10

Little Addis Ababasat on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic-an incongruent disk of Ethiopian culture encircled by predominantly Jewish areas and establishments. On my way home from work, I must have driven by there dozens of times, but I never paid much attention. Now I observed with virgin eyes. I found metered parking on the street a few yards away from the ubiquitous Star$s. Catercorner to where I was standing was a block-long Jewish school called Shalhevet-grades six through twelve.

Standing directly across from me, Koby was dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeved coffee-colored shirt two shades darker than his skin tone. Several gold chains rested around a bare neck. He waved and so did I. After I traversed the heavily trafficked street, he greeted me with a peck on the cheek and a wide smile. He was carrying a large blue paper bag from The Gap.

“You look lovely,” he said. “Nice outfit. I like the scarf. It adds flair.”

“You look rather fetching yourself. I like the jewelry.”

“Sort of retro disco, no?”

“All you need is a gold razor blade to complete the image.”

“Yeah, then I really give the cops an excuse to pull…” He looked away and clenched a fist. “I don’t believe I say that!”

I laughed. “That’s all right. I would have pulled you over. Feel better now?”

“I am very stupid!”

“You are very honest.” I quickly switched gears, pointing to the school across the way, specifically to a lit candle painted on the wall. “Does‘shalhevet’mean fire in Hebrew?”

“Fire is‘aish,’ ”he told me.“ ‘Shalhevet’is flame.”

“My stepmother would love you. You should come to the house forShabbatdinner sometime.”

“That would be great. I am free this Friday.”

My mouth opened and I shut it quickly. My foot was so far down my throat, it was in my stomach. “Uh, I’ll ask her. I don’t know her plans…”

His laugh was good-natured, but tinged with embarrassment. Even through the dark complexion, I detected a rosy glow. “Again I speak without thinking. I am too anxious. Sorry. Whenever is fine, Cindy. You barely know me.”

If I reneged now, I’d be a chump. “No, really, it’s fine. I’ll ask her.”

“If you ask and she says yes, I’ll come. So I give you an excuse. You can always say that she said no.”

“I don’t need excuses, Koby, I have an open invitation.” Now it was a matter of pride. “You’re invited. I’ll tell my dad to tell my stepmother, all right?”

“If you still feel that way after lunch, I’d be happy to come.” He handed me the sack. “This is for you. I didn’t have a chance to wrap anything.”

I knew how late he had worked, and was touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you. How do you know my size?”

“I don’t. Look inside.”

I did, pulling out a pound of coffee and a round, spongy brown disk packaged in plastic. He took the coffee from me and opened it. “Special blend. Smell.”

“Hmmm. Cinnamon.”

“Better than the hospital cafeteria’s brew, no?”

“Much better.” I held up the plastic package. “What’s with the Frisbee?”

“It’sinjera-Ethiopian spongy flat bread. It is made from teff-our special grain.” He placed the items back into the bag. “I give you food. For an Ethiopian, that’s a most precious gift.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I didn’t make a reservation. How about we walk around and see what looks good?”

I told him that sounded fine. We started down the busy street accompanied by vehicular noise pollution and the blare of rhythmic music coming from the Lion of Judah travel agency and CD emporium. The block was a mishmash of retail outlets-Jewish thrift shops, a junkyard, discount stores, a cake shop, and, of course, the Ethiopian contingent. Within seconds, I cleverly surmised that the state colors were green, yellow, and red because at least five storefronts were emblazoned with stripes in those hues. Even the distant Shell station fit right in.

There were three restaurants, all of them having marquees in English as well as squiggles I assumed to be Amharic. There was a store that specialized ininjeraand exotic spices. Even through the closed door, I could smell the tantalizing aromas. There was a dress shop boasting organic fabrics with a white cotton smock in the window festooned with red, green, and yellow ribbons around the neck. The shelves around the clothes offered a variety of silver rings and crosses, lots of shell jewelry, and a whole host of primitive-looking dolls. Koby saw me staring.

“Do you want to go in?”

“No, it’s all right. Maybe later.”

“Here is Gursha. Would you like to try it?”

“Great.”

He opened the door for me and we walked in.

The place was small and homey with a chockablock decor. The wallpaper was a pattern of various animal footprints and served as a backdrop for posters of Ethiopia, a map of the world, and dozens of photographs of smiling patrons. The tables and chairs were constructed of hay-colored cane painted with red geometric shapes, the ensemble topped by large, fringed cloth umbrellas. A couple of men ate in a pseudostraw hut next to the window, dininga mano: eating with their hands. The hostess was thin and delicate, with a long nose and round eyes typical of other Ethiopians I’d seen. She glanced at me, then spoke to Koby in her native language. They carried on a short conversation. Then she seated us at a table and distributed menus.

“I told her we were vegetarians,” Koby said. “She assured me that they have lots of vegetarian specialties.”

“Here we go,” I said. “There’s a vegetarian delight for two. It includesyater alitcha-”

“Peas with spices.”

“Yatakilt alitcha-”

“Mixed vegetables with spices.”

“Yemiser wot-”

“Lentils with red-pepper sauce.”

“Collard greens-”

“Collard greens.”

I laughed. “Very funny. There’s baklava. Aha, something familiar. Let’s split that. Does that sound all right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you eat with your fingers like you do in Moroccan restaurants?”

“Very similar. The meal is served oninjera.”

“The Frisbee bread.”

“Yes, exactly. You use theinjeraas your utensil and plate. You eat it as you go. Very little dishwashing.”

Again I laughed. The waitress came, looking askance at me and focusing on Koby. He ordered the food for both of us, but I ordered my own drink. After she left, I said, “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Could be because she’s shy and doesn’t speak English too good. Or it could be because you are with me and you are not one of us. In reality, I am not really one of them because I am Jewish.”

“A black Jew. Don’t make life too hard for yourself, Koby.”

“It is good to move in many worlds. Besides, I am what God made me. Just like the baby you found. Speaking of which…” He leaned over and spoke barely above a whisper. “I have good news.” His eyes were animated. “The baby… A preliminary genetic profile came back.”

I grew excited. “She isn’t Down’s-”

“Shhhh. I shouldn’t be talking to you about patients. Even babies.”

I nodded, then whispered, “So she’s normal?”

“Not exactly. She is what we call mosaic. That means she has some regular cells and some that are trisomy 21.”

“How does that happen?”

“Down’s is the result of the egg having an extra chromosome. Mosaic, the accident, happens in the second pass when the nucleus splits incorrectly.”

I nodded, but my face must have spelled confusion.

He said, “The union produces one zygote, yes. It splits into two normal cells. Then one of the normal cells splits incorrectly, making the body have half normal cells and half with trisomy 21-an extra twenty-first chromosome. What it means is the prognosis for her intellectual capacity is greater. She could be anywhere from retarded to normal.”

“That’s a long range.”