Chapter 28 Kal
28
KAL
“We’re here, wudé !” Abay announces, taking off his golf cap when we enter the living room, which takes up almost the entirety of the first floor of our three-storey Mediterranean-style villa. For a breath, I think Emay will come sweeping down the steps, adjusting her shawl, her arms open in welcome. I even look up to the top of the grand, winding staircase, expecting to see her stockinged feet in her slippers.
Miz, straggling by herself at the engraved double wooden doors, looks jarred and a little bit frightened. “Who is he calling beloved ?” she says to me, real low.
“It’s okay, still Emay,” I whisper to her. I’ve warned her about my father talking to, and about, my mother as if she is still present in body. But this is Miz’s first time around Abay since my mother’s death, so it will take her time to acclimatize. Even I have moments where I feel like a stranger to my father’s mental space.
“Just say hi,” I say softly, lowering my lips to Miz’s ear and guiding her in.
She widens her eyes at me like Seriously? I shrug apologetically. “To…?” she hisses.
I point out the large, framed studio portrait of my parents. Miz puts on a brave smile as she comes along. “Hi!” she says to the picture cheerfully but not before giving me a painfully sweet pinch on my arm. But Abay looks pleased, and that’s what matters most.
From then on, it’s normal goings. Over the next half hour, everyone from the airport slowly trickles into our living room, and we feast, buffet style, on the spread of fasting foods that Zebiba, our long-time cook, has put together. Though Muslim herself, she refuses to prepare anything with dairy or meats during the Christian fasting season, so the table is filled with standard veggie platter fare, all the greens, beans, beets and seeds—gomen, misir, shiro, kik, keysir and duba wot, shimbira asa and her famous souf—plus the obligatory cheeseless minipizzas. Afternoon creeps on through rounds of coffee, desserts, drinks, videos, photos and stories of family occasions, holidays and vacations that I’ve missed.
By then, it’s an open secret that Miz has signed for me, so I pass around my phone to show off the photos of our ceremony. They find our mismatched wedding party and casual lunch at an Italian restaurant highly entertaining for how tiny our party is. Only my father looks pensive as he swipes slowly through the album, and I study him, wondering whether he’s more disappointed than he has led me to believe at my sudden wedding without anyone there to represent my family. I keep a subtle eye on him as the conversation turns to the wedding-anniversary party on Saturday. He has a faraway look on his face, so I know he’s off in his mind somewhere. Talking to Emay, remembering their own days of elopement, perhaps?
“ Wudé and I have discussed it,” he begins suddenly, his tone serious. Everyone quiets and turns to him. “In our time, because of circumstance, we were not blessed to have a wedding celebration with our family, relatives and friends. On Saturday, we will, at long last, have that. But my Kalkidan and his bride, Mizan, also because of circumstance, were not blessed to have a proper wedding. Should the elders have all the celebration and enjoyment? No.”
He turns to Miz and me. “ Wudé and I have agreed on it. On Saturday, we will share our celebration and enjoyment day with our son and his bride. You two will make us happy by standing alongside us on that day.” He beams at us.
The silence is absolute, so much so that I can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the long hallway. My heart swells. Yes. I glance at Miz, but her expression, directed at Abay, gives nothing away. She slowly swallows the bite of a cookie she had been eating, and I nervously twist my wedding band around my finger, waiting for her to say something . After a few moments, she clears her throat, taps her chest lightly, and takes a sip of her soft drink. Then she glances back at me. Her eyes bright, too bright, almost manic.
I haven’t spoken to Abay about Miz and me since that phone call, so I know he is acting purely on the strength of his conviction that there’s more between us than just paperwork, purely on faith that we are together now. And if we’re not, this is him nudging—shoving, rather—us along. He’s not suggesting this as a good occasion to fortify our case, but our marriage.
I hold my breath, waiting for Miz to decline, to accept. And whichever it is, I will follow. But it’s as if she’s on pause now, alongside the rest of the room, just staring at me. I search her eyes, trying to read into her expression, but all I sense is that I must take the lead, it seems. We are in my home, and this is my father. “Thank you, Abay—”
He claps once, with finality. “Good! That makes us very happy. It is a double grace.”
Cheers and laughter sound from all around us at this unexpected turn of events. “But,” Miz says in a small, tentative voice once the excitement has subsided some. “I wouldn’t have anyone present from my side. It’s too late to invite people. Wouldn’t that look strange?” I’m not sure whether this is her polite way of declining or a true concern of hers.
“Our family is your family too now,” Abay says. “Only a few generations ago, on her wedding day, a bride was whisked away by her groom to his home or town for the nuptials. She would not see any of her family again until they hosted the reciprocal dinner one week later!”
“What few generations?” my uncle adds. “The mels is still held the same way in the rural areas.”
“So you see, you will be very traditional, in fact!” one of my brothers says to me.
“A new trend!” Eske joins in. “Combined weddings, from the two ends of married life.”
A chicken-and-egg-like debate enssues about trend and tradition as my family discusses the old marriage customs. On a normal day, Miz would have a word or two to say about them—eighty-day marriage contracts, battlefield concubines, bride-napping (especially that!)—but she only nibbles and sips, her face wooden except for the occasional smile she offers.
“Are you okay?” I ask her under my breath.
“Hmm?” She pops another cookie into her mouth and smiles at me sweetly.
“You know, in the old country, a wife feeds the husband more than herself,” Bini says.
She cuts him a withering look. “Bite me, Bini.”
“I like you!” Bini exclaims, tipsy enough to overlook that he’s known her for years. “I like her!”
Eske intervenes before Miz responds. “Miz! I’m going to steal you away for a few moments. Come.” She stands and beckons Miz to follow her. “We’re talking wedding-related matters,” she informs me.
I laugh lightly, my eyes on Miz, who doesn’t put up a fuss. “Don’t be gone too long,” I say, watching as they disappear up the spiralling stairs. I try to fall into the other conversations around me, but as the minutes tick by, Miz’s empty seat next to me feels more and more hollow, and my mood sinks. Knowing Miz will soon be leaving me for even longer, to be with her dad, I feel restless, desperate for more time, as I used to as a kid when, after a whole day of playing with my cousins, I would beg Emay to let them sleep over. Miz and I haven’t spent more than a day apart in weeks, and I’m dreading the upcoming days of endless social calls and wedding-related errands without her by my side.
At last, they return, and without sitting down, Miz quietly asks me whether I can drop her off. She would rather not bother Abera on Christmas Eve, when he is likely at overnight mass. Thankful for this chance for one last chunk of alone time, I don’t even wait for her to finish asking.
—
“Finally, right?” I say, braking to wave thanks to Dereje, who closes the gate after us. Miz is quiet in the passenger seat. I ease us off the uneven neighbourhood road and onto Bole Road. It has rained since we arrived, so the asphalt glistens like freshly mopped linoleum, and the greens, yellows and burgundies of flowers planted on the grass of the traffic islands and in raised planters really pop. The sun is still hanging on but not for long. Once I am settled into second gear, Miz grabs my forearm and squeezes it very hard, which despite my jet-lag exhaustion, gives me a rush of excitement. As I drive, commenting on what’s new and not new in our side of the city—the reflective glass of the shiny new hotels and retail complexes teeming with neon signage dwarfing the aging, architecturally more unique decades-old shops and apartment buildings—relishing this first time of us taking it in together after such a long time, she doesn’t say much in return. But she maintains her iron grip on me, staring at my profile with an intense, expectant look in her eyes. “What’s the matter, Miz? You look like you’re about to step on a glass floor,” I say. She has that same tight-lipped grin plastered on her face as she did in our CN Tower photo.
She nods, then releases me abruptly and looks straight ahead. “I feel…weird.”
“I’m not surprised. That was a lot, I know. But everything will work out, you’ll see.” I remember how I felt on our wedding day, flustered and overwhelmed. I can imagine that the sudden prospect of having a big wedding has put her on edge.
She hums, a faraway look in her eyes, tracking the squat palm trees as they whiz by. Even the giant billboards advertising everything from contraceptives to mobile banking garner no comment from her.
“Maybe your parents can both come on Saturday?”
She tilts her head back on the headrest, closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Kal.”
“One of these days, you’ll have to talk to them about us,” I say gently.
I wait for there to be more, but she leaves me hanging, and soon, dozes off, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts for the rest of the ride. After thirty minutes, I roll up to the curb outside her father’s apartment within a gated compound of low-rises and bungalows separated by green spaces, playgrounds and parking lots. Miz wakes up and leans out of the car to peer up at the unit’s windows, visible just above a bed of hibiscus shrubs and satellite dishes.
“All clear?” I ask, though her dad’s empty parking spot shows that to be the case.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, stretching. I reach for her; she curls into me, and we kiss—soft, gentle, but also filled with desire. The moment is simplicity itself. Everything is all right.
“Uh-uh,” she says, breaking away and laughing at the hunger in my eyes as I do a quick check in the rear-view and side mirrors, confirming we have no witnesses nearby other than the stray dogs. “Don’t even think about it,” she says.
I groan. “Should I come up?” I ask hopefully. “Make sure you get in safe?”
“I’ll wave to you from the balcony, Romeo,” she says. Seeing my face, she rubs my arm. “Honestly, I’m about to collapse.”
I try to hide my crushing disappointment and make one last-ditch effort. “So am I, but we could collapse together for a bit,” I say, knowing how ridiculous that idea is, when her dad could come home any moment. Him finding us together in her bedroom is not how I want to disclose my new role in his daughter’s life. Miz shakes her head with a laugh, and I let mine drop to her chest. “This is goodbye then?” She curls her hand around my head and kisses it. I want to fall asleep right here.
My phone pings. “It sounds like you’re needed,” she says, pulling away. “Folks blowing up your phone.”
No denying that. From the moment I got on Ethiotel this morning, my phone has been dinging and shimmying and shaking. People are eager to see me, probably expecting a night out. But the only person I want to spend the night with is, at this very moment, unbuckling her seat belt.
“Will I see you again before Saturday?” I ask hopefully, straightening in my seat.
“Of course, goof,” she says. She gives me one last too-short kiss; she opens the door and steps out. “Sleep tight…Kiki.”
I can’t help feeling uneasy as she winks and vanishes. I wait for what feels like forever for her to appear at the balcony. It isn’t until I honk that she comes out and waves me off. Probably jet lag, I tell myself, and drive away.