CHAPTER 4

“NOT SO BAD,” MARCO said, stretching and pulling the window down.

“But I’m glad it was the express.”

“Now you can understand why I had to catch this train. I’ll pass our bags out through the window,” he said, as the train lurched to a final stop.

“You seem to like windows much better than doors,” Ceseli laughed and climbed down off the train. Once outside the window, she had her satchel in her arms and steadied it, but as she drew it down to her she realized it was being taken out of her hands. She turned almost tripping over a slender young man standing on the platform next to her.

“Welcome to Addis, Miss Larson. I’m Standish Forsythe. I work with Minister Rutherford. He sent me to fetch you. Is this all the luggage?”

“No. There’s also a steamer trunk, I’m afraid.”

In the meantime, Marco had come up beside her with his black medical bag. “This is Dr. Marco Antinori. He’s a doctor at the Italian hospital. And--”

“Standish Forsythe,” Standish answered. “Do you need a ride into town, Doctor?”

“No, someone from the hospital will be here. They meet every train. Ceseli, nice meeting you. Please, drop by the hospital and let me look at that head.”

“I’m fine, I’m sure, and again thank you,” she said, watching him turn and walk away. A feeling of loneliness came over her. He had seemed like a protector, like her father, and now he, too, was leaving.

“Thank you for your help,” she said, turning back to Mr. Forsythe.

“What’s this about your head?”

“We had a rendezvous with some bandits and I fell badly. Dr. Antinori thought I might have a concussion. It was extremely exciting. Bandits and trussed up animals to stop the train. Thankfully there were a lot of guards and they beat them off.”

“It happens a lot. You’re lucky it was the express. When I came for the emperor’s coronation in 1930, the ride took three days. We didn’t travel at night because of the bandits. We stayed in rather primitive hotels and ate cold Greek food, but I got here,” he smiled.

“I’m glad things have improved.”

He was of medium height, she saw with a shock of light brown unruly hair slicked back from his forehead. The sun was glinting so against his steel-rimmed granny glasses that she had difficulty seeing the hazel color of his eyes. He wore a light blue shirt that was peeking out from under a safari jacket.

The same first class travelers she had seen in Djibouti were now climbing down from the train and jostling each other on the narrow platform anxious to enter the small station and to exit on the other side.

As Ceseli looked into the crowd of passengers, she saw Yifru approaching and to her surprise, Standish and Yifru hugged each other, Russian style, like two upright grizzly bears.

“Welcome back. I didn’t know you’d be on this train,” Standish said, still holding both his hands. “We missed you.”

“I got finished earlier than planned and managed to catch the express. Hello again, Miss Larson,” he said, turning to her. “Standish’s father was my professor at Columbia. You’ll need to see the emperor about that trip to Axum. Drop by and see me when you come to the palace. By the way, how’s the head?”

“Just a little sore. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. We can’t have our archaeologist laid up before she even gets started. See you soon, Standish,” he said, walking out of the station.

Standish reached for her satchel. “Thanks, but they’re my cameras. I’m used to carrying them.”

The smell of disinfectant was overpowering reminding her of the new smell of Africa. She followed him into the station, and as soon as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the bales of hides and skins, stacks of coffee bags, and piles of elephant tusks that were ready for the return trip to Djibouti. They would be replaced by the incoming bales of imported American bleached cotton ready to be sewn into the traditional white shamma, the toga like clothing all Ethiopians have worn since the period of the Kingdom of Axum.

Off to one side, workers were unloading the six piano crates straining with the weight, their bodies glistening with sweat as the crates were transferred up onto a heavy duty open truck ready to be pulled by a team of four oxen.

Outside, in the brilliant sunshine in front of the station she looked up at a magnificent gilded statue of a lion with its Ethiopian scepter and sword.

“What’s that?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s the Lion of Judah. One of Haile Sellassie’s many titles. The statue was a gift to the emperor from the railroad company in honor of his coronation. The scepter and sword are his heraldic signs.”

A long string of brown plateau camels tied neck-to-tail were sleeping contemptuously on their flat feet to the left of the station. They seemed to pay no heed as their handlers piled cotton goods, coffee, and clanking tin ware on their pack saddles. As Ceseli slithered through to get past, one brayed and spat in protest against its handler. She brushed the swab of spit off her arm and wondered if it brought good luck like pigeon shit in Venice.

“Where are we going?” she asked, hurrying to keep up with him.

“Directly to the United States Legation where Minister Rutherford is waiting for you. An urgent telegram came in and he had to stay behind to answer it.” Standish helped her into the old, but well maintained, black Ford model A. After several grunts and hissing noises, the engine finally came alive and he drove up the hill away from the station.

“This is the main street,” he said, “and one of only a few tarred ones. There’s another road that leads up to the palace. Next door is the police station, and that’s the Hotel De France over there,” pointing to indicate the hotel. “Add to that a coffee house, a butcher shop, and a bazaar and that covers the downtown. There are three hospitals, a school named for the emperor, and an Italian one run by missionaries. If you like to walk, it takes one and a half hours to walk across the city from the American mission to the British compound. If you want to get there in half the time you can ride a mule, or take our car for that matter.”

As far as she could see, the city was hidden in a forest of Eucalyptus trees peeking out from every building and along the sides of every street and pathway. It was an enormous network of green through which one could see the thatched roofs of the round mud-and-manure native huts known as tukuls. Other than the blanket of the Eucalyptus trees were the snowflakes of the bleached white shammas togas the people wore.

The Ford was the only car on the road, but lots of people were walking or riding on donkeys and mules with their leather saddles and trimmings. There was a heavy smell from the pack animals that jostled against the car and she felt thankful that she was looking out over the heads of the donkeys and was not right in their midst. Standish honked hard at a stray mule that had come up on the roadbed and turned sharply to miss it.

“Where will you be staying?”

“Uncle Warren said he’d take care of that.”

“He’ll give you a choice. Either the legation compound, or the Imperial Hotel, which is there on your right.”

“The Imperial Hotel? That sounds very grand,” she said as the car slowly passed the imposing Swiss chalet style dark green building, with its delicate white latticework balconies.

“Names can be deceiving!”

“What do you suggest?”

“Our little acre of the U.S. I prefer American cockroaches. At least you know what you’re getting.” She looked across at him, trying to judge how serious he was. “This is it,” he said, turning into a driveway. “It’s not as big or as old as the British, French and Italian compounds, but it’s comfortable. The building belongs to a wealthy ras. A ras is the equivalent of a medieval warlord. The emperor urged him to rent us the villa and the emperor is rarely refused. It’s handy because it’s close to the palace. We even have our own hyenas.”

“Hyenas?”

“They came with the villa. Now they’re used to American garbage.”

She got out of the car and saw the sprawling two story building with an American flag fluttering from its nearby pole. The Legation was white with brick trim and a large front door painted blue. Behind she could see well-kept gardens with a wide lawn leading out to the Eucalyptus woods. A white picket fence boxed in what looked like a vegetable and herb garden. A magnificent purple Bougainvillea vine crawled up one side of the building making a smashing prismatic clash with the yellow and pink roses. Someone loves to garden, she thought looking at a large group of avocado trees. Ceseli remembered how she had once tried to raise avocados by precariously perching the pit sustained by three toothpicks over a glass jar filled with water. It did work, she could guarantee that, but these trees were large enough to bare fruit.

“I’ll lead the way,” Standish said, over his shoulder, walking into the building and then striding down the hall past the faux marble columns and yellow stucco moldings of the entranceway. Lots of indoor plants were in terracotta urns. Through the long French doors she could see the clouds above Mt. Entoto.

“Here we are,” Standish said, opening a door and allowing Ceseli to precede him into the room.

At the far side of the room, Warren Rutherford, the fifty-year-old United States Minister to Ethiopia, turned, smiled, and walked toward her. “Ceseli, my dear. Ceseli, it’s so good to see you,” he said, bear hugging her with real warmth and kissing her on the cheek. “Welcome to Addis.”

“Thank you, Uncle Warren,” she said, looking into his familiar eyes. They seemed darker and more tired than she remembered from his many visits with her father in their New York apartment, but his smile, as always, was engaging. He exuded friendship and authority.

“Ceseli, please accept my condolences again. Hamilton was my best friend. I can hardly believe he’s gone. What a shock that was. I’m so very sorry I couldn’t get back for the service,” he said, beckoning her to a seat in front of his desk. He walked behind it and took a briar pipe from a rack filled with them. “When you write, please express my condolences to your grandparents. And a special word to Sotzy, of course.”

“I will.”

“How was your trip?” he asked, once she and Standish were seated.

“Very long. I came from New York.”

“You haven’t been to Geneva then?”

“I’ll do that after I leave here. I’ve been very busy completing my studies at Penn and planning my dissertation.”

“The obelisks of Axum, right?” Rutherford said, interrupting.

“Yes. It sounded really exotic. And knowing my godfather was here was reassuring. And then . . .” Ceseli paused, her voice trailing off. She looked around for a moment trying to suppress the hot tears, overwhelmed with emotion at actually sitting here in Rutherford’s office in Addis, without her father.

As she looked around to gather her thoughts, she noticed that the room was light and airy, the walls painted a butter yellow with a large bay window looking out onto the garden. On either side of the window were wide bookcases full of what looked like important official publications. The wide mahogany desk was a French style partner’s desk with two chairs on the side where Ceseli and Standish were sitting, and one for him on the other side. Along one wall was a comfortable chintz covered couch with two wing chairs at its sides and a mahogany coffee table. Persian rugs with a blue and gold motif covered the hardwood floors. Along the shorter wall was a huge fireplace with imposing wrought irons with brass decoration and matching fire tools. Displayed on the wide and handsome mantelpiece were Rutherford family photographs in silver frames.

Over the years Ceseli had grown to know Warren Rutherford well. At a certain age she began to wonder how the two men had become such good friends. They were so different in every way. Hamilton had been blond. That’s where I get my hair color, she thought, and was six feet tall and very slender. Warren was dark and solid. While Hamilton loved to play tennis, hike, swim, and ride horses, Warren preferred sitting by the pool and doing the crossword puzzle, or painting, or playing the piano. They had been roommates for seven years in New Haven, Connecticut somehow making a perfect match during their undergraduate and law school days at Yale.

Warren had married extremely well after he fell in love with Marnie Winthrop Barber, the only child of a cereal baron from Chicago. Her handsome dowry meant he could enter the diplomatic community early on. He was a full minister in Ethiopia and after reposting to Washington in a few years would surely acquire a good ambassadorship in a key European capital.

Warren Rutherford was also a good godfather, never once missing her birthday. She and her father had spent a week every summer at Warren’s ancestral oceanfront family compound at Quogue on Long Island in the Hamptons.

Finally, Ceseli regained her composure and continued.

“I won a doctoral fellowship at the American Academy at Rome for next year and I’ve accepted. I thought a lot about whether I should change the subject of my thesis or come here as planned, and decided that would be exactly what my father would expect.”

“Hamilton told me of your plans some time ago. I’m sure we can get you to Axum. You’ll need permission from the emperor, of course.” Rutherford turned to Standish. “I want you to arrange a meeting with Yifru.”

“Actually, sir, Yifru has already met Miss Larson. They were on the same train. We’ll go to see him first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent. Yifru can probably slip you in to see the emperor. As for accommodations, Ceseli,” Rutherford said, turning to her, “most Americans have preferred staying here in the compound. We can give you one of our tukuls.”

“I’d like that very much. I shall enjoy hearing the hyenas.”

“Indeed. The hyenas,” Rutherford laughed. “I’m sorry my Marnie isn’t here. She would love to see you, but Abigail is getting married soon and I guess young ladies like their mother’s help. Unfortunately, this is no time for me to leave so Standish and I will be bacheloring it for a few months. You’ll be most welcome to join us at meals and add a little luster to our existence. We can discuss everything else when you get settled in. At seven?”

“Thank you,” she said.

Standish led the way walking from the main building behind which there were several of the round tukuls on a wide expanse of garden. “I’m right over there,” he said, pointing to another tukul. “Holler if you need anything. The minister is very precise, as you know. I’ll stop by for you a few minutes before seven.”

Ceseli walked into the tukul, put her camera bag on a table and looked around. There was a large window overlooking the garden with mosquito netting neatly tacked around the edges and a double bed with a native blue and white cotton bedspread. A print of St. George and the dragon hung on the white wall. On the simple nightstand were a candleholder, matches and a good supply of candles. A book of the birds of Ethiopia was on the bureau next to a vase of freshly cut white, yellow, and cornstarch blue wild flowers. She would put the photograph of her father next to the book. She stuck her head into the bathroom to find a large zinc tub and shower that looked like something that Tarzan might have used.

Her steamer trunk, she noticed, was already waiting for her. I guess they didn’t think I’d stay at the hotel, Imperial or not, she thought as she walked back to the verandah. There was a small table and two slat-back Adirondack style chairs, which looked locally made and rudimentary, but comfortable.

She sat down in one of them and, resting her head on the chair’s hard wooden frame, thought briefly of the train ride and of Marco. She closed her eyes and remembered the trip with her father to Florence when she was twelve.

“Where are we going, Daddy?”

“We’re going to climb to the top of the belfry.”

The stairs were very steep, the polished marble slick under her feet.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“The whole city is red, Daddy.”

Hamilton Larson hesitated for a minute then smiled.

“You’re absolutely right, my dear. Those are the red tile roofs. And that is the Arno River. Florence was a trading center. They brought wool here from the Cotswolds in England and from Portugal and dyed and spun it into the most expensive fabric in the world. That’s one of the ways they made this city famous. Trade brought a lot of money to Florence during a period of years known as the Renaissance.”

“What’s that, Daddy?”

“It means rebirth. It was a time when a wealthy banking family named the Medici paid artists to make their city the most beautiful one in the world. They lived in a palace over there across the Arno. We’ll go there this afternoon.” He smiled at her affectionately as they studied the city below them.

“I’d like an ice cream, Daddy.”

“Ask for it in Italian, my sweet.”

“Un gelato. Per favore.”

“One gelato coming right up,” he said as they started back down the steep stairway.

A low wu-wu-wu-wu-wuoo startled her. Ceseli looked out to the lawn, but she saw only a huge tortoise. It stopped in its grazing and looked at her with sorrowful almost doe-like eyes. Suddenly, she could hardly control the feeling of anxiety that crept over her. Until now, everything she had done was concentrated on getting here. The long journey from New York, the Italian ship from Naples, and then the drama of the train. Now she was in Addis Ababa. For the first time in her life, she actually felt afraid and alone in a place where she shouldn’t be alone.

From a tree she heard again the wu-wu-wu-wu-wuoo of a mourning dove. Despite all her efforts to hold them back, her eyes filled with tears.