活了近一个世纪的奶奶Yetemegnu去世了，因她的丈夫曾经是有名望和声誉的牧师，数百名牧师以及埃塞俄比亚的达官显贵都参加了她的葬礼，并且她终于享受了在婚礼上未曾享受的权利——鼓声。奶奶出生于1916年，十几岁就出嫁，育有九个孩子，其中七个长大成人。她的丈夫出身贫寒，通过自己过人的天赋和努力得到女皇的赏识，并一步一步成为重要的宗教领袖，后因受诬告被监禁并死于狱中，从此Yetemegnu走上了为丈夫平反昭雪，保卫家产的请愿之路。日复一日，年复一年，Yetemegnu在首都亚的斯亚贝巴最高法院门前高高的台阶下与众多请愿者焦虑地等待着被传唤。这期间她经历了丧子、革命、土改和民主运动，在六十多岁时学会了阅读，并最终去耶路撒冷朝圣，展现了一个不屈不挠的女人强大的内心。
　　作者艾达·爱德马里安（Aida Edemariam）是埃塞俄比亚裔加拿大记者，在亚的斯亚贝巴长大，先后在牛津大学和多伦多大学攻读英国文学，曾在纽约、多伦多和伦敦就职，现为英国《卫报》的高级专栏作家和编辑。《妻子的故事》（The Wife’s Tale）不仅讲述了奶奶坚忍不拔的一生，也展现了埃塞俄比亚百年间经历的从封建制、君主政治到马克思主义革命，再到民主的动荡和变革，以及这片古老土地的风俗人情和文化。2019年5月作者因此书荣获英国皇家文学学会的“翁达杰奖”（Ondaatje Prize）。
　　In that country and in that time， when every thoroughfare（街道）still had its litigants（诉讼当事人）， bringing earnest complaint before a kerbstone judge（场外法官）（often appointed on the spot for the purpose）； where the ability to argue brilliantly for oneself in court was more respected than business acumen（敏锐）or craftsmanship or musicality； where justice was held so dear that most would countenance（支持）a lifetime of court appearances rather than feel it left undone； there everyone， however humble， had the right to bring his or her case before higher and higher courts， and eventually， if necessary， before the emperor， the final arbiter（仲裁人）between them and God.
　　And so each morning she set off for the High Court， accompanied by Meto-aleqa Tirfé， a kindly lieutenant who it was said might have been a general had he not displeased his superiors.
　　Nearly thirty years of diurnal（每日的）rounds consisting （except during the war） of her house， its grounds， the market， Ba’ata， and latterly the prison had fixed her horizons close. The skies felt different in Addis， the mountains higher and farther away； she felt somehow naked， and yet at the same time jostled（拥挤的）and distressed， even when no one was walking too close. There were so many cars， honking， rattling over ruts（在車辙上哐啷哐啷地前行）， nudging through so many knots of people and mules， sheep， donkeys， that at any moment she expected one to creep up behind her and drag her under its wheels.
　　Within the court compound（有围墙的场地，大院）things were not much easier. So many people， all aiming for the same thing： a chance to put their story to the judge. They milled（乱转）， and waited， and milled and waited， until waiting became a way of life. Every so often a name was called， an answer shouted， and the lucky person hurried up the stairs. By noon it would be obvious that her turn would not come that day， and so she would walk slowly home. 　　She recalled her father’s interminable（没完没了的）counting of houses， that she was distantly related to the empress， and thus to the empress’s eldest daughter， Princess Tenagnewerq. She knew that of all the emperor’s children it was probably this daughter， not the crown prince， who had the most influence on their father. Moreover， the princess’s husband had only just been transferred to Eritrea（厄立特里亞省，埃塞俄比亚北部省份）after six years as governor of Gondar. He had met her husband， had dealt with him officially.
　　Of course， she also knew other things. She knew the couple， like much of the royal family， had business interests everywhere. She had heard whispers， she had no idea if they were true， about his roving eye（流盼的目光）. But mostly she remembered that in the free-for-all that followed the Italian retreat， the princess and her husband had acquired large swathes of land in Gondar city. That some of that land belonged to her own father； that her husband had asked for it back and had instead been offered forty hectares nearly five hundred kilometers south， in the Rift Valley. She had heard it was decent land， arable（适于耕种的）， but what in the name of the Trinity were they supposed to do with it？

　　But she had to set that aside， for the moment. Or perhaps here was a way in which she could be repaid？ So she began to walk through the lunchtime streets， and to take up a position outside the high stone walls of the princess’s residence. She was not the only person to have this idea， but then she would never have expected otherwise： every great man or woman in the country trailed（追踪）a penumbra of petitioners（请愿队伍的影子）from all walks of life， often felt harried（受烦恼的，受折磨的）by them， but would be outraged， take it as a slackening（变弱）of power and status， if ever they melted away. And so she took up a place among everyone else who stood， or sat， or paced， waiting for a pause， a glimmer of permission to speak， for hours and days and weeks.
　　Everyone had advised her not to come， especially when she told them exactly what she wanted， which was not just the land， but the clearing of her husband’s name， for his sake and hers but above all for the sake of her children； she wanted blood， and as the blood she wanted was AsratèKassa’s1， she intended to ask the emperor for it. You can’t do that！ Quick glances， around the room， out the window. Everyone knew the emperor had spies， and not just in important places. If they find out they’ll kill you！ She had listened， polite， then proceeded with her preparations. 　　She heard shouts before she saw anything， shouts and stuttering engines.
　　There seemed suddenly to be more people， some craning their necks， others being pushed back by figures she couldn’t see， and she was caught in among them. Her nose filled with their various smells： dust and old sweat， rancid（腐臭的）butter， bruised rue. They were too close. Too close！
　　Abet abet abet！
　　Ah. She knew what this was. A gap opened up in front of her， and she pushed forward. She was part of a wall of people now， facing another wall， in between them clear road.
　　The low， dark car turned into the space， creeping， almost silent， helmeted policemen running alongside.
　　Abet abet abet！ Abet abet abet！
　　People began to reach out toward the vehicle. In each hand a piece of paper， held aloft like a flag. Choose me！ Choose me！
　　The car slid through the paper forest， and slowed. Then the first person broke through the wall， dragged the shemma from around his shoulders， threw it down in front of the car. Another followed， and another， calling abet， abet， abet， calling in the way petitioners had called out to their emperors for centuries， around tents pitched on the northern plains and in the southern depressions（洼地）， through royal enclosures at Ankober（安科伯爾，埃塞俄比亚中部城市）， at Qusquam（魁市葵教堂）， at Gondar， on hunting trips， at parades， at play or at war， stripping off clothing， knowing that the contract between sovereign and people was that no emperor could travel over garments laid down in his path.
　　The car stopped. The window was rolled down. There was that long nose again. There were children in the car. They must be his grandchildren. The people stared in， and children stared back.
　　Abet abet abet！ Abet abet abet！
　　The emperor reached out and took some of the pieces of paper. The window was wound up again and the car moved off. When she got back to where she was staying her daughters ran to meet her. Their bodies felt warm and solid. She buried her face in the hollows（凹陷处）of their necks， breathing deep.
　　A few days later the aleqa（埃塞俄比亚东正教牧师的尊称）came over to her little house. He had his own announcement to make. His visitor， appalled by Basilios’s（埃塞俄比亚东正教第一任大主教）gift， had persuaded him—was he not more experienced， more learned？—to go to Basilios himself. And Basilios had reconsidered his position， and given Ba’ata to the aleqa instead.
　　The next time her son visited she sat him down and demanded he write out a petition. 　　ABET ABET ABET！
　　The policemen crowded her， pushed her back， but she shrugged them away.
　　ABET ABET ABET！
　　Day after day after day. And then one afternoon，‘Leave her be.’ The busy hands dropped， and a space opened up about her.
　　Abet abet abet！
　　He stretched out a small hand， and she placed the petition in it. It was crumpled（弄皱的）， browning in the creases（折痕）. Then the window was rolled up.
　　Again she hardly remembered， later， how she got up the steps， how she crossed the hall， how long she waited， if she did， before she was ushered in； what the room looked like， who was there—apart from him， of course.
　　He was standing before his throne.
　　She bowed， deep.
　　He was king of kings， elect of God. But， as she had sometimes tried to remind herself over the long months， human too， with his own sadnesses. Le’ul-Ras Kassa（即上文中的Asratè Kassa王子）， who had been at the emperor’s side for forty years， advising， offering steadfast friendship， had died just a year before. Hailè Selassie2 had already lost three of his daughters to childbirth and to illness， one of them in Italian captivity； a few months ago his favorite son， chosen， many said， for succession， had died in a car crash.
　　Your Majesty， my husband is dead. He cried out that he was burning， that he was being scorched（烧焦的）from within.
　　No need to spell out who she thought was responsible—hadn’t the emperor sent letters， after all？
　　He died a secret， terrible death.
　　No reply. Then a slight movement. She raised her eyes from the floor， toward the emperor’s chest. It was his index finger that had moved， and was now pointing at the gilded ceiling.
　　‘Tell that to Him.’
　　Eyes back down， instantly， to hide the gulfs of disappointment breaking open within her.
　　Yes， Jan Hoy（海尔·塞拉西一世的另一称呼）.
　　‘Is there anything else？’
　　My enemies have taken my land， they have taken my trees.
　　‘That is a matter for the church authorities.’
　　Then， in a rush， in a bid to make him—a man， a father， the same age now as her husband would have been had he lived—to make him consider what her husband’s death had been like， what it meant， what his enemies had been responsible for—
　　I have given birth to many children. They are scattered across his ashes.
　　‘They shall go to boarding school.’
　　Yes， Jan Hoy.
　　And then she was being ushered out， bowing， being handed—what？ A few birr（比尔，埃塞俄比亚货币单位）， money ‘for the journey’. What journey？ Laughs too loud， remembering it years later. What was it？ A bribe？ Charity？ Insulting， anyway.
　　1. Asratè Kassa： 在海尔·塞拉西一世在任期間曾任埃塞俄比亚谢瓦省总督、厄立特里亚省总督，后成为埃塞俄比亚帝国所罗门王朝谢瓦分支（Shewan Branch）下Selalle子分支的王公。
　　2. Hailè Selassie： 海尔·塞拉西一世（1892—1975），埃塞俄比亚摄政王（1916—1930），末代皇帝（1930—1974），当代埃塞俄比亚历史上的决定性人物。