.
‘So you think Daniel might be living on the street?’ he said, when at last Ato Paulos fell silent.
Ato Paulos held up the story.
‘I didn’t know what to think! But now, with this – well, it’s a clue, isn’t it? The first sign I’ve had that he’s still alive. I’m – well, I’m extremely grateful to you for bringing it to me. The question is, what do I do now?’
Ato Mesfin was already standing up.
‘You look for him, of course.’
‘Look where? How?’
Ato Paulos looked strangely helpless.
‘I’ll show you.’ Mesfin was already walking towards the door. ‘You have a car, don’t you? It’ll be easier if we drive.’
Ato Paulos had often driven through Addis Ababa at night on his way to or from dinners and receptions. The city streets emptied rapidly after nightfall, and only a few figures, muffled against the cold, flitted along the empty pavements. Ato Paulos had never really noticed the still, huddled shapes wrapped in dingy blankets that lay against the walls of the city’s buildings. Tonight, though, as he cruised the streets with Ato Mesfin beside him, he craned forward, trying to spot where the godana lay.
Before they’d reached the centre of town, Mesfin had made him stop at a cheap restaurant and they’d bought rolls of injera and some fruit.
‘You can’t wake people up and ask them questions if you don’t offer them something in return,’ he’d said awkardly, afraid that his alarming companion would march up to the first sleeping forms he saw, shake them awake an
d demand news of his son.
Astonishingly, Ato Paulos took his instructions humbly and let Ato Mesfin take the lead. The two men would stop the car and approach a sleeping group quietly. Ato Mesfin would cough gently to waken them and hand the sleepy people a gift of food. Sometimes they recognized him and greeted him by name. Only when they had exchanged courtesies did he let Ato Paulos ask them any questions.
As they moved from group to group, Ato Paulos became more and more silent.
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ he said, after they’d visited their seventh group of sleepers. ‘You know some of these people.’
Ato Mesfin grunted in agreement.
‘After my wife died, I felt – I don’t know – that God had blessed me all my life. That but for his grace I could be in their place myself.’
He shot a curious look at Ato Paulos, who said nothing.
They were about to get back into the car when one of the men they’d been questioning called out, ‘Ato Mesfin!’
Ato Mesfin went over to him. Ato Paulos watched while he squatted down and talked to him.
‘What did he say?’ he asked Ato Mesfin eagerly, when the teacher came back to the car.
Ato Mesfin was frowning.
‘He wanted to know who was asking for Daniel and what it was you wanted from him.’
‘He knows something!’
Ato Paulos was already starting back towards the sleepers.
‘No!’ Ato Mesfin caught his sleeve. ‘They won’t tell you anything, even if they know. They’ll protect him, if he doesn’t want to be caught.’
‘Protect? Huh!’ Ato Paulos seemed to have momentarily recovered his old manner. ‘No one protects anyone if you offer them money. Go back and tell them I’ll pay.’
‘I could,’ Ato Mesfin said uneasily, ‘but . . .’
‘But what?’ barked Ato Paulos.
‘Is that how you want to find Daniel?’ Ato Mesfin said diffidently. ‘By making someone betray him? Will that make him want to come back to you?’
‘Of course he wants to come back! Who would choose to live like this? Once I’ve explained that – that I forgive him, that he can have another chance, sit his exams again, that I won’t send him down to Jigjiga . . .’
The Garbage King Page 22
