Now he changed the subject: “You already baked the buns?”
Surprised, she said: “You want some?”
“I’ll try it.”
Fortuna got up and hurried to the back room. Fiqre walked to the window and stared out into the dying August day. He could see the top of his thirdhand Mazda RX2 parked in the compound: silvery, shining, and clean. He caressed his smooth-shaven cheeks with concern and checked his wristwatch.
Fortuna came back stooped over, grunting like an old woman. She held a white ceramic plate with a bun resting on it. “My mother made this for Geleta. She brought thirteen buns in a beautiful blue shema bag.” She gently set the plate on the coffee table, gazing at the buns with love. She sat down on the love seat waiting for her: empty and warm. As soon as she touched the thick cushion, she exhaled deeply. “Where are you going? It is getting dark.”
“I have a date with a friend to finish some business,” he said.
He did not turn to face her, so she could not see the lies written over his face. She had the talent of reading him by looking at the whites of his corneas, the dilation of his pupils, and the tilt of his chin.
“Take care — the world is full of air and envious people. You have to be alive to see your son.”
From their daughter’s bedroom, they could hear the murmur of music.
“Is Gera in bed?”
“Maybe she’s still up.”
“I think she loves Awassa more than Addis Ababa,” he said.
“Sit down, eat your bun, and drink your tea.”
“Yes, yes...” He sat gently on a sofa, facing Fortuna.
“Do you ask about Geleta whenever you meet people?” Her question silently carried the statement, You promised.
“Yes, always.”
It had been a long time since he had asked travelers if they knew of a lost teenager from Tabot Maderia named Geleta. For the first couple of years he did it with fervor, only to quit due to a lack of results.
Fortuna thought that she was spiritually bound to her son. They were wehud. She was happy whenever she had a headache because it meant that he was also having a headache, that he was still alive. If she dreamed of Senait taking a bath or changing her clothes (even if she never saw her going through such rituals), it made her happy knowing that Geleta was dreaming of his lover through her.
“Will you please get me some tea?”
Fiqre’s apathy toward Fortuna’s bitterness allowed him to create clever diversions. The weighty subject was his relationship with another woman, Woede, his wife’s and son’s nemesis. This unethical act was in fact a spiritual and physical compensation that introduced balance in his life. The infidelity was necessary. He felt, however, a hint of guilt toward his son rather than his wife. Woede used to look down on Geleta. She thought he was a brat begotten from the womb of stupid people with a talent for perennial destitution. Geleta’s love for her daughter, Senait, was an embarrassment.
Fiqre needed to manufacture another diversion. He got up from his seat, smiled, and left for the back room to talk to his daughter, Gerawerq.
“Gera! Geryiee!”
A door opened.
“Yes?”
“You know your mother doesn’t like that music! How many times do we have to tell you? Use headphones!”
The door shut with a bang. Fiqre returned to the salon, tight-lipped with shame on his face. On the coffee table was a glass of steaming tea with a thick sediment of sugar at the bottom, like beach sand. He picked up the glass.
“This is my mom’s aja bun. It’s very nice. You’ll like it. She puts holy water in the dough,” Fortuna said softly.
“Oh, this nun!”
“I know you don’t like it, but try some. It won’t kill you.”
“The old woman likes exactly the things I avoid.”
“Why do you say that? Bread is the gift of hope.”
The old woman hated him. He remembered what she’d said immediately after the disappearance of Geleta. She was sitting next to him, resting her old bony bottom on a cushioned chair.
“You see, I was looking around the city from Entoto to Gerji, from Sebeta to Lamberet. There were men, but no fathers there. The men are all fat, lazy, stupid, and, excuse my tongue, lecherous. Their women are all made of dust but polished to shine. In the old days, fathers would go to the ends of the earth to find their children.”
Then the old woman just stared at him, indicating that what she’d said was meant for him. He had wanted to say something disrespectful that would forever lodge itself in her mind like a splinter. He refrained out of respect to Fortuna, though he regretted it now.
“I brought it so that you could taste it and maybe change your mind. Tomorrow, I’ll give all but one to the ‘Hoya Hoye’ kids.” Fortuna stared at the bread and patted it like a cat.
“The cinnamon in the tea is nice,” he said with fake enthusiasm, trying to avoid the subject of grandmothers and Geleta. There was a whisper of rain coming from the roof. “I have to go before the rain gets heavy.”
He put down his unfinished glass of tea and walked to the door. He opened it and the howl of a dog roared in.
“You hear that?” she said. “That must be Samrawiw. Something bad is going to happen. That dog is a prophet.”
“I am standing here at the door while you sit there scared of everything. I am in a better position to know what the sound means.” Fiqre hated that dog. When it howled, it felt like someone in the neighborhood would die.
“I know it’s Samrawiw. Oh, Mariam!” she said tearfully.
“Nothing bad will happen. Even if that is a howl, it is because the dog is in search of a bitch.”
Just then he was stopped by another round of heavy howling that wound down the street, coming from the direction of the old bridge, the quarter of misery and alienation. Fiqre believed Samrawiw to be as normal as any other canine, wailing now and then to open up lungs clogged by winter mud and summer dust. Unconcerned, Fiqre went to his car, listening to the unremitting howl that seemed to be hanging around him like a halo of polluted air. He caressed his car as if it were a lady. The light rain sank quietly into his overcoat. A dim white spotlight on the street, left over from last week’s blackout, quivered on the driveway. The howling stopped.
The door to the house was still open. He saw Fortuna step from the salon into the other room. He considered yelling to her to shut the door but he did not want to be noisy. Fiqre briskly walked back to the door and closed it. Then he opened the gate and drove out of the compound. Pulling away, he heard Fortuna call out to him in a low voice, “Fiqre! The bun! The bun!” as if she were communicating a secret. Already late to his appointment, he didn’t respond.
He found himself on an unusually quiet street. There was an aroma of burning wood, bean sauce, and gasoline fumes in the air. From the direction of Jimma Road, young boys were singing “Hoya Hoye.” He drove on, regretting that he had ignored Fortuna’s imploring call. But before he could convince himself to go back, he arrived at Woede’s.
Woede, et alia
Woede was a tall woman in her fifties, who carried modest weight below her waist. She had thick legs like a football player and tiny, clever eyes. Her strong disposition suggested she could break bones and men. Her cell phone screamed and vibrated across the tablecloth. A text message flashed: Tuesday. This was Fiqre’s code for I’m coming. He would be there in an hour.