“Shhh. Shhh,” I whispered as we herded all the kids into our room. We knew not to make a sound.
“What is wrong with you? You are useless!” Gashe screamed at Etheye.
His loud voice took every speck of air from the house, making it so I could hardly breathe. Tezze, Ishi and the girls gathered the kids close, cuddling the smallest ones in their laps. I shook my head at Kato and held my finger to my lips.
“Tesfaye!” Ishi whispered as I slipped from the room.
Etheye scurried, shoulders hunched, cowering as she poked the coals and fed twigs to the tiny flame. Rain needled a quick drumbeat on the tin roof, then flooded the edge with a curtain of water.
“I sorry! So sorry!” she said. The handle of the injera pan scraped from the hook on the outside wall where the rain cut a groove into the dirt.
“I give you everything!” he roared. “And you cannot cook a simple meal? You cannot discipline children?”
She put the flat pan over the fire. Dribbled water over it to see if it was hot enough.
“It be quick.” She glanced up at him. “Be calm.”
His face exploded. “How dare you tell me what to do? You useless dog. You donkey.”
She scuttled to the corner, arm up to protect her head. She watched him, then darted inside to grab his stool and place it where he liked to sit. Her movements were small, quick and frantic. The water bounced and sizzled on the scalding pan. She stood, but kept her body bent in subservience. She touched his elbow. With the other hand she indicated the seat with the leather worn in the shape of his body.
“Come. Sit.” Her soft voice blended with the music from the CD player. He remained stiff and standing in the doorway. She squeezed past, crouched before the fire. Steam rose from the hot pan. I saw her arm tremble as she poured the injera batter.
“Dedebi!” he yelled. He lashed with his hand, flinging her off balance. She righted herself, back into a squat. Eyes swimming in tears, she continued where she’d left off, drawing the batter around the pan, circles within circles.
“Useless!” he screamed. He kicked. She fell to the floor. Scrambled back up. “I should get rid of you. Send you to the gutter where you belong.”
A scorched smell. Smoke rose from the edge of the pan. The sizzling metal slid from her grasp, clattered and spun on the floor. Batter flung in slow motion. The burnt edge of the injera crumbled. Black flecks flew like ash in a breeze.
He struck her head. She lifted her arm, palm up, to ward off another blow.
“You would waste food now?”
“I do better,” she said. Her voice was thin. She crawled on the floor, sweeping up the charred injera with her hand, wiping the spilled batter with the edge of her skirt.
My heart smashed so loud I could hear it. I wanted to run in and save Etheye. I wanted to punch Gashe. To knock him to the floor and kick him.
But, standing just to the right of the doorway, watching, I could not move. It was as if I was seeing a terrible program on the television.
“I do better. I do better,” she repeated. He kicked over the bowl of batter. It spilled like a thick river of pale brown.
“You will do better,” he sneered. His spit landed near her foot. “Mogne. The only reason I let you stay … the only reason is that you make sons.”
Now! Go now, Tesfaye. Do not delay! Hit him! Make him pay. Do not let him do this.
But I did nothing. Nothing but watch my mother cringe and mewl like an animal that knows the whip. Nothing but watch my father’s power.
I wished he would die.
8
Deep in my heart, I wanted to stand up to Gashe. I saw myself avenging my mother’s suffering, slapping him, pushing him away, punching him, beating him with a stick.
“Hypocrite!” I would yell with each strike. “Useless. Hypocrite! Preaching freedom on the street corner, yet beating Etheye, treating her as a slave!”
I would punch his face and make it swell. I’d turn that light skin to purple bruises. “Useless!” And when he’d had enough, when he lay curled like a worm, whimpering in his own blood, I would feed him his own words. I would scream, “The only reason we keep you, the only reason we let you stay, is that you provide for us.”
But my courage was lacking. I feared his anger and what he could do. I did not want to be the one who was beaten. I did not want to be the one thrown to the street, living in the dump, starving and sweltering beneath a scrap of tin. I did not want this and I could not risk it. I knew I could not survive on my own.
The only way to survive under the rule of Gashe was to be perfect, to make no mistakes. If I proved my excellence, Gashe would be proud and happy. And if he was pleased with my obedience and academic perfection, he would be content, and he would change. He would stop raging out of control when we least expected it, he would not threaten Etheye and my sisters, and there would be peace in our family. Remaining polite and unquestioning on the outside was the best way to protect everyone.
My loyalty and devotion I saved for Etheye.
“I hate him,” I said out loud. Etheye’s face had lost its swelling and the bruise had faded to a sickly yellow. “What he does to us. What he does to you!”
“Do not hate,” she said. I passed her a dripping shirt. She twisted it tight. A stream of water trickled to the grass. She snapped it in the air to take out the wrinkles and clipped it to the middle line. The two lines behind us were already full of clothes of all sizes that hung limp or flapped in the wind like flags, depending on their dryness.
“But I do! I hate him and I hate his power over us.” What I did not say was that I hated my fear. I hated how I was afraid to stand up to him.
“Honor him. Show him respect,” she said. A long skirt pushed against her back, encircling her like a bridal veil.
“But I do not respect him. How can I respect someone who treats us as he does?”
“He treats us well,” she said.
“How can you say that? He beats you. He calls you names you do not deserve.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But he gives everything. The food you eat. These clothes. All my children go to school — good schools, even the girls. You must show gratitude.”
Could she not see what was wrong? Could she not see how he talked of freedom and revolution and the power of democracy, but that she was a slave?
“But the girls go to such inferior schools, just like servants,” I argued.
“Exactly. Even Gashe’s servants learn to read and write and count.”
“But anyone can do those things, even small children.” Untrue words had escaped my lips. I knew I had hurt the mother I so loved.
“I cannot do such things,” she said.
“I could teach you! It is so easy, Etheye!”
“I be having no need for this learning. My children to have better lives.”
She stood with her arms in the air, holding Gashe’s shirt. She looked at me with the patient eyes of a cow.
“If I be a village wife, you have no hope for the future.” She pegged the shirt in place. “Be grateful. Always grateful. You understand?”
“Yes, but …”
“It be the end of this talk,” she said.
But I had not gotten to the main part of my argument that proved Gashe’s mean-spiritedness, reminding her how he had kidnapped her for marriage, how he had thrown my oldest sister to the street when she disobeyed.
“I still hate him,” I muttered. “I still wish he would die.”
Etheye slapped my face with her wet hand. She spat three times on the ground. My cheek sizzled.
“Never! Never say such a thing! Never think of such a thing.” Her eyes bulged, as did the trail of veins in her forehead.
How could she defend him? He hit her. He called her donkey and mogne and useless.
“Think of us without his p
rotection,” she said.
She snatched the empty basket. The netting of her dress swished furiously with each step she took toward the girls who sang together as they rubbed clothes and soap on washboards. The little ones smashed their open palms on the water, giggling when the droplets splashed them.
I touched my hand to my cheek where it seared. What would happen if Gashe was gone? It would be better, wouldn’t it? Was it not always better when he was away?
9
The gold medal, on a wide ribbon around Etheye’s neck, gleamed in the soft light of Gashe’s private room the year I was in seventh grade. I had placed its heavy weight over her head in the same way the headmaster had placed it over mine. True, there was no great ceremony before all of the students of the school, but I awarded it just as solemnly.
“In honor of the best mother,” I said, then kissed her once on each cheek, and then a second time on the first cheek.
“Best mother,” she repeated, then spat three times to ward off evil spirits.
“Not for me,” she said. She lifted the medal from her chest. “This be your prize. You study for it.”
I stopped her hand. “No, Etheye. For you,” I insisted. I had earned it easily for drawing gray boxes, then painting the lower half with cone-shaped trees and a twisted blue river. Etheye did everything for us but received nothing.
She tilted the heavy disc and looked at the inscription. “What it says?”
I pretended to study the words. “It says, For the best mother in the world, who I love with all of my heart.”
“Best son,” she said. She ran her hand along my cheek. “Clever son.” She spat twice.
Gashe wore his best shirt, the one with the delicate embroidery at the collar, usually saved to impress business partners. He sat near me on a simple three-legged stool, so close that our knees almost touched.
Etheye bowed as she placed the injera on the mesob. There were mounds of bite-sized pieces of meat and pureed vegetables, some of which I did not know, arranged all around the edges, reminding me of the mountains that surrounded Addis. It was more food than I had ever seen on a single plate. More even than when I lived at the palace with Isaias. Etheye also offered milk and curdled cheese. My gratitude was great that this was not a day of fasting.
“Esteemed and wise husband,” she said. “Honored son.” She backed away from us, head bent like a servant, but I caught her grin. She was happy to serve me.
“Eat!” Gashe gestured.
I tore off a small piece, scooped up some kai wat, waited for him to do the same.
It was me, finally, and not Tezze, who shared his meal. Today I was the important one invited to eat meat.
“You are too modest,” Gashe said. “Have more.” I popped the first bite into my mouth, chewing carefully, remembering to cover my mouth as I ate. Next I tried tere sega usually served only to the most special guests. It tasted of blood. I nearly gagged on the raw meat. How could I swallow something so awful? I needed to spit it out.
“You don’t like it?” my father laughed. I shook my head. What could I do? This would hurt Etheye’s feelings, to say I did not like the food she prepared.
Gashe leaned close and whispered, “Just swallow quickly. Then it will be over.” He dipped a piece of injera in the wat flavored with berbere and held it out to me. “Here, this will help.”
The spice seared my tongue. My eyes watered like a crying baby. I could feel the flame lick all the way down my throat and to my stomach.
Perfect! Just the way I liked it. The third burn would be worth it. I reached for more.
Such luxury, to eat without sisters pushing me out of the way.
Mixed with the smells of roasting spices was the earthy smell of smoldering cow dung and the sweetness of eucalyptus. My sisters and my servant cousins hummed and sang as they cooked, the melody rising and falling in waves, punctuated by the swish and pop of coffee beans that Etheye stirred in the corner.
“This prize is a great honor,” Gashe said, taking food for himself. “An international prize. For my son. It will bring recognition.”
I nodded. What should I say? What was the right thing?
“Thank you, Gashe, for saying this,” I said. Could I have more food? I waited to be offered more.
“Take as much as you like,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
My lips burst into an inferno and the insides of my eardrums tickled from the spices. The more it burned, the more I wanted to eat. Tears trickled from the edges of my eyes. Etheye was the best cook.
“Here, take yogurt,” he said. “It will cool things down so you can eat more.”
Ishi would not believe how kind and generous Gashe was, how much food, and that I could eat until I was full.
This was the best day of my life. My stomach was heavy like the Indian Buddha’s when Etheye lifted the jebena high above the cups. There was coffee, thick with warm milk, butter and sugar, even for me.
“With you, I am well pleased,” said Gashe. His praise was like the radiance of the sun after days of rain. His pride was my pride.
He drained his third cup, then put it down. “But this is no way to make a living. You will not be an artist. You know this, yes?”
I did not know that. But being an artist did not matter. What I wanted was to be an international footballer like El Diego. That would be the best way to achieve fame and riches.
“You must study hard. Learn everything,” he said. “Education is the only way to rise in the world. To gain status. Education is the only way to change a country.”
I did not want to change a country. I wanted to play football, and when I was not practicing with the international team, I wanted to draw pictures and perhaps to build a sculpture.
“For this purpose of studying, I am giving you your own room. Just for you,” Gashe said. He rose taller in his seat and puffed out his chest like a rooster strutting.
“But we have no extra rooms,” I protested. Why would he give me my own room? No one had their own room. Only him.
“In the servants’ quarters. You will study there and you will sleep there. It is the best way. To have solitude and time to think,” he said.
I was being punished for doing well? For making him proud? Why would he take me from my brothers?
“It is being readied now. A fresh mattress, even. New paint on the walls. All the cracks fixed. Tonight you will go there.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
“We are alike,” he said. “The two of us, cut from the same cloth.”
The burn of the food in my stomach was no longer comfortable.
Me? Like Gashe? Never. I was not like him and I did not want ever to be like him with fancy clothes, a false smile and a concern only for making himself look good.
The room that was now to be my sleeping quarters was down a passage just a few doors from the room where Etheye kept her goat and chickens. It was the same size as the animal room, and the walls were made of the same concrete blocks. Three walls were painted yellow. The one with the small window was painted the blue of a summer sky. One mattress stuffed tightly and smelling of fresh cotton was in the corner, draped by a cowhide with no signs of wear. The mattress was too hard. The room was too quiet and too empty.
How could I sleep without Ishi? Without the stinky farts and dream talk of my younger brothers? How would I know what was going on if I did not sleep with them?
I stared at the ceiling and Aw-lubba-lubbaed like Fiyeli — first the sounds she made at milking time, then the bawling when her kid was taken. I scrunched the cowhide and pretended it was Ishi. But it was impossible to get warm or comfortable. I curled on my side like a newborn baby. I lay flat on my back, then on my stomach. I turned finally on my side and stared at the wall.
Why would Gashe punish me like this?
A cool hand touched my forehead.
She crawled beneath the hide with me, leaving all of her clothes on, but holding me as if I was much younger. The medal I had given her pressed hard and cool against my back.
“This be a great honor,” she said. “Who knows of a boy with his own room? Only the Emperor had this, I think.”
“I don’t want to be alone. I hate it!”
“Gashe be pleased.” She stroked my hair. “We must please him.”
“Why? Why must we please him?”
“Because he gives everything. He gives us life,” she said. I had left the curtains and the window open to hear the chirping of crickets, and so it would feel less like a prison cell. I leaned on one arm and turned to look at Etheye
“He doesn’t give us life. God gives us life.”
“God, Gashe, same thing.” She shrugged.
“No, it is not the same. He is just a man.”
“Ah, yes, but a man of influence, a man of power.”
“But it’s wrong. What he does. How he treats you. He yells. He hits people. He understands no one,” I said.
“Not so. Learn from Gashe and you live well.” I did not understand Etheye and her stubborn loyalty to a husband who mistreated her.
I drifted to sleep in Etheye’s arms, but when I woke during the night, she was gone. I slipped through the house like a thief and onto the mattress where I fit best, with Ishi.
10
Gashe was wrong. We were not alike. There was not a single thing about us the same. He was light-skinned; I was darker. He was tall and graceful; I was prone to tripping over my feet. He spent his days on street corners giving speeches; I preferred to be at home with my brothers. He was violent; I was peaceful. He was a hypocrite; I was honest.
How could this be my father? How could we be so different, yet share the same flesh and blood?
I stared through the glass of the car window as we passed street after street of crumbling buildings with peeling paint and lifeless clothing draped on ropes, window to window.
Cold White Sun Page 5
