Dinaw Mengestu - All Our Names

“Yes and no. I didn’t know what he looked like or his name. I wouldn’t have had that fight if I knew he was watching, but it worked out anyway. After you left, he came back. I was on a table in the kitchen. He brought a doctor to see me. He said he liked my courage. He asked what I was doing with myself. I told him I was a student at the university, but he knew I was lying.”

“Why did he care?”

“He didn’t. He just felt sorry for me. I kept going back there, though — whenever I wasn’t on campus I was there. He gave me little jobs to do: I moved boxes around, I cleaned the floor in the kitchen. After a few weeks, he asked me what I thought about what was happening to the country. I knew who his father was: I saw him once before I came to the capital. Everyone in our village loved him. He was supposed to be the first governor of our district, but then, just before the elections, he disappeared. The president said that it was rebels, or maybe even the British who did it. The president put a cousin of his — a colonel — in his place. Joseph was still in London at the time. His father was smart — he kept him there while he was running. I don’t think most people knew he had a son.

“I didn’t tell him that I knew who his father was. I knew I could say anything I wanted to him, though, so I told him the truth. I told him that I thought it was worse now than it had been under the British. He liked that, but he told me I was wrong. ‘It’s better to be killed by your own devil than by someone else’s,’ he said. He gave me a list of names and asked me if I knew who any of those men were. I told him no. He asked me if I was lying. I said I was from a small village; I didn’t know who anyone was. ‘Even better, then,’ he said. ‘Remember to act as if you always believe that. Even when it’s no longer true.’ I started picking up and delivering messages for him. Only at night, or early in the morning. It was normally to one of those men inside the house, although this is the first time I’ve seen them. There was always a guard or a maid who met me at the door.

“I wanted to stay with him all the time, but he told me he needed me on the campus. ‘The students have to know what’s happening,’ he said. ‘They can’t just read about it anymore.’ ”

“And that’s how the protest began?”

“I’m surprised,” Isaac said. “You haven’t recognized any of the old guards.”

“Why should I?”

“Two of them used to work on campus,” he said. “They were the first ones to attack us that Friday. Since you were running, you wouldn’t have had time to look at them.”

“We were all running. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Don’t take it that way,” he said. “You had to run. I wanted to tell you what was happening, but I couldn’t risk it. Joseph spent a lot of time and money finding two guards he could trust. The rest was easy. Once they felt they were being attacked, all the student groups joined in and made their own rally. I barely had anything to do with that. I just had to be there to watch. I was surprised when you showed up.”

“I didn’t know what was happening. I don’t think I would have come if I did.”

“I know. But you stayed. You were loyal. When I heard you were in the hospital, I thought it was the soldiers who did that. The ones outside the gates weren’t going to do anything”—Isaac pointed to the uniformed man standing by the cars—“those were his men. But there were so many others on campus who weren’t with us. I told Joseph you were beaten leaving the campus that night. That’s why he let me bring you here, why he gave me money for the hospital. You can’t tell him it was because you were walking down the street. It’s dangerous for him now. The same for the other men as well.”

“And what about you?”

“It’s hard to say. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. You’re lucky. Right now you have nothing to worry about. No one has any idea who you are.”

I drove my car around the block and parked on the opposite side of the street, half a block away from Isaac’s building. I was prepared to wait there all night. If Isaac left, I would follow him and then surprise him — or surprise him and then follow him. I didn’t know how it would work out. I didn’t have a plan and didn’t want one. If my mother could see me she would have said, “Helen, what are you doing? What’s your plan?”

I believed that my not having a plan was what separated us. Her hair was long and dark brown, almost black. Mine never went past my shoulders; it was lighter, and in the summer almost blond. My mother had thick calves and narrow little feet. My legs were slender, and I hadn’t been able to fit into my mother’s shoes since I was a teenager. I went to college; she was pregnant and married two years out of high school. I sang all the time; the only music I ever heard from her was during the Christmas season, when she hummed the same two songs—“Silent Night” and “White Christmas.” She had small hands, with long, delicate fingers that I imagined could easily break. My palms were large, and so were my fingers — man’s hands, a boy in grade school had called them. The only book I ever saw her read was the Bible; she believed deeply in God. I never cared about him and went to church most Sundays because she wanted me to. She had a round, perfectly oval face that was pretty, not beautiful, when she was young. I had the same face she did when she was my age, but I promised myself that when I got older I wouldn’t let it sag and fill with weight as hers had. She was a profound sleeper. I woke up several times each night. She cried easily. She hated to drive; she kept both hands on the steering wheel and even on empty country roads in the middle of the afternoon, stayed at least five miles below the speed limit. I could spend hours in my car. Her parents’ named her Audrey, after her grandmother. My father named me Helen for reasons he said he couldn’t remember. Those were all only superficial distinctions. She had always been a cautious woman; until now, the same had always been true of me.

Another set of lights came on in Isaac’s apartment. He was walking back and forth across the living room, rubbing his hand over his head. He turned toward the picture window, but from my angle I couldn’t see his face clearly.

I reminded myself that if I were my mother I would have left by now.

I rolled down my window. I wasn’t positive, but it looked as if his mouth was moving. He might have been talking, laughing, or crying. Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t alone.

I leaned the top of my head out of the car so I could see better. There was a shadow on the wall that wasn’t Isaac’s. It was much shorter, rounder, and when seen against the wall, had little or no hair.

I heard my mother’s voice again. This time she was telling me to run, to close my eyes and drive away, but what good would that have done? Had I driven all the way to the coast, east or west, I would still have been sitting on that block, watching the shadows.

I took the key out of the ignition and threw it into the glove compartment. I thought of slashing the tires of my car, unplugging wires from the engine. I didn’t trust myself not to run. After a while I closed my eyes. David was right — this wasn’t the type of neighborhood to do that in. Every time I felt myself drifting off, I looked back up to Isaac’s window. There were small surprises. It looked briefly as if the shadows in the living room weren’t just talking but arguing, with arms raised and fingers pointed. Then, seconds later, everything seemed perfectly calm. For twenty minutes, Isaac sat on the couch and hardly moved while the other shadow sat opposite him. I realized I felt more comfortable when I thought they were fighting.