We heard about it by late morning. That night in the stone villas, the barracks, and in chikka houses, junior officers who graduated from the Holeta Military Academy, or the Harar Military Academy, or the Air Force Academy in Debre Zeit, went to bed plotting to finish what General Mebratu had started.

With every pa.s.sing day, General Mebratu s stature grew until he was unofficially canonized. His likeness appeared in anonymous leaflets, drawn in the cartoon style of the ancient Ethiopic icon painters, with an abundance of yellow, green, and red; they depicted a black Christ flanked by a black John the Baptist, and our own General Mebratu. All three had yellow halos around their heads and the River Jordan running over their feet. The text read, For this is He that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying: The voice of one crying in the wilderness. Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make His paths straight.

CHAPTER 29.

Abu Ka.s.sem's Slippers

TWO DAYS AFTER the General's execution, the hospital staff, led by Adam and W. W. Gonad, had a welcome-back party for Ghosh. They bought a cow, hired a tent and a cook.

Adam slit the beast's throat. An overeager orderly with a yearning for gored-gored-raw beef-cut a thin and still quivering steak from the flank while the animal stood on gla.s.s legs. They strung the cow from a tree, made their cuts, and carried the meat to an outdoor table to be processed.

When I saw an army jeep come up our driveway, my blood turned cold. The cooks stood still as we watched a uniformed officer go into our bungalow. I sleepwalked toward the house. I was at the front door when the officer stepped out, Ghosh and Hema with him. Shiva was by my side.

"Boys," Ghosh said. "The motorcycle. Do you know who came to take it?" Ghosh was calm, unaware of any reason to be alarmed.

My first response was relief-they hadn't come for Ghosh! Then, when it sunk in why the man was here, came panic. The five of us had worked out the story: A soldier came with the key. He drove the motorcycle away. We had no words with him. We'd repeated the story to Hema the day the soldier went missing. As preoccupied as she was with Ghosh's arrest, she'd shrugged it off.

I was about to speak when I got a good look at the officer's face.

It was the intruder, the army man, the one who came to take the motorcycle.

It was his face. The same forehead and teeth, but a body that was not as lean and gangly. The spotless, pressed uniform, the beret tucked under his shoulder lapel, gave him the manner of a professional soldier, something which the intruder had lacked. I felt my face turning colors.

Rosina and Genet came walking rapidly around the corner of the house. Word had gotten out. There was a crowd around us.

"A soldier came with a key and he drove it away," Shiva said.

I nodded. "Yes."

The officer smiled. He leaned forward to me and said politely, in English, "Is there anything else you remember? Something you aren't telling me?"

Ghosh interrupted, saying, "Ah, here's Rosina." In Amharic, Ghosh said, "Rosina, this officer wants to know about Zemui's motorcycle."

Rosina made a deep bow. I was reminded of her politeness to the thief, and how her choice of words then had been inflammatory. I hoped she'd be prudent.

"Yes, sir. I was with the boys when he came-" She stopped and brought the edge of her shama to her mouth, her eyes popping. "Excuse me, sir. The man ... he looked very much like you. When I saw your face ... forgive me," and she made a little bow again. "He wasn't ... he wasn't as polite as you. Dressed ... not like you."

"We have the same mother," the officer said, with a wry smile. "It's true, he looks like me. What was he wearing?"

"Just the army jacket. No shirt. A white singlet underneath. Boots, trousers," Rosina said.

"Did he look all right to you?"

"He had his gun tucked here," she said, pointing to her midriff, "instead of in his ..."

"Holster?" the brother offered.

"Yes. And he looked ... his eyes red. He looked as if he might be ..."

"Drunk?" the brother said softly. "Did you ask him why he wanted the motorcycle?"

"Please, sir. He had that gun," she said. "He seemed very angry. He had the key."

"What did he say to you?"

"He ... said many things. He said he's taking the motorcycle. I said nothing." She'd departed from the script we had rehea.r.s.ed, but it seemed to be working.

"Why? What has happened? What happened to the motorcycle?" Shiva said in English, his deadpan expression revealing nothing. I was astonished at Shiva's nerve.

"Well, that's what I don't know," the officer said. His English was excellent and his manner softened. "He wasn't supposed to take the motorcycle. The army wouldn't have let him keep it, anyway" He paused as if considering whether to say more. When he continued, it was to Ghosh and Hema that he directed his remarks. "He hasn't been seen since he came here. I'm posted in Dire Dawa, and I only found out he was AWOL two weeks ago. He told a woman he kept that he was going to pick up a motorcycle." He turned to me and Shiva. "So you saw him drive away?"

"I heard the sound," I said.

He nodded. "Doctor, do you mind if I take a quick look around ..."

"By all means," Ghosh said.

I felt the sky pressing down on me as the officer and his driver went to the back of the house, and then walked down the gravel driveway. Had we come this far, with Ghosh free, only to have the army man send us back to h.e.l.l? Genet glared at me, while Rosina squatted, applying a eucalyptus stick to her teeth. The two men walked to the ledge, then turned in the direction of the roundabout and disappeared from view. If on their return they went to the toolshed, we were doomed. The motorcycle was well hidden, but not to one who was intent on finding it.

After an eternity they returned.

"Thank you, Doctor," the officer said, extending his hand to Ghosh. "I fear the worst. The day the Emperor returned, some of our soldiers got their hands on a lot of money. My brother had something to do with that. It's perhaps a good thing he disappeared."

Once the jeep was out of sight, Ghosh studied us for a moment. He sensed something amiss, but he didn't ask any questions. When Hema and Ghosh stepped back inside, I went to the corner of the house and I threw up. Genet and Shiva followed me. I waved them off. The gastrointestinal system has its own brain, its own conscience.

Inside the tent the folding chairs wobbled on the soft gra.s.s. Soon the tables sagged with beakers of tej and plates of food. The kitfo-coa.r.s.ely ground raw meat mixed with kibe (a spiced and clarified b.u.t.ter)-was my favorite dish. We never served this at home, but from the time I was a baby, I'd eaten kitfo in Rosina's quarters, or in Gebrew's shack. On this day I had no appet.i.te. The injera was stacked on the table like napkins. The gored-gored was the dish everyone went after: cubes of raw meat, which you dipped in a fiery red pepper sauce. The dishes kept coming: meatb.a.l.l.s, meat curry, lentil curry, tongue, and kidney. What had been grazing under a tree that morning had, in short order, reached the table.

Ghosh sat on a dais in an armchair. One by one the nurses, nursing students, and the other Missing employees came to shake his hand and to praise the saints for allowing him to survive his ordeal.

Rosina didn't come out, but I found Genet in a corner of the tent. I sat by her. Dressed in black, pushing food around on her plate, she looked like a dour and distant cousin of the Genet I knew-shed hardly left the house since Zemui's death. When an orderly came and greeted her, kissed her on her cheeks, she barely acknowledged him.

"When will you go back to school?" I said. "When will you start eating with us again?"

"They killed my father. Did you forget? I don't care about school." Then she hissed at me, "Tell the truth. You told Ghosh, didn't you?"

"I did not!"

"But you were thinking of telling him, weren't you? Tell the truth!"

She had me there. When I felt Ghosh's arms around me for the first time in that prison yard, a confession jumped to my lips. I had to suck it back and swallow.

"Since when did thinking become a crime? ... Don't look at me that way," I said.

She took her plate and sat far away from me. Even if I didn't have great faith in myself, I wanted her to have more faith in me. It hurt that she no longer saw me as the hero who shot the intruder.

BY THE LATE AFTERNOON the tent came down, and now visitors from outside Missing arrived as word spread that Ghosh was free. For Evangeline and Mrs. Reddy the moment was bittersweet because, though Ghosh was back, General Mebratu was gone forever. Evangeline kept saying, "So young. So young to be no more," dabbing at her eyes, while Mrs. Reddy comforted her, pulling Evangeline's head into her considerable bosom. The two brought a giant pot of chicken biriyani and the fiery mango pickle that was Ghosh's favorite. "It's your second honey moon, sweetie," Evangeline said to Ghosh. She winked at Hema. Adid, their old friend, came carrying three live chickens roped together by their feet, handing them over to Almaz. He brushed feathers off his spotless white polyester shirt, which he wore over a flowing, plaid ma'awis that extended to his sandals. Behind him came Babu, who was General Mebratu's usual bridge partner, bearing a bottle of Pinch, the General's favorite. By nightfall, there was talk of pulling out the cards for old time's sake. At any moment I expected Zemui to drive up with General Mebratu.

The house got stuffy. I opened windows back and front. At one point Ghosh retreated to the bedroom to shed his sweater and Hema went with him. I followed and stood in the doorway. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. It was as if he couldn't get over the novelty of running water. Hema stood outside the bathroom looking at his reflection in the vanity.

"I've been thinking ...," I heard Ghosh say. "We've had a good innings. Maybe we should leave ... before the next coup."

"What? Back to India?" Hema said.

"No ... then the boys would have to learn Hindi or Tamil as a compulsory second language. It's too late for that. Don't forget why we left in the first place."

They didn't know I was listening.

"Lots of Indian teachers have gone from here to Zambia," Hema said.

"Or America? To the county of Cook?" he said and laughed.

"Persia? They say there are huge needs, just like this place. But they have tons of money to spend."

Zambia? Persia? Were they joking? This was my country they were talking about, the land of my birth. True, its potential for violence and mayhem had been proved. But it was still home. How much worse would it be to be tortured in a land that wasn't your own?

We've had a good innings.

Ghosh's words felt like a kick to my solar plexus: this was my country, but I realized it wasn't Hema's or Ghosh's. They weren't born here. Was this for them a job only good for as long as it lasted? I slipped away.

I stepped out to the lawn. I remember the air that night, and how it was so brisk that it could revive the dead. The fragrance of eucalyptus stoking a home fire, the smell of wet gra.s.s, of dung fuel, of tobacco, of swamp air, and the perfume of hundreds of roses-this was the scent of Missing. No, it was the scent of a continent.

Call me unwanted, call my birth a disaster, call me the b.a.s.t.a.r.d child of a disgraced nun and a disappeared father, call me a cold-blooded killer who lies to the brother of the man I killed, but that loamy soil that nurtured Matron's roses was in my flesh. I said Ethyo-pya, like a native. Let those born in other lands speak of Eee-theee-op-eee-ya, as if it were a compound name like Sharm el Sheikh, or Dar es Salaam or Rio de Janeiro. The Entoto Mountains disappearing in darkness framed my horizon; if I left, those mountains would sink back to the ground, descend into nothingness; the mountains needed me to gaze at their tree-filled slopes, just as I needed them to be certain I was alive. The canopy of stars at night; that, too, was my birthright. A celestial gardener sowed meskel seeds so that when the rainy season ended, the daisies bloomed in welcome. Even the Drowning Soil, the foul-smelling quicksand behind Missing, which had swallowed a horse, a dog, a man, and G.o.d knows what else-I claimed that as well.

Light and dark.

The General and the Emperor.

Good and evil.

All possibilities resided within me, and they required me to be here. If I left, what would be left of me?

BY ELEVEN O'CLOCK, Ghosh excused himself from the company in the living room and came back with us to our room. Hema followed.

Shiva said, "We haven't slept in this bed since you left."

Ghosh was touched. He lay in the center, and we huddled on either side. Hema sat at the foot of our bed.

"In prison, lights were out by eight o'clock. We'd each tell a story. That was our entertainment. I told stories from the books we read to you in this room. One of my cell mates, a merchant, Tawfiq-he would tell the Abu Ka.s.sem story."

It was a tale well known to children all over Africa: Abu Ka.s.sem, a miserly Baghdad merchant, had held on to his battered, much repaired pair of slippers even though they were objects of derision. At last, even he couldn't stomach the sight of them. But his every attempt to get rid of his slippers ended in disaster: when he tossed them out of his window they landed on the head of a pregnant woman who miscarried, and Abu Ka.s.sem was thrown in jail; when he dropped them in the ca.n.a.l, the slippers choked off the main drain and caused flooding, and off Abu Ka.s.sem went to jail ...

"One night when Tawfiq finished, another prisoner, a quiet, dignified old man, said, Abu Ka.s.sem might as well build a special room for his slippers. Why try to lose them? He'll never escape.' The old man laughed, and he seemed happy when he said that. That night the old man died in his sleep.

"The next night, out of respect for the old man, we lay in silence. No story. I could hear men crying in the dark. This was always the low point for me. Ah, boys ... Id pretend you both were against me, just like this, and I would imagine Hema's face before me.

"The following night, we couldn't wait to talk about Abu Ka.s.sem. We all saw it the same way. The old man was right. The slippers in the story mean that everything you see and do and touch, every seed you sow, or don't sow, becomes part of your destiny ... I met Hema in the septic ward at Government General Hospital in India, in Madras, and that brought me to this continent. Because of that, I got the biggest gift of my life-to be a father to you two. Because of that, I operated on General Mebratu, who became my friend. Because he was my friend, I went to prison. Because I was a doctor, I helped to save him, and they let me out. Because I saved him, they could hang him ... You see what I am saying?"

I didn't, but he spoke with such pa.s.sion I wasn't about to stop him.

"I never knew my father, and so I thought he was irrelevant to me. My sister felt his absence so strongly that it made her sour, and so no matter what she has, or will ever have, it won't be enough." He sighed. "I made up for his absence by h.o.a.rding knowledge, skills, seeking praise. What I finally understood in Kerchele is that neither my sister nor I realized that my father's absence is our slippers. In order to start to get rid of your slippers, you have to admit they are yours, and if you do, then they will get rid of themselves."

All these years and I hadn't known this about Ghosh, about his father dying when he was young. He was like us, fatherless, but at least we had him. Perhaps he'd been worse off than we were.

Ghosh sighed. "I hope one day you see this as clearly as I did in Kerchele. The key to your happiness is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have, and own the ones you don't. If you keep saying your slippers aren't yours, then you'll die searching, you'll die bitter, always feeling you were promised more. Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny"

AFTER GHOSH LEFT, I wondered if the army man was my pair of slippers. If so, they'd come back once already in the form of his brother. What form would they take next?

Just when my thoughts were coming in illogical sequences, a prelude to sleep, I felt someone lifting up the mosquito net. In the instant that I saw her, she was already sitting on my chest, pinning my arms down.

I could have thrown her off. But I didn't. I liked her body on mine and I liked the faint scent of charcoal and the frankincense that permeated her clothes. Maybe shed come to make up to me for being so rude before. She could 've climbed in through one of the open windows.

In the light from the hallway, I could see the fixed smile on her face.

"So, Marion? Did you tell Ghosh about the thief?"

"If you were hiding here, you already know."

Shiva, awake now, looked at the two of us, then rolled over, and closed his eyes.

"You almost told that officer, his brother."

"I didn't. I was just surprised ...," I said.

"We think you told Ghosh and Hema."

"Of course not. I wouldn't."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"You know why. If it gets out, they'll hang me."

"No, they will hang me and my mother for sure. You'll be to blame."

"I dream about his face."

"I do, too. And I kill him every night. I wish I'd shot him."