------------------------------------- [u][b]Mid August: Addis Ababa[/b][/u] ------------------------------------- "Yared is playing the krar, Marc is playing the cornet, Zuber is playing the drums. I am Ab and I have a piano. Tonight we play for you jazz!" Leyla was bombarded by things new to her. The music filled the room all at once like a gunshot. It was upbeat and wild, exotic to the point of being sinister. The earthy scent of stone mixed with the smells of alcohol and body odor. The music was loud, so much she couldn't hold a train of thought. People moved onto the polished floor. Though this place was hidden, there was not much illegal about it. There was certainly nothing against the law about serving liquor in a country where every soldier carried a beaker of bright yellow [i]tej[/i] with him on campaign. And what could be wrong with music, even something as strange as this? It was the dancing that worried her. Men grabbed hold of women and whirled them around, touching their bodies with obscene familiarity, swinging them between their legs, holding them close. They were breaking profanity laws. She was dreadfully certain of that. Chemeda Magana led her to the dance floor, her dress brushing against the stone. And what was she to do? She followed. It was what everyone in the room was doing. Was it wrong? A public display like this, it seemed like it should be wrong. It had to be. She felt naked on the dance floor in front of everyone. He showed her how to dance like them, and she followed the best she could. She felt like everyone was watching, judging her, the whore of babylon. But they couldn't be watching. They were doing the same thing. How funny that was. How unaccountable. She liked Chemeda. Her feelings were mixed. He was handsome in his crisp brown dress uniform, a thin mustache on his lips. She'd avoided him in public, not wanting to be lead into marriage. Her senses wanted him, but her mind didn't. The music bounced. It was like the folksy string music played in coffee houses across the country, if that sound was given a soul and brought to life. He swung her. She felt her muscles strain as she danced faster with her handsome young officer. She could feel his strength. She wanted that. But. She couldn't. She knew she couldn't. Could she be a woman [i]and[/i] a man? Had her friends have been right about this? Was a career a good idea? A female [i]Shotel[/i]? The people in that snug jazz club did not look like criminals. They looked much like her and Chemeda. Half of the men wore officer's uniforms. Others wore western clothing. The women all looked beautiful, their hair wide and natural like hers, their dresses modest enough. This couldn't be wrong. It was exotic, exciting, a whole other world from the dusty streets outside where trucks shared the road with donkeys. That didn't mean it was wrong. "This is fine!" Chemeda shouted to her over the swaggering music. It was half a statement, half a question. She smiled, feeling dumb, overstimulated, uncertain what to say. The room smelled like sweat, but in a good way. There were no lyrics to the music, except for the occasional wordless shout from the musicians, which seemed unplanned, like they were letting out pent up energy building in them as they played. This was different than the world she knew. She felt free. Wasn't that what she wanted after all? When the dancing was done, her limbs felt tired but invigorated. She followed him to the bar. Chemeda leaned smartly against the wooden counter and looked at the tender like he was a subordinate. He appeared in total control, and she felt as if she wanted to become part of him, to experience that power of control through him. "Two gin rickeys" "Okay." the tender said, falling to his work behind the bar. "I'm not sure if I want to drink." Leyla said. Hadn't she learned enough about the world tonight? She felt like such a child. "You should try it. This is the new life, Leyla. Enjoy it." She said nothing. Two men and a woman came up to the bar right beside her. They seemed more at home. There was none of her anxiety in the woman's eyes. Her dress was not as modest as most, coming to a stop at her knees, and she looked at the men like she was one of their own. "Three Djiboutis" one of the men said. Leyla wondered what was in that concoction. Would she be asked to try one too? Chemeda didn't try to make conversation. He stood, almost posing, looking important. "I want to go to Djibouti." the woman said. Leyla had her back turned to them now, but kept listening. "Djibouti stinks." "I still want to go. I've heard you can have fun there." Leyla knew Djibouti's reputation. It was a den for sailors, a place pirates could live in ease if they paid off the right people. A nest of thugs and vermin. A man she'd worked with in the propaganda office was an admirer of American detective novels, and when he excitedly explained the plot of one of them to Leyla, he'd added "Of course, if Sam Bennett took a job in Djibouti, he'd be dead in the first chapter." Such was the reputation of that place. "I can have fun right here. Look. If the Emperor can have fun here, so can I." "But you don't have a whore like the Emperor's [i]ferengi[/i]." the third man added. All three chuckled to each other, as if it was an in-joke only they knew. Leyla felt uncomfortable hearing these words. Talking about the Emperor in this manner just wasn't done. It wasn't illegal per see, but it just wasn't something people did, in the same way they didn't shit in a coffee house or blaspheme the lord. Of course, it happened, but... it wasn't done. She'd read the [i]Kebre Negast[/i] in school. The Emperors were a root reaching down through the past into the holy days of Israel. She wasn't sure she believed the stories in that book, not really, but the office of Emperor still felt sacred. She looked at the picture of the Emperor hanging up above the bar. He was a handsome man, a lively face, maybe a little gangling for an Amharic. He was just a man. But a man with whores? Well, she knew the stories about him. But should he be thought of so commonly? "Here." Chemeda shoved a glass in her hand. It felt cold, and there was a slice of lime floating on top. She took a sip. The alcohol stung her senses. She thought she tasted tree mixed in with the sour citrus. "It is good, isn't it?" "Yes." she lied. "We serve our country, we should have the good life." Chemeda said, "I will command men, and you can protect the capital with that trigger finger of yours." "Maybe I will be in the field with your men." Chemeda's eyebrows arched wide, like he was watching an opponent strike an unexpected blow and was impressed by it. "Well, all things are possible" he said once he regained his balance. He raised his glass. "To the new world!" There was a pause. "Now you touch your glass to mine." he said. She blushed, feeling like she should have known that, and she did as he asked. He ordered more drinks, but she only accepted the one. He talked about the army. About himself mostly. Like so many young officers, he expected his career to take him to the pinnacles of society. Leyla's mind wandered. She had an interview tomorrow. She was to be assigned to a [i]Shotel[/i] field agent for training. When she thought about it, she felt overwhelmingly intimidated, like she was looking over the edge of an immeasurable precipice knowing full well she had to leap. "I believe the Emperor will take us to war with Egypt." Chemeda rambled, his voice slowing down and speeding up as if he no longer had control of it. "That is our ancient foe., but they aren't strong. We can conquer all the way to Jerusalem. I believe we can do this because Armenia will aid us. Did you know the Master of Drills is Armenian? They are good soldiers. We will fight with them to Jerusalem, if they join us it will be an easy thing." Would she like the agent she was assigned to? Would he like her? Were there other women in the [i]Shotel[/i]? Other agents? She hadn't heard of them, but perhaps they were secret. She hoped for another woman, but it seemed unreasonable to hope. "A war will be good for me. If I become a general... well, that would be a pleasant surprise. But if I become a General, I want to be made a General on the Temple Mount. I hope the [i]Meridazmach[/i] is there. And [i]Ras[/i] Hassan. And Mikael Serovian. I read his biography. I want to meet him. These are big dreams, I know, but they are my dreams. I'm sure you dream about being a great [i]Shotel[/i]." "Wouldn't Aden be the next target, if there is a war?" she asked. Chemeda looked stunned. He answered slowly, as if he had to pull his shattered thoughts back together. "Well, that would be for the navy. They don't need the army to hunt pirates." "Oh, that is true." "To our dreams!" Chemeda, recomposed, brought up his glass. Leyla met it with an untouched cocktail, but she did not bring it to her lips. It was dark when they climbed out of the downtown basement and into an ally. The walls here were painted. On one side was a simplistic, almost cave-drawing like depiction of white and black men in military khakis stabbing black children with sharpened crosses. On the other side was an equally simplistic depiction of Hou Sai Tang, the subject obvious only because the artist had captioned it, using sunny yellow paint for his skin. He had two eyes and a thin nose, but no mouth. They exited onto the street, beneath a canopy of tangled electrical wires that buzzed and crackled in a pattern that sounded like breathing. Addis Ababa seemed alive at night. All across Africa entire villages were already asleep. This was true of most neighborhoods in the capital too. But here there were still some trucks and people on the street. Electric lights further illuminated the blue moonlit night. They caught a cycle rickshaw back to base. There she would drop off Chemeda. The city went by slowly. "You don't have to go home." Chemeda said. "What are you asking?" she turned to him, staring at him real hard this time, hoping her eyes would stop this conversation before it started. "I'm only saying. Well. You are a modern woman. And I am a modern man. We do not want to get married, not now, am I right?" She kept looking at him. He drew himself up like an officer in the trenches preparing himself to lead his men over the top. He continued. "Well, we are not getting married, but I am not a priest, and you are not a nun. There are things men and women are supposed to do." "I cannot hear this." she said. She wanted to hear this. What she dreaded was facing the temptation. "We will face dangers. We may not live." She took a deep breath, hoping to sound exasperated. Instead she heard her breath shake. Had he heard that too? "It is true. You should not feel ashamed." "I am not your whore of babylon, Chemeda." she said. "We can be married one day. But we must put it off because of our careers. Why should we punish ourselves for serving our country?" "I don't want to hear another word." she bit her lip. They were coming up to the statue of Mikael of Wollo mounted proudly in his roundabout. She only had to stay strong a moment longer. "Look at me, Leyla." he said. She looked. His eyes broke through her, and she felt like he could see her thoughts. It made her feel vulnerable, but it was seductively intimate, and she felt herself melting into his power. He continued. "You and I will see great things. And we will see bad things. We deserve to know the happiness of a man and a woman before that happens. You deserve it. Come with me. I want to see all of you." She felt her body pushing her up. This was it. She'd almost made the decision to go. But her conscious required one last defense. "Chemeda, we have been happy tonight, and we have known each other like a man and a woman. Don't ruin it with this unseemly thing. Go to bed." There was a silence. She wanted him to make one final argument, one that would win her over. Her heart pounded in the suspense. They came to a stop. He looked at her, looked down at the seat, and continued the unfair tension. "Okay." he said. He stepped out of the cycle rickshaw and walked silently into the blue night. She watched him pass the gate, and when he was gone, she sunk into her seat and told the cyclist the address to her home. -- She woke up early, before the sun was up. She wasn't really sure if she'd gone to sleep. The night before, and the morning yet to come, tugged at her and stretched her out so she felt more tired in the morning than she had when she came home the night before. She washed herself and put on her brown khaki uniform with its long cotton skirt. A crossed sword badge adorned her breast pocket. Her father wasn't yet awake when she left the house. The sun was still not up. There were no shadows, but it seemed like the whole earth was under a great big shadow, only the morning star visible in the new light. She walked through her neighborhood alone. When she reached a main road, she passed a shabby police booth. The uniformed officer inside was asleep on his stool. There were few cars on the road. The smell of brewing coffee wafted from nearby corner coffee houses. She felt sick to her stomach, and passed them by as if they were garbage heaps. It was several blocks before she found transportation, reaching a bus stop where a half dozen people waited to go downtown. The number doubled before the bus arrived. It was barely large enough to fit everybody waiting, and Leyla watched it ominously as it approached. When it stopped, its shocks made a snapping sound, but the driver didn't seem fazed. The door opened and a thin layer of smoke came out. They climbed on. It smelled of frankincense, emanating from burning resin in a clay pot embedded on the dash. Room was spare, and they shared the corners of seats, stifled in each other's body heats. She felt lonely in this place. People eyed her, and she read menace in their expressions. Downtown lay beneath the gentle rise where the Emperor's palace stood. It sat in the luxurious shade of a eucalyptus grove. Her mind went to the conversation she overheard the night before, and then to the rest of the night with Chemeda. She sighed and crossed her legs. What was the Emperor like? How would he compare to a rogue like Chemeda? The Shotel Headquarters was a three story Italian-style building resting beneath the Imperial hill. It looked more like an embassy than a military structure. The bus stopped and she was let off along with two others who ignored her. She walked across the Headquarter's pampered grounds feeling like an imposter. It smelled of freshly cut grass. She entered the open doors, and was met by an ink-black man in the male version of her uniform. "You don't look familiar. What are you here for?" "You know everybody in here?" she asked, attempting a smile. "Yes. Who are you?" "Agent Leyla Masri. I was sent here from the Propaganda office." The black man flipped through notes on a clipboard. He didn't look up. "Second floor, north wing. Captain Telehun Gelagel." "How do I get there?" "The stairs." he pointed. She nodded and continued. The staircase was marble. Her shoes clapped loudly against the stairs. There were more people on the second floor, none of them looking at her. Apparently she'd already made it past the guard. She went down the north wing as instructed, but she felt more lost than before. The hall was wide and full of desks. The banks of desks were divided only by shelves, creating makeshift departments. Most of the people behind the desks were men, but there were a few women too, making her feel an unaccounted mixture of pride and disappointment. "You are Leyla Masri." a man said somewhere to her right. She jumped and looked at him. He was a foot taller and a decade older than her, clean shaven, his hair short. He smiled with only one side of his mouth, but with both of his eyes. "Who are you?" "Come with me." he said. She followed as he lead her to an office in the corner. The door was open. Her guide barged in. "I found your girl." the man said just as she entered. "Who. Ah." an older man stood up. He had a closely cropped beard and a hairline receded to the middle of his scalp. "You are Leyla." "Reporting for duty." "Good. I am Telehun Gelagel. This is Elias Zelalem. He's one of my best." "[i]Ato[/i] Telehun, [i]Ato[/i] Elias, I am happy to be working with you." she said. She felt awkward. How must she look? She was making it up as she went, not feeling in control. "[i]Woizerit[/i] Leyla." Elias smiled. He turned to his boss. "I have explained my reservations about your assignment, but I am told you have skills. Do you think you can translate good aim into field work? There are more skills for you to learn than just that." "I am ready." she said sincerely. "Is there training? I need to know what happens next." "How do you train for the real world?" Elias asked, "And that's not a rhetorical question." "What do you mean?" she asked. "You train for the real world by being in it. You can't prepare for it. Not even in your head. The best you can do is just, do it. And that's what happens next." "An assignment?" it was all coming at her at once. "Yes." Elias looked back to the man behind the desk. "You want to tell her, boss?" "Well, [i]Woizerit[/i] Leyla." the Captain said, smiling warmly, "You are going to be stationed in Djibouti. Elias knows the mission. Learn from him." "Djibouti?" she said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. "She's going to need a gun." Elias added, the corner of his mouth perked up.