A Visit From H.I.M.

Carol Beddo

Our relations to power can become quite real, especially when there is love involved.

Leaning in the shade of the metal warehouse building, I’m one of about ninety villagers who have come to the dirt airstrip to welcome Emperor Haile Selassie to Bahar Dar. We stand still and silent at the sight of the distant plane, an exotic silver insect aloft in Africa’s enormous blue bowl of a sky.

As the plane touches down, women demonstrate enthusiasm with their loud falsetto trill. Men call and humph in deep voices and some clap their hands or rhythmically stamp their doulas, sturdy wooden walking sticks, on the ground, creating a deep syncopated layer of organized sound beneath the women’s continuous, high trill.

Not only am I the only non-Ethiopian in this crowd, I am the tallest, the palest, the only blonde; and I’m the only person who’s not a peasant.

Not one of my fellow teachers is here. The bank president and vice-president are not here. Perhaps the airport director is inside this warehouse that serves as the airport building, but he is not to be seen.

Showing up to greet the emperor is left to the common people.

Two men in khaki roll out a narrow red carpet in the general direction of where the plane will come to rest. The crowd is dressed in their usual traditional best—white, homespun cotton dresses for the women, their heads and shoulders covered with white shawls. The men wear long tunics over jodhpurs, both of white cotton twill, white gauzy shawls draped over their shoulders. I’m wearing an ordinary brown cotton dress my mother made and, while everyone else is barefoot, I’m wearing locally made leather sandals with upturned toes that protect my feet from our stony paths.

So now I will finally see H.I.M. in person, in my village. I am here in Ethiopia only because he requested Peace Corps Volunteers. He wanted fast growth of education in the provinces and, to achieve that, he wanted young, healthy Americans who would be willing to live in distant villages until Ethiopian graduates from the teacher training college could replace us.

The Emperor and I have a connection, a reason he could actually know of me. But will he know me if he sees me?

Guy told me that Haile Selassie knew who I was the night we realized our relationship was changing. Our feelings for each other were intense, even though liking each other was all I ever intended. Guy lives and works in Addis Ababa, a professional person, and I’m in the northern highlands. I did not expect a satisfying relationship.

“There’s something that I need to tell you,” Guy said that night in Addis as we were saying a long farewell in the lobby bar at the Itegue Mennon Hotel. I was due to fly back to Bahar Dar early the next morning. “It shouldn’t make a difference for us, but it is better that I tell you.”

“Hmm, that sounds interesting, but difficult,” I said.

“It is both.”

“O.K. Go ahead. Tell me.”

“Well, you know how in our country all marriages are arranged?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“I know this will sound odd to you, but I must tell you. I hope you will accept what I say. It does not change anything about us. It’s just one more thing I need to work out in my life.”

“O.K.”

“I have been, how should I say? Promised? I am supposed to marry someone.” Guy’s soulful brown eyes, so typical of the handsome Amhara people, white half-moons below the chocolate brown irises, always made me feel warm inside. I continued looking straight into those mournful eyes, calmly listening, waiting. “This is one of the things the Emperor speaks to me about.”

I knew he spoke with the Emperor; I’d been in his Addis Ababa office when he received calls. I had assumed they spoke about Guy’s marketing activities at the tourist organization, and they probably did, too, since it was the Emperor who had placed him there. But they spoke in Amharic, and quickly. There was no way I could understand a word.

Engaged? I was stunned. And His Imperial Majesty was involved?

“Who is it you’re supposed to marry?” An easy, bland question.

“The Emperor and my family betrothed one of his girls, Hirut, to me when we were children.”

“Do you love her?”

Guy laughed long and loud, but his eyes did not look cheerful. “Love is not the point, my darling Carol. We’re betrothed by our families. That’s all. We were betrothed for reasons not having to do with love.”

“And now?”

He laughed again. I was not finding anything funny. I gave him a straight, serious look that he understood to mean he ought to get on with answering my question. “Hirut is living in the north, in Lallibela, and she is in love with an American.” Guy looked at me in a peculiar way, as if I should see the irony. And while I might, I couldn’t stop to enjoy it. “She lives in a more primitive place than you. No running water. No electricity. No industry. I feel sorry for her there. The American is an architect restoring stone churches. Wonderful, don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“Wonderful: Hirut and I are promised to each other and we both are in love with Americans.” Guy slapped his knees. I couldn’t laugh; this was the first time he’d said that he loved me. “My dear Carol, this does not affect us. I don’t want it to. But I wanted you to know—not to hear from someone else.”

“An arranged marriage,” I said.

“Yes.”

“But without a wedding date.”

“That’s right. With our families’ acceptance, we’ve been putting it off for many years. That was easy when I was abroad studying, but now—we don’t know how much longer we can do this.”

“Is this the family problem your father asks you to fix?”

“Only a little part of the problem,” he said. “But, yes, it is one of the things he speaks to me about.”

“Can’t the Emperor just make you do what he wants?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “I mean, he’s the king, right? Don’t kings just get to have things the way they want?”

“The Emperor is not like that. He’s very kind. And patient. Also, he’s very curious about you.”

“About me?” I said, surprise quickly turning to a small panic. Couldn’t Peace Corps find out about this? Wouldn’t they send me home, pronto? “Oh, shit!” We were told in training that we were to be very discreet. As fresh Volunteers, we translated this to mean we could do anything we wanted, as long Peace Corps staff did not hear about it. And now the Emperor himself knows about me. More importantly, he knows about Guy and me.

Today H.I.M. is coming. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip are soon to make a state visit, and H.I.M. will bring them here to Bahar Dar to show off his rural outpost at the source of the Blue Nile. He has an experimental farm on that hillside. H.I.M. is proud of his agricultural successes.

So now I’m standing at the airstrip, to show my respect just as everyone else here intends. In some crazy way it seems to me that if H.I.M. really knows who I am, if he does know I’m stationed in Bahar Dar, he would be insulted if I didn’t appear? So why am I getting nervous and having second thoughts? Because I’m an obstruction to the Emperor’s plans? But I didn’t intend to become an obstruction. I don’t want to feel as vulnerable as I do at this moment. But I won’t avoid this.

The Emperor’s plane touches down, and the mighty roar of the propellers drowns out the women and men who’ve kept up their falsetto trilling and rhythmic thumping. Two men in khaki uniforms roll out the stainless steel stairway. A third man runs to deliver another strip of red carpeting, and they begin unrolling it from the top of the staircase, creating a continuous red walkway down the stairs to the carpet on the ground, which leads into the metal warehouse building, a decidedly inelegant entry to Bahar Dar.

The plane door opens; a hush descends. We wait, breathless. Everyone else must have already known what to expect, because they begin laughing even before I see the little dog, a tiny, brown, fluffy lap dog at the top of the red-carpeted stairs, the smallest dog I’ve seen since I arrived in Africa. He stands at attention, perched on skinny legs on the stairs’ top landing. As if receiving an “at ease” order, he descends the stairs, hopping on all fours onto each stair one at a time. He reaches the bottom of the stairs, turns back to look up at the open door, then sits and obediently waits.

All at once the women begin trilling again, keeping at it until H.I.M. appears. He stands at attention in his military uniform, his billed cap, and a cape with a tall, embroidered collar encircling his neck. Once again we fall into silence as we gaze up at H.I.M., and H.I.M. gazes out at us.

As the Emperor takes his first step, everyone around me bends at the waist into a deep bow, and I know they can no longer see H.I.M. Suddenly I have an odd thought: I’m American and we don’t bow down to monarchs. Or do we?

Still uncertain, I remain upright while H.I.M. descends. As soon as his foot touches ground, everyone around me is no longer merely bowing, they are dropping to the ground on all fours, hands outstretched in front of their heads. H.I.M. and I are the only two standing, and I’m a half-foot taller. Never have I felt so conspicuous.

H.I.M. picks up his dog and tucks him under his left elbow. The dog’s tiny face peers out from the edge of the cape. H.I.M. begins a slow, straight-shouldered, regal walk on the red carpet, head held high, just as in every photo and newsreel. But seeing him in person, I’m struck by how small he is, a perfectly formed, slim, handsome little man. He and his dog are in perfect proportion. Does he know that? Was that his plan?

H.I.M. walks, chin up, eyes straight ahead, cradling his dog, a walking stick in the right hand. He never looks to either side. I’m hoping there’s a chance I might be less noticeable here in the shade, against the wall at the back of the prostrated crowd.

Suddenly he turns his head sideways, in my direction. Oh, my Lord, those melancholy brown eyes of the Amhara people look into mine. Without thinking, I lower my head and break our gaze. I didn’t know until just now, but clearly I’ve absorbed some cultural etiquette; I should not make direct eye contact with someone from a higher station. It just came naturally to bow my head this way, and I’m glad. It feels right.

I raise my head, and he’s still looking me over. He seems to invite eye contact, and I’m astonished by a brief, discreet look of acknowledgment, as well as a hint of a royal nod. I know I will remember those eyes forever, eyes filled with intelligence, sorrowful patience, and compassion. A deep, bountiful compassion in which I’m certain I am included.

Carol Beddo, a PCV in Ethiopia from 1964-65, returned to her Peace Corps station in 2003. Visiting Bahar Dar nearly forty years later flooded her with memories, and she began to wonder: Who was that young woman? Carol is coming to understand how the experience provided the foundation for the rest of her life as a community activist and as a consultant in public policy, political campaigns and elections. Life with her husband of forty-plus years is rich with family, and she’s grateful that her three grandchildren desire a lot of her time.