CHAPTER 18

AT THE END OF June, the rains began, but nothing had prepared Ceseli for their intensity. In the early morning, when she arrived at the palace, the sky was penetratingly clear and blue. Looking out the window, she could see the Entoto hills above, the gorges below.

Around midday, the clouds would start forming into gigantic thunderheads, followed two hours later by lightning, thunderbolts and torrential rain in such force that Ceseli could barely see the huge circular fountain just below her window. There was no reason now to water the roses and the fountain actually worked. Each day when the rain stopped, there was often a splendid sunset, with a rainbow its colors so strong that one might think of a huge prism used by a favoring god.

Marco is certainly right about the pace of life in Addis, she thought. After work, there was almost nothing to do except use one’s initiative. Reading, of course, was number one and thankfully there were lots of books in the library. She played the piano, despite its imperfect tuning and also spent some evenings cataloguing her photos and making notes in her bible. Jigsaw puzzles were started, but rarely finished because Hilina often moved the pieces around so that she could dust.

On the Fourth of July, Rutherford gave a barbeque inviting all the Americans in Addis as well as the members of the British Embassy, two Canadians and Marco, who telephoned from the hospital to ask if he could bring Zeri.

They dug an open pit in the garden near the Eucalyptus trees where they could roast a whole steer. There were several long tables set up with blue, red, and white bunting draped from them. They were laden with homegrown watermelons, pickles, chocolate cake, and potato salad. The smell of the roasting flesh and the smoke as the fat dripped into the pit was almost nauseous, but the meat was very good indeed. They also served corn on the cob grown from seeds imported from the U.S.

“Guess who?”

Ceseli was helping to serve potato salad, when someone covered her eyes from behind.

“You’re not supposed to speak, or you give yourself away,” she admonished.

“Just wanted to tell you I’m here,” Marco smiled, taking some of the potato salad. “Um, this is delicious. You made this; confess!”

“I gave our chef the recipe. It’s about the only thing I can cook. Except French toast. That’s a warning.”

“Warning received. What’s French toast?”

“Bread soaked in beaten eggs and sautéed in a skillet. It was my father’s favorite breakfast. Oh, I forgot you smear on jam or maple syrup.”

“Maple syrup?”

“The sap from Maple trees. It’s very sweet. I don’t know if Maples grow in Italy, but in late winter the sap is collected. Maybe we should ask Zeri to do an article on the sap from Eucalyptus trees,” she joked. “I mean, if there is sap.”

“You don’t seem to like him, but he’s a very decent chap.”

“I’m glad.”

Ceseli saw Warren Rutherford not far away and waved for him to come to her. “Warren, I want to introduce you to Marco Antinori. He’s a doctor at the Italian hospital.”

“Very glad to meet you Doctor Antinori. I’m happy you could join us,” the minister said shaking hands. “The Fourth of July is the day we celebrate our independence, but Ceseli has probably told you that.”

“No, actually she hasn’t, but she has said that you are her godfather.”

“And her Uncle Warren, although we have dropped the uncle part of that,” he smiled hugging Ceseli warmly. “Now let me greet the other guests,” he said, walking off to join the British ambassador.

The harmonica music from Ol’ Man River interrupted them. His harmonica playing made him an instant success. His name was Bill and he was a Negro from Kansas. “If one name is good enough for the Ethiopians, it’s plenty good enough for me,” he joked.

Ceseli had met him at the palace to which he delivered six chocolate brown Kansas mules and one pure white one. They were the gifts of the Negro community in Harlem and meant to show solidarity with the emperor. Bill’s knowledge of mule breeding could make him a wealthy man, he explained. He liked the place and was determined to stay on.

She liked Bill immediately. He was a very big man, with a jovial smile and a kindly way with his mules, but she couldn’t help wondering, if something more modern would not be more efficient on a battlefield.

Marco and Zeri were captivated by the way he played his harmonica. “You’re amazingly good. Where’d you learn?” Zeri asked him.

“Doin’ is all. Just listnin’ and tryin’ to imitate. You play?”

“Not very well. But mine is quite different. It has ten holes above and ten below.”

“I’ve seen a lot of those. Mine is not so elaborate.”

“But you’re a genius playing it.”

“Just passion,” Bill laughed as he put the harmonica back in his mouth.

“I didn’t know you could play,” Marco asked of Zeri.

“Experimenting. Something to keep me busy. Trying to write a little music. My mother plays the piano and she gave me lessons. I liked the guitar better, but it’s too big to carry around. The harmonica can be a lot of fun. And our friend here sure knows how to play. I’m still at the very beginning.”

“Well, keep up the practice. You can’t get any worse.”

“No. You’re right. I can’t get worse.” Zeri smiled.