----------------------------------- [u][b]Early September, Beijing[/b][/u] ----------------------------------- Yaqob woke up in a start, some sixth sense ringing in his sleep-addled brain like an alarm bell. He was cold, his skin goose pimpled, the sheets twisted around his naked figure. Something banged against his bookshelf. He looked up. Shun, the maid, was standing there. She was looking, not at him, but in his general direction, like a shy child avoiding eye contact. She... He pulled the sheet around himself. Several impressions muddled together. Offense. Shame. A twisting contrast of discomfort and humor on how this seemed like a situation more for Sahle than him. "I am sorry." she bowed, blushing, looking away. "It's fine." he said. She went back to dusting. He watched her for a second, her thick cotton dress falling around her hips. He hadn't... well, what what Sahle do in this situation? Thinking about made him more uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable. "I need to get dressed." he said matter of factly. Was he losing his voice? "Oh yes." she turned, looked him in the eyes,and bowed. "I am sorry. Sorry." "It's fine." he said. "You are a nice man." She said. An awkward silence hung between them. She bowed again, and retreated. He untwisted from the sheets and sat there for a second. It wasn't cold anymore. He stood up, unfurling from the bed. The room was a messier than he wanted. There were books on the shelf, on his drawers, on his desk. Several sheafs of paper, some written on, lay scattered on multiple surfaces. He grabbed a stack, pretending to find a place for them, reading what he had written. Half-reading. He couldn't help but be distracted. When he was ready and dressed, he went outside, knowing he would find Akale there. Akale was there, drinking his coffee, standing bemused in front of a Chinese official. Yaqob thought the official younger than himself. Almost a child, dressed in a crisp new mandarin suit. He stood up straight, but his eyes were distant, uncertain. "I am Mao Yong, the neighborhood pioneer." he introduced himself with a bow. Akale returned the bow, a friendly smirk on his face. It looked funny, the two tall Ethiopians, Akale in his embroidered robes and Yaqob in his mandarin suit, being addressed by a young man half their height. The pioneer paused for a moment, not looking sure of himself, but he regained his composure. "I will observe this neighborhood, make sure the laws are upheld. You know the laws? They are posted in the party hall." he pointed down the hill, through the trees, at a building hidden well out of sight. "There will be no gambling, or usurious loans, or opening shops without permission of the party. Do not solicit prostitutes, or be party to arranged marriages..." "We will be down to review the law when we have time." Akale said politely. Yong smiled and loosened up all at once. "Yes, very good." he bowed, "I bid you a good day, sirs." "You are doing good work." Yaqob replied. The boy beamed, and scuttled off the porch and toward the front gate. Akale stepped closer to the Prince. "That is the beginning of a career, isn't it?" "Is it?" Yaqob asked sincerely. "Well, there must be a reason for it, besides his mother told him to do it. Who knows, perhaps he will be Chairman of the Communist Party someday." "Chairman Mao." "Yes." Akale said, chuckling. "Well, it does sound silly. But the names of these people usually sound silly. Chairman Hou does rhyme, doesn't it?" Yaqob hadn't thought either sounded silly. "Would you have breakfast with me?" Akale asked. Yaqob smiled and sat down. It was a cool day, a breeze singing through the trees. The porch smelled of coffee, weakly mingled with the sweet smell of the garden. "Is there news from home?" Yaqob asked. "The war hasn't started yet. There's been some fighting, some deaths, but no battles. Hamere Noh Dagna has abandoned Mogadishu, but pretends it is because he has to protect Djibouti from pirates. Everybody knows that he doesn't like your brother." "But nothing has been decided yet?" An Ethiopian servant brought a tray of eggs and rice. Both men ate from it. "Nothing has been decided." Akale confirmed. "But the thing is young. The Chinese haven't asked me about it yet. To them it's just a foreign thing, a crisis maybe. Of course, a war is only a crisis until enough people have got around to dying. Then it becomes a war." Deng Zhong-shan arrived, walking onto the porch like a familiar neighbor. Yaqob hadn't expected him, but he wasn't surprised. The Chinese congressman was showing up a lot lately. "Your majesty." he bowed, "I did not expect you out of bed so early." "I don't believe it's that early, congressman." Yaqob said. He did not blink, or show any feeling. "Well, it is a good morning to sleep in. Now, I hate to be a burden, but where is the toilet?" "A servant will help you." Akale said. "No, I can find it myself, if you would be so kind." Akale gave him directions. Zhong-shan bowed and went inside. Yaqob turned to Akale. "I did not know the congressman was coming." he said blandly. Akale nodded. "Well, he and his friends are very interested in Ethiopia. He's interested in mining, maybe opening a few operations." "How would that work? A communist peoples owning property in a state such as ours?" Akale shrugged. "I don't know much about Marxist economic theory." "Have you read the book I loaned you?" "I haven't had time. I don't know that Marxist economic theory is important to what I do. If it is, the Chinese government will help me with he work." "I feel like it is important, so that you don't mislead these people." Akale started to speak, but the reappearance of a smiling Deng Zhong-shan took their attention. "Mind if..." he motioned to a seat. Yaqob, out of instinct, gave him a slight nod, and watched the squat older man lower himself methodically into his chair. "I forwarded your papers to Addis Ababa." Akale said, looking over at the old man. "I am hoping to get a reply, though under the circumstances..." "May I be the first of my countrymen to offer my sympathies. War is a bitter thing, but a civil war is especially bitter." Zhong-shan said, putting sorrow in his voice, though Yaqob took it as a meaningless nicety. It wasn't even a true nicety. Hou had personally sent a much more heart-felt sympathy letter to Yaqob. Zhong-shan was merely the first of his people to offer his sympathies in person. "We are both a people suffering the plight of war." Akale said. Yaqob lost interest. He watched the birds flitting in the trees. Akale and Zhong-Shan became a background noise, a hum to the tune of the bird's wings. The sun was at its apex when the Chinese congressman said farewell. Yaqob made polite gestures but said nothing. "I will see you at the People's Hall tonight." Zhong-shan said in between bows. Yaqob smiled warmly, but he didn't know what that meant. The People's Hall? He waited until the Congressman was gone before asking Akale. "We have been invited to a friendly dinner, and meeting of Zhong-shan's colleagues." "In a public hall?" "Well, this is a communist country, public halls are in the spirit of things." Akale sat down and looked down at his work. "I believe this is more formal. A meeting of like-minded colleagues." "Oh." Yaqob replied carelessly. He went inside, the grey rooms almost cave-dark before Yaqob's eyes adjusted to the lack of sun. A meeting of men like Zhong-shan did not interest him. He wanted to see the fire of the Chinese Communist movement. The orators of the people, the street-wise prophets in an age of cement and modernity. To hear old men speak of trains instead of revolution seemed... When he entered his room, he saw the maid Shun laying on his bed. She was naked, a sight that stole Yaqob's thoughts. Fear and lust commingled in his heart. She was all there, pale skin, hair covering her nipples, her eyes soft and glistening like drops of cool water. He didn't know what to say. He said nothing. "Come into bed with me." she requested. She didn't sound lusty, or like any girls his brother was known to keep around him. She sounded much the same as she always did. Her voice quavered. She sounded more like she was apologizing. "I shouldn't..." Yaqob let out. He felt like he was on auto-pilot. She pulled herself up. Her hair fell back. Nipples like drops of chocolate. "I have been wanting you for a long time. Please. I will make you feel good." He couldn't lie to himself. He wanted it. All of him wanted it. His restraint was melting. But there were promises he'd made to himself, ideas of the person he needed to be. She spread her legs. He'd seen this once before. He'd restrained himself then, perhaps because the reminder of why he should do so was there with him. But he was so far away. This was a new world. It could be his world. He undressed and joined her. In the moment, to the surprise of his ego, he did not collapse and cease to be. When they were done, the Yaqob that rose out of bed was still him. He had not become his brother. -- "You are an amiable man." Zhong-shan, all smiles, complimented Yaqob. They rode in the congressman's car, down the lit streets of Beijing, the sun setting over the city-scape. Zhong-Shan continued. "I expected a Prince to be a difficult friend to make. The untruth in my assumptions makes me happy." "Thank you, congressman." Yaqob said unblinkingly. In truth, the compliment strummed a wrong note in his heart. "You will find the Financial wing of the Communist party sensible, I think." Zhong-shan said, facing Akale. "All members of the party have their place. The moving rhetoric of the old guard, and the revolutionary wing, is a great thing to take in. But it does little for your purposes. Your war will not stir up great feelings on the left, but its meaning is a nuanced thing to us Financialists. There is a reason I take you to this meeting." "We are honored to participate." Akale said. Yaqob turned the meaning over. Or at least he tried to. Great feelings on the left? If Zhong-shan wasn't left, what was he? He could not make the words for a coherent idea. His mind was muddy. What was the meaning of anything that had happened that day? It was so much easier in books, with the author there to guide you through it. But reality is different. Reality, in the perspective of the human creature, in the moment, is a avant garde thing. Yaqob felt like he was putting together a puzzle through a kaleidoscope. He'd experienced the truest physical pleasure of his life that day with Shun. But there was a part of him, that last scrap of toddler consciousness perhaps, the simplest part, that told him watching the birds had been the sweetest pleasure of the day. It was simple. Honest to God simple. No doubts, no fears. Just his senses and the world. He wanted that feeling to himself, isolated from all the others. But that wasn't an option. They arrived at the Hall of the People's Fervor for the Revolution. It wasn't a large building. In a sense, it looked like a slick pagoda designed by some American modernist. It had a grey, forbidding tone too it. Street lights lit the plaza in front. In the center was a statue. Promethean workers carried a young scholar on their shoulders, the scholar serene and powerful. Yaqob knew the identity of the young scholar by instinct. It was Wen Chu Ming. The Emperors and warlords of the past had built personality cults for themselves. There was certainly a nascent personality cult for Hou in Beijing, but it was an understated thing. The personality of Wen appeared to Yaqob like a communist Jesus, a martyr of revolution. Perhaps that was wise. Hou would age, and weaken, and expose his human weaknesses. The young death of Wen made him something immortal. There was no pomp to the occasion. They were dropped off in the plaza. The sun was nearly gone out of the west, leaving a last pink glow. The air was cool and smelled of wet stone. The Hall of the People's Fervor for the Revolution was a building without an explicitly clear purpose. It was best described as simply... public. It was all stone, but the patterns on the stone mimicked the paneling in wooden temples. Inside smelled sweet, like flowers, but Yaqob couldn't identify where the scent came from. The floor was hard grey stone. The two Africans stood out, and the small numbers of lingering men and women did double takes, or watched them go by. Zhong-shan smiled and greeted like it was him that fascinated them. Their footsteps, and the whispering voices, echoed throughout the cavernous entryway. From that entryway, smaller ways split off. Little rooms branched from those like grapes off a vine. But there was one larger room, one which everything seemed to orbit. It was a kind of court room. They went inside. Yaqob could imagine a cozy opera being held here. The red flag dominated. In the middle of the room was a long table piled with food. Zhong-shan offered to bring his guests a plate. Akale accepted. Yaqob declined. People moved mildly around the room, a sort of polite ant colony. The noise of conversation echoed off the walls and made it sound like they were in a train station. Strangely, Yaqob found the sound soothing. They coalesced into their seats. Zhong-shan brought dumplings for Akale, and an orange for Yaqob. The Chinese congressman stood in front of them like a showman, smiling broad, greeting all comers and introducing them to the Prince and the Ambassador. It was tedious. Yaqob could barely stand it, and made no effort to memorize people. The language barrier made it worse. Yaqob was learning Chinese quickly, but he hadn't mastered the language. Now he was bombarded with a flurry of different accents and voices. Some phrases rose above the others like solid turds in a sewage pond. "I welcome the people of Africa." "These are the men?" "I hope your country knows peace again." It was all simple. All pointless. Niceties for their own sake. Yaqob powered through. He thought of the birds. The meeting was called to order. Zhong-shan reluctantly got back to his seat. A man in the center row stood up and addressed the room. The acoustics were excellent. His voice boomed. "We are here to discuss the modernization of the armament carried by our reserves. This question is coming before congress. We represent the most knowledgeable in our field..." The hall echoed. Yaqob stared across at the old men on the other side. He felt a feeling like bland despair. There was no great depth to the feeling. He was like a man, born on a featureless prairie, coming to terms that all he would ever know was that prairie. This was exactly where he belonged at the moment, but the fact he belonged there rattled his nerves. If heaven was the birds, that simple uninterrupted pleasure, then hell was this feeling, being here in this room, looking across at the old men on the other side and wondering if they had souls. He had to do something. When? What was he supposed to do? This. But... "This is where I come in." Zhong-shan said proudly in an aside to Akale and Yaqob. Several speakers had cycled through their speeches by now. Zhong-shan stood up. "The question of rearmament is inevitable, and the question that it will be paid for is irrelevant. What we should think about is how to weaken the blow. With the great machinery of the people eating into the resources of the country, the most likely way to reimburse our great society is for the outdated armaments to be given a final use! Our new friend in Africa is engaged in war. The Ethiopian state fights with weapons left over from the Great War. They have a need for our old arms, and would repay us. I move we debate and come to an agreement on this. Are there objections to this course of action?" Yaqob listened, not because of any oratorical power of Zhong-shan's, but because the war in his home country disturbed him, and by disturbing him it interested him. "There is an obvious objection." A man across the room stood up, and was quickly recognized by the floor so he could continue. "It is a matter of optics. How will it appear if we support a monarch to crush his enemies? You might call this mutual aid, or a bargain deal. And if we only considered the financial consequences, perhaps it would be a bargain deal. But the people will look on us poorly for this, and the left will use it like a spear to pierce our reputations." "Is reputation the only thing that matters to you?" Zhong-shan replied, his voice confident and accusing as he pointed at his opponent. "What kind of political creature is this? Is this ambition? It cannot be public service!" Akale licked his lips. Yaqob was surprised to see the Ambassador invested in the argument. What were a few old guns? Those words, [i]What kind of political creature is this?[/i], rung in his mind like a eulogy. They did not reach the decision before the end of the meeting. It let out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Whatever Zhong-shan expected had not come to pass. He ordered his driver to bring the Ethiopians back to the embassy while he stayed behind. Perhaps it was the night, the ghostly glow of street lights showing a quiet city like the skeletal corpse of the bustling urban day. Perhaps it was all that had happened, all that had confused him. Whatever it was, Yaqob felt a deep melancholy. He was like child away from his home. When he thought about it, he realized that was exactly what he was, and the melancholy sunk deeper. "He's talking about rearming us completely." Akale said. His eyes were wide and concentrated as if he were reading an especially exciting book. "It would be. That would be the greatest diplomatic victory. We should pursue it." Yaqob said nothing. "Hou. Would Hou accept it? He met you. He likes you I think..." Akale was rambling. Yaqob didn't pay attention. It was one ear and out the other. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and embraced the end of the day like it was his savior.