Accusation (23 page)

At the end of the cot stood a metal walking frame, and beneath the cot two leg braces were stashed. There were plastic balls — juggling balls? — piled in a plastic bucket. Sara wondered if any of the equipment had been brought back from Montreal by Raymond Renaud in July. Hadn’t he mentioned, in his urgency to get to Montreal, his need to pick up some supplies?

The boys were doing something to the boy in the bed, or he was doing something. They were all talking in the insistent monotone beat of spoken Amharic, and Dassala in turn was talking at them. One of the boys, the tallest, pushed the wheelchair close to the side of the bed, and Yitbarek reached for its frame with one hand and pulled himself to sitting, leaning forward and bracing himself with his other arm, while one of the other boys helped or tried to help by giving him a push or support from behind. The mattress beneath Yitbarek was covered by a blue vinyl gym mat like those the circus children used in the rehearsal hall. The boys, and the aunt, gave little yips of encouragement and clapped when Yitbarek sat, braced on both arms, thin legs outstretched. A slight boy: there were socks on his feet but his legs were bare, the muscles obviously atrophied. Paralyzed, at least in the legs: here was evidence that his injury looked as bad as Raymond had feared. And was all this a kind of performance for the benefit of visitors, for her, the presence of strangers heightening his desire to prove he could get up and do as much as possible on his own.

The tall boy, who had performed the chair act in the street show that Sara had seen, stood beside Yitbarek, and although Dassala tried to shoo him away, he waved her off and said in English, I do it. He helped Yitbarek manoeuvre his inert legs over the edge of the bed, first one then the other, feet to the floor, then placed Yitbarek’s hands on his shoulders and his own around Yitbarek’s waist and lifted him, or helped lift him, into the wheelchair. When Yitbarek’s blue sweater rucked above his waist, a stretch of leather brace, clasped around his torso, briefly revealed itself. And any thought that this wasn’t how things ought to be done, children caring for a disabled child, had to be chucked away, for here and now this was how things were being done.

Dassala made a universally comprehensible scooting motion in the direction of the three limber-limbed boys. Three nylon knapsacks lay in a tumble on the floor beneath the TV.

Wait, Sara said. Alazar, can you ask their names, and where they live, and if we can talk to them too. And can you ask if any of them lived with Yitbarek at Raymond Renaud’s house?

We go to circus, the tallest said. His name was Birook.

Later then. Can we talk to you later?

Yes, we can do it.

Alazar said, Moses — the middle one, who had been one of the unicycling fire jugglers — lived in that house and now lives here. As Moses pointed to the bedroll behind the armchair, then to his chest, and said in English, Me, me, me.

That’s his bed, Alazar said.

The third boy, Asefa, one of the acrobats in the street show, having folded the blue vinyl mat into segments, balanced it upright against the wall. On the cot, through the now-exposed sheet, the bumps of more egg crate foam could be seen.

Everything felt chaotic, a jumble of bodies and objects in a space that seemed to shrink around them. Sara tried to hand the plastic bag of Nescafé and long-life milk and cooking oil and biscuits to Dassala, who, still talking to the boys, shook her head and waved her arms as if she could not accept the gift.

Alazar, can you tell her that we brought these things for her. It’s a small thing.

What must it be like for Yitbarek to be surrounded by the other boys’ bodies, still so limber and racing with fluidity? His face, the beautiful arched brows, the lips, much as when seen in the photographs and on film, caught now out of the corner of Sara’s eye, looked watchful, stripped of the animation of previous moments.

Then the other boys, white shirts tucked in, arms thrust through the sleeves of their sweaters, Moses with a nylon gym bag, Birook and Asefa with knapsacks flung over their shoulders, were gone, and the room felt empty without them, and Dassala was holding the plastic bag of groceries and saying, Amesegenallo, and something else.

Alazar said, She wishes to offer us the coffee ceremony. His eyebrows rose in meaningful communication: they’d discussed this in the car, what to do should this occur. It was partly why they’d brought the Nescafé and long-life milk, so it was possible to say no, but we would love a Nescafé, without making their hostess seem inhospitable.

I would actually really love a Nescafé, Sara said to Alazar, who nodded, and spoke to Dassala in Amharic.

There were two doorways that led off the main room, one in the middle of the wall to Sara’s left, which was closed off by a length of brocaded fabric slung over a stretch of rope, the other an open doorway through which Dassala in her flowered housedress passed, the room beyond a glimpse of unpainted plank walls, plates on open shelves, a sink, a squat green single-burner kerosene stove set on the floor.

Yitbarek, I’m Sara. She held out her hand to him in his wheelchair and his hand in hers was cold. The air wasn’t warm. Yitbarek wore a zip-up cardigan, a blanket thrown over his bare legs, Sara her fleece jacket, only Alazar braving bare arms and a soccer shirt, but perhaps Yitbarek was also cold because he moved less.

How are you, he asked, beating her to it, his voice having the same staccato rhythms as the voices of the other children she’d encountered, each word bearing equal weight.

I’m fine. How are you?

It was an impossible question and impossible not to ask it.

I am well, he said, three even notes, and smiled, and there was curiosity and attentiveness in him if not great force behind the smile.

Once she and Alazar had seated themselves in the armchairs, Yitbarek wheeled himself between them, Dassala calling out something from the kitchen. She says it is okay to move the chairs if we wish it, Alazar said, but there was no need, the two of them like parents on either side of their child. There was room on the upholstered armrest for Sara to lay her tape recorder upon it.

Did you ask if it’s okay for me to tape the conversation? Sara said to Alazar, who nodded. She’d told him to explain that she was a journalist visiting from Canada and might be writing about the circus. To tell Yitbarek she’d seen him perform in Copenhagen. To ask his aunt if it was okay to talk to him. To ask Yitbarek if he wanted to talk. It is possible, Alazar said. Yitbarek, she thought, was the one whom Raymond had taught to juggle with fire.

You see me, Yitbarek said in English.

I did, I saw you perform in Denmark. She’d worried that mentioning this, recalling the past to him, might be painful but instead Yitbarek smiled and looked pleased.

Dassala was again saying something in Amharic from the kitchen.

They are in this house one month, Alazar said. Before they were for one month in Mr. Raymond’s house. Before that Yitbarek was in the hospital. She has come from their town, which is Dessie, to look after him. Now she works some time as the cook for the circus. His parents, they have a shop, so they cannot come, and it is decided it is best for him to stay here right now. Mr. Raymond found this house and he pays for it, even since he has gone away. He says they are not to worry, he will pay.

Do they know where he’s gone or for how long?

And this was so much more the way interviews often went, especially in certain parts of the world, and when translators were involved, not the unusual privacy that she’d shared with Abiye, but something more communal and interrupted. Alazar and Dassala shared another exchange. She does not know, Alazar said. When Alazar spoke in English, Yitbarek watched him intently and sometimes glanced at Sara, while his fingers rubbed back and forth over the blanket or the narrow wooden arms of his wheelchair. He did not say where he is going but it does not seem he will come back soon, Alazar said. He came to say goodbye and to say he is sorry but he must leave and he is crying.

He’s crying.

Yes.

Why was he crying? And why did he say he was sorry?

Another exchange, to a chiming of tin against tin in the kitchen, after which Alazar said, He promised to take care of Yitbarek and he is sad to go. It is the turn of Tamrat to look after the circus so he must find another job.

So it really doesn’t sound like he’s coming back.

It was clear that Yitbarek understood some English, although Sara wasn’t sure how much. He seemed to prefer to respond in Amharic, favouring that comfort or fluency.

Can you ask what language he and Mr. Raymond spoke?

Some English, some Amharic, Alazar said.

Dassala reappeared, bearing a small enamel tray on which sat three chipped enamel mugs. At her entrance, Alazar leaped up to pull a small table woven of basketry close to the armchairs. The mug that Dassala handed to Sara was ferociously hot to touch. Yitbarek shook his head at his, the mug with only a tiny amount of milky coffee in it. A moment later, having returned the tray to the kitchen, Dassala positioned herself on the threshold of the room, watching over their conversation. Yitbarek did not seem to be in pain. No, Alazar said, when Sara asked him to ask, he isn’t in pain. His neck and arms moved freely, so the injury seemed restricted to his lower body. When he shifted in the chair, a faint scent of urine drifted from him.

How did the accident happen? Yitbarek, can you tell us?

After he and Alazar had conversed, Alazar said, He is at the top of the pyramid and he falls. Maybe his foot caught in the shirt of Moses or on his arm. He is to do a roll to come down but he cannot make his body do the right thing. Then he is on the floor and he cannot move. This is what he remembers.

This was in the rehearsal hall.

Yes.

That’s terrible.

Yes, Alazar said, hands clasped between his knees, concern creasing his face.

Now Yitbarek kept a close eye on Sara, and when he spoke again, he pointed to his torso and flexed his arms. Then he is in the hospital, Alazar went on. He has broken a bone in his spine. He can feel some stomach muscles. He can feel a little in his legs, but he cannot move them. He can work his bowel. At first he must stay very still. Then another doctor comes and tells him he must learn to roll and sit up. He gets a brace. He has strong arms, strong muscles, and they will become stronger. There is a famous Ethiopian, Abebe Bikila, he ran the marathon, and he had the same kind of accident but in a car crash and he became very strong after and an athlete in a wheelchair. The doctor tells him this. So he will become very strong like Abebe Bikila.

Does he see a physiotherapist or anyone who does rehabilitative treatment?

A what?

Okay, who’s in charge of his medical care?

A doctor.

She did not think, and Raymond Renaud had intimated in the car that night, that there would be access to specialized care without flying Yitbarek out of the country. And everything, even X-rays, would have to be paid for by someone. Raymond. His family.

Who else looked after him, in the hospital and after?

Mr. Renaud and his aunt.

In the hospital?

Yes. Mr. Raymond came to the hospital to help care for him, to feed him, to wash him, and help turn him. And then his aunt comes, and they move to Mr. Renaud’s house. Then Mr. Renaud goes to Australia with the circus, and when he comes back, they move to this house. And Mr. Renaud trains the boys to help his aunt, to roll him and help him sit. Now it is very important for him to sit. And they also do the ball toss and the jugglery. Soon he will begin to stand with the frame and the braces. One day he will do seated jugglery in the circus or he will walk again. Mr. Renaud assures him there will be a place for him in the circus.

Did Mr. Renaud take care of him alone in the hospital?

Alone?

Or was there a nurse there with him?

There was another exchange between Yitbarek and Alazar, who in his approaches to Yitbarek seemed gentle and kind. Dassala went on observing them, arms crossed over her bosom, while on the television an Amharic-speaking news anchor warbled.

Sometimes there is a nurse, but Mr. Renaud does these things because there is no one else to do the care, Alazar said.

Couldn’t he have hired someone else, a woman, to look after Yitbarek, Sara wondered. Surely he could have found money for a caregiver even if there were other hospital expenses to be paid for. Because the physical intimacy of looking after Yitbarek compromised him — didn’t it? He was not the boy’s parent. Although the boy had been left in his care. Perhaps he did not trust anyone else to look after Yitbarek. He felt distraught and responsible. He did not want to leave Yitbarek, so vulnerable after his accident, in the hands of a stranger. The intimacy of such care made her uncomfortable. No one would do anything harmful to a boy who had just been paralyzed.

When Sara asked how soon after the accident his aunt had come to stay, Alazar said two weeks. When she asked whether, before the accident, Mr. Raymond had ever washed or bathed Yitbarek or any of the boys, Alazar looked at her strangely, but he spoke to Yitbarek who in turn seemed puzzled or reflected Alazar’s puzzlement back at him as he replied. No, was all Alazar translated.

Sara checked her tape recorder. Before the accident, were you happy in the circus?

Yes, Yitbarek said without waiting for any translation.

Did you feel safe?

He and Alazar discussed this; then, in English, Yitbarek said yes.

Did you feel safe living in Mr. Raymond’s house, you and the other boys?

Yes, it is good, Yitbarek said, and Alazar added, They have their own room.

And did you feel safe when you were training? Alazar, can you help me with this — I want to find out if he felt they were properly supervised when doing their circus training, or if they were asked to do unsafe things?

There was some intense discussion about this. Yitbarek, when he spoke, was animated, voluble. He had an expressive face, his hair shorn close to his head, his hands quick in the air, paler palms swivelling, something of his previous quicksilver movements still in him. His aunt interjected something. In Amharic, Sara thanked her for the Nescafé.