Dinaw Mengestu - All Our Names

Those two poor boys looked only at each other. I thought neither of them was going to confess, and I prayed for their sake they wouldn’t, but the taller and probably elder of the pair eventually stepped forward. Isaac pulled a pistol from his belt and shot the boy who had stepped forward once in the head, and then, a few seconds later, after he had time to look honestly at what he had done, the other. I knew then what all that violence had done to him. Life was trivial, and here he was trying to prove it.

He turned so I could see him holding the pistol near his face; it was the same one he had had when we were in the capital. At least twice he had weighed using it, once in the slum in case we were caught, and then at the house after he had beaten me. I felt grateful to him, while the right leg of the second boy he had shot twitched with the last spasm of life a few feet away from me.

Isaac ordered the bodies to be laid out on the main road—“so,” he said, “the people know we are here to defend them.”

I never imagined there was so much blood in the human head. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching it dry in the sun, reminding myself that I wasn’t the one who had killed them.

That evening, Joseph held a party in the courtyard of the Life Hotel. He spent lavishly for the town in the hours before the party. He summoned everyone to the hotel who had given to the liberation and paid them in cash for what they had lost. He sat in the center of the hotel courtyard in what must have been the only plush chair in the village while a line of women and men stood waiting with their hands out. Once paid, everyone bowed. The man whose chickens had been killed and house burned was paid twice their value. By nightfall, half of the village was either in the courtyard or standing outside begging to be let in. Every half-hour, the crowd chanted, “Mabira, Mabira,” just as they had when we first arrived. I expected to see Joseph playing to the crowd, but once the last person had been paid off, he spent the rest of the evening huddled in a corner with his bodyguards and colonels. It was only after they left the courtyard that Isaac came to talk to me. He had spent the past several hours standing near Joseph, drinking a clear bathroom-brewed liquor out of a glass jar. He was drunk, but not to the degree he wanted to be.

He squeezed my face with his free hand and examined my left and right eyes; both were still bruised but no longer swollen.

“You heal quickly,” he said.

“I’m tougher than you think,” I told him.

“That’s probably true. I doubt I even hurt you.”

“I hardly felt a thing,” I said.

He had a pair of gold tassels hanging from his shoulders. I reached out to touch them.

“So you’re a big man now.”

“Yes. And so are half the men here. We were given promotions tonight. We’ve been saluting each other all evening. You want to be an officer?”

He pulled the pistol from his belt.

“You see that man over there with a mustache.”

He pointed his gun in the direction of a heavyset military man with several rows of medals and buttons pinned to his chest.

“Shoot him,” Isaac said, “and I’ll make you a lieutenant.”

As we stood there looking at him, four men led him away. He was smiling and holding a beer in his hand when he stood up, but then he seemed to understand he wasn’t coming back to join the party. I expected him to fight; he was clearly a powerful man, well built, with a large head buffered on both sides by bulldogtype jowls, but he had been in the military long enough to understand the futility and extra pain of doing so. He was led out of the hotel. That was just the beginning, however. Every ten minutes for the next hour, another man of rank was escorted out. After the sixth one, I asked Isaac if he could tell me what they had done.

He shrugged his shoulders. The alcohol had finally taken its toll.

“Then why take them?”

“They’ve been with the army too long. Certain people are convinced they can’t be trusted.”

After the seventh was taken away, he excused himself.

“I’m sorry. I have to go,” he said.

He left the hotel with his two guards. He tried hard to walk straight but failed, which was fine — he didn’t have far to go. Shortly after he left the courtyard, seven shots were fired. There was a brief silence across the hotel; it lasted for less than a minute after the last shot. Then the party really picked up. More beer and liquor were brought in. The soldiers drank and sang. Nine men had died; it finally felt like a real war had begun.

I checked my watch when I reached Isaac’s apartment; two hours had passed since I’d left. I didn’t bother to knock or ring the doorbell. I let myself in. As soon as I entered, I noticed what a poor job he had done of cleaning the dining area the night before. My crumpled napkin, which had fallen onto my chair, was still there. There were bits of food on the edges of the table where Henry had sat, and a dark-orange spot on the white-tiled floor. I made a quick tour of the kitchen. The garbage can was nearly full with the scraps from last night’s dinner, and inside the refrigerator, sitting alone on a plate in the center of the middle rack, was the rest of the chicken. One plate, two glasses, and a fork sat unwashed in the sink. I smiled; in my rush to leave that morning, I had missed them. It wasn’t as large a mess as I had once hoped for, but it was close enough to count as proof of life — this time not just Isaac’s, but ours together. I promised myself that before the end of the day I would call David and tell him I was wrong: “We’re not fucked, at least not completely,” I would say.

Isaac came out from the bedroom while I was making my study of the refrigerator. I heard his footsteps stop behind me, but chose to ignore him.

“You came back for the chicken,” he said.

I laughed, but not too loudly. I straightened my face, closed the door, and pressed my back against it.

“It’s Saturday,” I said. I felt excited saying this. It was a beautiful morning, warm but not hot, the living room full of sunlight.

I had felt restless and scared since waking up, and now I had a vague idea of how to respond. “I think we should take a trip.”

He folded his arms, leaned against the wall, crossed his legs, and even pursed his lips.

“I thought you had to work.”

“I was wrong. I made a mistake.”

I waited him for him to state what was obvious. I was lying. I had run out on him that morning in a way that had felt final to both of us, but he seemed willing to act as if none of that mattered anymore.

“Chicago. I’ve always wanted to go. It’s the capital of the Midwest.”

“I never got closer than the airport.”

“Now is our chance,” I said.

We disagreed on whether we should leave right away. As Isaac made his argument for later, I made a mental list of everything I wanted to do before leaving. When he finished, I said, “We can stop and rest along the way, but it’s important we go now.”

He didn’t disagree. He asked: “Is that what you really want?”

“It is.”

I told him to pack as much as he could, and not to leave behind anything that was important.

While he packed, I showered. When I finished, I saw his toothbrush on the sink and put it in my mouth. I yelled from the bathroom, “I’m using your toothbrush.”

It felt more intimate than sex — a seemingly minor thing that any normal couple would have shared by now. But when I looked at myself in the mirror, I could see all the reasons why I had never done so staring back at me.

When I came back to the bedroom, Isaac had laid out on the bed the one suit he owned, the one he had been wearing at the airport. On the floor was the same suitcase he had been carrying. I was surprised at how little he still had, and then I understood that the suitcase had been empty when he arrived: all the clothes inside it now, he had bought with me. The only original item was the notebook that sat on top.