Narrator/Actor (3:45)

This is the thing was we had a little problem with the insect vector there. And believe me, your tamer stuff, your Malathion and Pyrethrum and the rest of the so called environmentally safe products didn't begin to make a dent in it. Not a dent. I mean, it was utterly useless. We might as well have been spraying with Chanel Number five for all the good it did. And you've got to realize these people were literally covered with insects day and night. And the fact that they hardly wore any clothes just compounded the problem. I mean, picture if you can, gentlemen, a naked little two year old boy, so black with flies and mosquitoes it looked like he was wearing long johns. Or the young mother, so wracked with the malarial shake she can't even lift a Diet Coke to her lips. It was pathetic. It was just pathetic. It was like something out of the Dark Ages. Well, anyway, the decision was made to go with DDT in the short term. Just to get the situation under control. You understand? Yes, that's right, Senator. Ddt. Dichloroldiphenyltrichloroethane. Yes, I'm well aware of that fact, sir. But just because we bandit domestically under pressure from the bird watching contingent and the half heads down at the epa, it doesn't necessarily follow. The rest of the world, especially the developing world, is about to jump on the bandwagon. And that's the key word here or developing. You've got to realize this is Borneo we're talking about here, not Port Townsend or Eamonclaw. These people don't know from square one about sanitation, disease control, pest eradication, or even personal hygiene. If you want to come right down to it, it rains 120 inches a year minimum. They dig up roots in the jungle. They still got headhunters on the Reijing river for God's sake. And Please don't forget, they asked us to come in there, practically begged us. And not only the World Health Organization, but the Sultan of Brunei and the government of Sarawak, too. We did what we could to accommodate them and reach our objective in the shortest period of time by the most direct and effective means. We went to the air, obviously, and no one could have foreseen the consequences. No one. Not even if we had gone out and generated 100 environmental impact statements. It was just one of those things, a freak occurrence. And there's no defense against that. Not that I know of, anyway. Caterpillars. Yes, Senator, that's correct. That was the first sign. Caterpillars. But let me backtrack a minute here. You see, out in the bush, they have these roofs made of thatched palm leaves. You'll see them in the towns, too, even in Bintoulu or Brunei. They're really pretty effective. You'd be surprised. 120 inches of rain. They got to figure out a way to keep it out of the hut for centuries. This was it. Palm leaves. Well, it was about a month after we sprayed for the final time, and I'm sitting at my desk in the trailer, thinking about the drainage project at Kun Ching, enjoying the fact that for the first time in maybe a year, I'm not smearing mosquitoes all over the back of my neck. When there's a knock on the door. It's this elderly gentleman, tattooed from head to toe, dressed in only a pair of running shorts. Boy, they love those shorts, by the way. The shiny material and the tight machine stitching the whole country. Men, women, children. They can't get enough of them. Anyway, he's the head man of the local village and he's very excited. Something about the roofs. Atap, they call them. That's all he can say. Attap, attap, over and over again. It's raining, of course. It's always raining. So I shrug into my rain slicker, start up the 4x4, and go have a look. Sure enough, all the ATAP roof are collapsing, not only in his village, but throughout the Tarragon area. The people are all huddled in there in their running shorts, looking pretty miserable. One after the other, the roofs keep falling in. It's bewildering. And gradually I realized the headman's diatribe has begun to feature a new term I was unfamiliar with at the time, the word for caterpillar, as it turns out in the Iban dialect. But who was to make the connection between three passes with a caterpillar crop duster and all these staved in roofs. Our people finally sorted it out a couple of weeks later. The chemical, which, by the way, cut down the number of mosquitoes exponentially, had the unfortunate side effect of killing off this little wasp. I got the scientific name for it somewhere in my report, if you're interested. That preyed on a type of caterpillar that in turn ate palm leaves. Well, with the wasps gone, the caterpillars hatched out with nothing to keep them in check. Chewed the roofs to pieces. And that was unfortunate, we admit it. And we had a real cost overrun on replacing those roods with tin. But the people were happier, I think, in the long run, because, let's face it, no matter how tightly you weave those palm leaves, they're just not going to keep the water out like tin. Of course, nothing's perfect. And we had a lot of complaints about the rain, drumming on the panels, people unable to sleep, what have you. Yes, sir. Yes, that's correct. The flies were next. Well, you've got to understand the magnitude of the fly problem in Borneo. There's nothing like it here to compare it with. Maybe. Except a garbage strike in New York. Every minute of every day, you've got flies everywhere. Up your nose, in your mouth, your ears, your eyes. Flies and your rice, your Coke, your Singapore Sling, your gin. Ricky. It's enough to drive you to distraction. Not to mention the diseases these things carry, from dysentery to typhoid to cholera and back around the loop again. And once the mosquito population was down, the flies seemed to breed up to fill the gap. Borneo wouldn't be Borneo without some damned insect blackening the air. Of course, this was before our people had tracked down the problem with the caterpillars and the wasps and all that. And so we figured we had a big success with the mosquitoes. Why not a series of ground sweeps, Mount a fogger in the back of a Suzuki Brat and sanitize the huts. Not to mention the open sewers, which, as you know, are nothing but breeding grounds for flies and chiggers and biting insects of every sort. At least it was an error of commission rather than omission. At least we were trying. I watched the flies go down myself. One day they were so thick in the trailer, I couldn't even find my paperwork, let alone attempt to get through it. And the next they were collecting on the windows, bumbling around like they were drunk. A day later, they were gone, just like that. From a million flies in the trailer to none. Well, no One could have foreseen that, Senator. The geckos ate the flies. Yes. You're all familiar with geckos, I assume. Gentlemen, these are the lizards you see during your trips to Hawaii. Very colorful. Patrolling the houses for roaches. Flies, almost like pets. But of course, they're wild animals. Never lose sight of that. And just about as unsanitary as anything I can think of. Except maybe flies. Yes, well, don't forget, sir, we're viewing this with 2020 hindsight. But at the time, no one gave a thought to geckos or what they ate. They were just another fact of life in the tropics. Mosquitoes, lizards, scorpions, leeches. You name it, they've got it. When the flies began piling up on the windows like drift, naturally the geckos feasted on them, stuffing themselves till they looked like sausages, crawling up the walls where before they moved so fast you could never be sure you'd seen them. Now they waddled across the floor, laid around in the corners, clung to the air vents like magnets, and even no one paid much attention to them until they started turning belly up in the streets. Believe me, we confirmed a lot of things there about the buildup of these products as you move up the food chain and the efficacy or lack thereof of certain methods. No doubt about that. The cats. Well, see, that's where it got sticky. Really sticky. See, nobody really lost any sleep over a pile of dead lizards. But though we did the test routinely and tests confirmed that what we expected, that is the product had concentrated in the geckos because of the sheer number of contaminated flies they'd consume. But lizards are one thing and cats are another. These people really have an affection for their cats. No house, no hut, no matter how primitive it is, without at least a couple of mangy looking things too. Long legged, scrawny, maybe not at all the sort of animal you'd see here. But there it was. They loved their cats because cats were functional, you understand? Without them, the place would have been swimming with rodents inside a week. You're right there, Senator. Yes, that's exactly what happened. You see, the cats had a field day with these feeble geckos. You can imagine if any of you ever owned a cat, the kind of joy these animals must have experienced to see their nemesis, this ultra quick lizard that's barely creeping across the floor like a bug. Well, to make a long story short, the cats ate every dead and dying gecko in the country from snout to tail. And then the cats began to die, which to My mind would have been no great loss if it wasn't for the rats. Suddenly there were rats everywhere. You couldn't drive down the street without running over half a dozen of them at a time. They fouled the grain supplies, fell into wells and died. Bit infants as they slept in their cradles. Oh, that wasn't the worst, not by a long shot. No, things really went down the tube after that. Within a month we were getting scattered reports of bubonic plague. And of course we tracked them all down and made sure that people got a round of a treatment with antibiotics. But still we lost a few. And the rats kept coming. It was my plan. Yes, I was brainstorming one night. Rats scuttling all over the trailer like something out of a cheap horror film. The villagers in a panic over the threat of the plague and the stream of non stop hysterical reports from the interior. Well, people were turning black, swelling up, bursting, that sort of thing. Well, as I say, I came up with a plan, a stopgap. Not perfect, not cheap. But at this juncture, I'm sure you'll agree something had to be implemented. We wound up going as far as Australia for some of the cats, cleaning out the SPCA facilities and what have you. Though we rounded most of them up in Indonesia and Singapore, approximately 14,000 in all. And yes, it cost us, cost us upfront purchase money and aircraft fuel and pilots overtime and all the rest of it. But we really felt there was no alternative. It was like all nature had turned against us. And yet still, all things considered, we made a lot of friends for the usa. The day we dropped those cats. Oh, you should have seen them, gentlemen, the little parachutes and harnesses. We tricked up 14,000 of them. Cats in every color of the rainbow. Cats with one ear, no ears, have a ton tail, three legged cats. Cats that could have taken pride of show in Springfield, Massachusetts. And all of them twirling down out of the sky like great big oversized snowflakes. It was something. It was really something. Of course, you've all seen the reports. There were other factors we hadn't counted on. Adverse conditions in the paddies and the manioc fields. We know to this day how that what predatory species were inadvertently killed off by the initial springs, it's just a mystery, but the weevils and whatnot took a pretty heavy toll on the crops that year. And by the time we dropped the cats, well, the people were pretty hungry. And I suppose it was inevitable that we lost a good portion of them right then and there. But we've got a care program going on there now, and something hit the rat population. We still don't know what a virus. We think the geckos, they tell me, are making a comeback. So what I'm saying is it could be worse. To every cloud a silver lining, wouldn't you agree? Gentlemen.

Meg Wolitzer (16:26)

That was T.C. boyle's top of the Food Chain, performed by Zach Grenier. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Okay, I'm not going to say Ripped from the headlines. Boyle's antic but serious take on what happens when you interfere with Mother Nature was published in 1993. So while it wasn't exactly ripped from the headlines, it was certainly predictive. Our next story, Carapace by Matthew Ryan Frankel, was the winner of our 2023 Stella Kupferberg memorial Short Story Contest, selected by guest judge Anthony Dorr. The story was also published in Electric Literature, where Frankel notes that it was dedicated to his grandfather, Kiweng Ng. So it is perhaps the death of that patriarch that inspired this story, which begins at a funeral. Reader Philip Estrera is a member of the New York City based Hunger and Thirst Theater Company and film and television credits include New Amsterdam and Blue Bloods. So he's got some tough guy chops, but now he wants you to meet a remarkable old man. And some crabs. Here's Matthew Ryan Frankel's carapace.

Philip Estrera (17:38)

Three crabs attended my grandfather's funeral. Atlantic blues. They picked at a lump of chicken inside a milk crate. Trap legs, turquoise and spine tipped shells, Olive bellies, white as a puddle, formed in Auntien's dock. Their antennae stroke the poultry with a delicate, oblivious air. The ten of us paused to admire her catch. That one's My grandmother gave the tub of ashes an affectionate little Pat Yin, Uncle Tian, his wife, his twins, my parents, my sister and I all nodded. Wang must be thinking of us up there. By her logic, the deceased had thought to send us dinner amidst the most profound spiritual bliss, while we, sweating in the Carolina summer damp, wouldn't let his funeral begin until we had planned the resulting meal. Appropriately, the tub was labeled Daisy Sour Cream. If the man hadn't died, his memorial might have killed him. Born in Malaysia, albeit more anglicized than the average Brit, my grandfather exuded a knight's poetic strictness. Every day he brushed his lone suit like a vassal polishing steel. His era had reduced him to a paralegal assistant. Still, on weekends he made a leaky waterbed his court, where, enchanted by his voice's rumble, I absorb chivalric illusions of King Arthur In Guan Yu, behind gold spectacles, his face was square, his skin was lineless, saved, the forehead bisected by a solitary reddish crease. When I fell in love in college, it furrowed gravely. Knowledge is a jealous mistress, he said. For this exacting chevalier. We gathered behind the milk crate in T shirts and shorts, faced the sound and improvised our prayers. I sensed something ridiculous in the act. It didn't help that by all appearances we were speaking to the crabs. I never knew anyone so generous, said Tiang, a high ranking member of a multi level marketing scheme. I remember shifting so that its outer mandibles could reach a skirt of fat. The smallest crab pivoted its eyestalks, then undulated an orange fingered claw. I pictured the movement of my grandfather's thumb. Somehow this creature felt closer to us than him. Our T shirts dotted with sweat, the double rings of minnows jumps, the tub, the smell of brine, the wooden dock where algal veins twisted under the cracked surface gray. They had no place in that incorporeal realm, so removed from us that describing it as angelic light or absent, dark, perfect, presumes myopically the eyes. Even before his death, age reduced my grandfather to his strictness. When a stroke claimed his right hand, he insisted on buttoning his shirts. Later, after persistent clots left him with aphasia, he arranged to study Japanese. If I can't joy my conquerors, he grasped over Isa's collected verse. Then how can I enjoy old age? In two years? The man was bedridden, incontinent, held together by morphine in his shirt. Unable to speak, he moaned softly through his gums. The spare bedroom was his world, the flutter of curtains a major current event. Only when I read aloud to him could I spot flickers of intelligence. For instance, hours before he passed, I bungled a line of yates nine bean rows I will have there and saw his left thumb twitch. Incredulous, I skipped a word. Another twitch secured by a tendon. The severity of his mind remained. Are you there? I said. Phlegm bubbled in his throat. If he gave me a sign, I couldn't understand it. Eventually, to my horror, it was my turn to speak. Behind their legs, the paddle like appendages the crabs used to swim accompanied the silence with gentle, useless clicks. They had their own language, I knew, alien and impenetrable as a mind whose body had abandoned it. Having only known my own life, how could I hope for communion with the dead? Desperate, I decided to become a crab. I liquefied my bones, letting them rush through my capillaries to harden atop my skin. My torso widened, my belly formed segments. Then, once I had sprouted antennae, legs and claws, I scuttled into the water, floating past shifting trails of sand, formless shadows, the refracted light of fish. And as my visioned of divided itself between ten eyes, I sensed vast eddies of nothingness. I released my words at last. I hoped the sounds were inhuman enough to reach him. My family perceived none of this. Instead, they saw me bow and whisper to the shellfish. I'm here. I'm here. Evening came. We butchered the crabs and ate them.

Meg Wolitzer (23:45)

That was Philip Estrera performing Carapace. By Matthew Ryan Frankel I'm Meg Wolitzer. This story keeps us in a childlike and knowing space state at the same time. The details are sophisticated, the language elegant, but the wonder is equally vivid. When we return, how to pack a suitcase and a family. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You're listening to selected shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide.

Fidelity Representative (24:12)

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Meg Wolitzer (25:16)

Welcome back. This is selected shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. You've just heard some great short fiction. Now it's your turn. It's time for the 2026 Stella Kupferberberg Memorial Short Story Prize. We're very excited that this year's guest judge is one of shorts favorite funny mainstays Simon Rich. The winning work will be performed by an actor in spring 2026 and published on Electric Literature. The winning writer will receive $1,000 and a free 10 week course with Gotham writers. You have until March 6th to submit your story, which you can do by going to selectedshorts.org and scrolling to the bottom of the page. We can't wait to read your submission. Our final story about problems and possible solutions is by the fluid and funny writer Maron Hadero. Hadro is an Ethiopian American whose work has appeared in Ploughshares and McSweeney's Quarterly, among others. Her first collection, A Down Home Meal for these Difficult Times, was published in 2022. The suitcase, which was selected for the Best American Short Stories 2016, is an elegant example of a story driven by a seemingly simple dilemma that turns out to be about something completely different. Our reader is Renee Elise Goldsberry, who won a Grammy and a Tony Award for her performance in Hamilton. She can currently be seen on Peacock's Girls 5 Eva Here she is, packing or not. Maroon Hadero's the Suitcase.

Fidelity Customer (27:02)

On Saba's last day in Addis Ababa, she had just one unchecked to do left on her long and varied list, which was to explore the neighborhood on her own, even though she'd promised her relatives that she would always take someone with her when she left the house. But she was 20, a grown up and wanted to know that on her first ever trip to the city of her birth, she'd gained at least some degree of independence and assimilation. So it happened that Saba had no one to turn to when she got to the intersection around Mezcal Square and realized she had only only seen one functioning traffic light in all of addis Ababa, population 4 million people by official counts, though no one there seemed to trust official counts, and everyone assumed it was much more crowded, certainly too crowded for just one traffic light. That single, solitary, lonely little traffic light in this mushrooming metropolis was near the old National Theater, not too far from the UN offices. The Presidential palace, the former African Union, a known respected part of the city, located an unfortunate mile, a disobliging 1.6km away from where Sabah stood before a sea of cars contemplating a difficult crossing. Small, nimble vehicles, Fiats and VW bugs, skim the periphery of the traffic and then seemed to be flung off centrifugally, almost gleefully, in some random direction. The center was a tangled cluster of cars slowly crawling along paths that might take an automobile backward, forward, sideward. In the middle of this jam was a sometimes visible traffic cop whose tense job seemed to be avoiding getting hit while keeping one hand slightly in the air. He was battered by curses, car horns, diesel exhaust as he nervously shifted his body weight and tried to avoid these assaults. Saba quickly saw she couldn't rely on him to help her get across. She dipped her foot from the curb onto the street and a car raced by, so she retreated. A man walked up next to her and said in English, true story. I know a guy who crossed the street halfway and gave up. Saba looked at the stranger. Pardon? What was that? He had been abroad for many years and came back expecting too much, the man said now, speaking as slowly as Saba. That sad man lives on the median at the ring road. I bring him books sometimes, he said slyly, taking one out of his messenger bag and holding it up. A little local wisdom. Don't start what you can't finish. Saba watched the stranger dangle his toes off the curb, lean forward, backward, forward and back, and then, as if becoming one with the flow of the city, lunge into the traffic and disappear from her sight until he re emerged on the opposite side sidewalk. Miraculous, saba said to herself as he turned, pointed at her, then held up the book again. Saba tried to follow his lead and set her body to the rhythm of the cars swaying forward and back, but couldn't find the beat. As she was running through her options, a line of idling taxis became suddenly visible. When a city bus turned the corner, she realized that as impractical as it seemed, she could hail a cab to get her across the busy street. The trip took 10 minutes. The fare cost 15 USD, for she was unable to negotiate a better rate, though at least she'd found a way to the other side. She turned back to see the taxi driver leaning out the window, talking to a few people, gesturing at her, laughing, and she knew just how badly she'd fumbled yet another attempt to fit in. All month Saba had failed almost every test she'd faced, and though she'd seized one last chance to see if this trip had changed her, had taught her at least a little of how to live in this culture, she'd only ended up proving her relatives right. She wasn't even equipped to go for a walk on her own. What she thought would be a romantic, monumental reunion with her home country had turned out to be a fiasco. She didn't belong here. She was late getting back to her Uncle Fasil's house, where family and friends of family were waiting for her to say goodbye, to chat and eat and see her one last time, departures being even more momentous than arrivals. Twelve chairs had been moved into the cramped living room, along with three couches. They transformed the space into a theater packed with guests, each of whom sat with his or her elbows pulled in toward the torso to make seats space for all they came they said to offer help, but she sensed it was the kind of help that gave and took. It was time to go, and she was relieved when Facial said in English for her benefit, we are running out of time, so we have already started to fill this one for you. He pointed past the suitcase that Saba had packed before her walk and gestured to a second stuffed with items and emitting the faint scent of a kitchen after mealtime. At her mother's insistence, Saba had brought one suitcase for her own clothes and personal items, and a second that for the trip there was full of gifts from America. New and used clothes, old books, magazines, medicine to give to families she had never met. For her return, it would be full of gifts to bring to America from those same relatives and family friends. Saba knew this suitcase wasn't just a suitcase. She'd heard There was no DHL here, no UPS. Someone thought there was a FedEx, but that was just for extremely wealthy businessmen. People didn't trust the government post. So Saba's suitcase offered coveted prime real estate on a vessel traveling between here and there. Everyone wanted a piece. Everyone fought to stake a claim to their own space. If they couldn't secure a little spot in some luggage belonging to a traveling friend, they'd not send their things at all. The only reasonable alternative would be to have the item sent as freight on a cargo ship. And how reasonable was that? The shipping container would sail from Djibouti on the Red Sea, and with all the talk of Somali pirates, this seemed almost as good as risky as hurling a box into the ocean and waiting for the fickle tides. After the Red Sea, a cargo ship that made it through the Gulf of Aden would go south on the Indian Ocean, around the Cape of Good Hope, across the Atlantic, through the Panama Canal to the Pacific, up the American coast to Seattle. An empty suitcase opened up a rare direct link between two worlds. So Saba understood why relatives and friends wanted to fill her bag with with carefully wrapped food things, gifts, sundry items, making space, taking space, moving and shifting the bulging contents of the bag. Fasil placed a scale in front of Saba and set to zeroing it. She loomed over the scale, and as he nudged the dial to the right, the red needle moved ever so slightly, so incredibly slightly that Saba doubted it worked at all. But then Fasil's hand slipped. The needle flew too far to the other side of zero. He pushed the dial just a hair to the left now, and the red needle swung back by a full millimeter. He nudged the dial again now it stuck. Fasil, Saba has to go, lula said, shaking her hands like she was flicking them dry. Let's get going. Her flight leaves in three hours, and with the traffic at Meskal Square and Bole Road, Saba leaned toward that wobbly needle as Facil used his fingernail to gently coax the dial. A breath closer. A tap. Nearly there. A gentle pull. Looks good, Fasil, saba said kindly but impatiently. It has to be precise, fasil replied, then turned to the gathered crowd. Look what you're making the poor girl carry. He pointed to that second suitcase. Saba tried to lift it, but it was heavy as an ox. Fasil rushed over and helped her pick it up, and when he felt it. Wait, he said. There's no way they'll let her take this. The crowd was unhappy to hear that, and so was Saba. The room hummed with disapproval punctuated with tsks and click tongues. I can just pay the fee, saba quickly said. But Lula stood again, put her hands up, and boomed, you will not pay a fee. It's too much money. You are our guest, and our guest will pay no fee. It's okay, saba said. If we must, we must. But now the resistance came from everyone. Saba looked helplessly at Fasil. Let me pay. I have to go. What else can I do? She asked. She looked at the others and wondered if this was one of those times when a no was supposed to be followed by a please. Yes. No, no, really, I insist. No, we couldn't.

Narrator/Actor (36:37)

Really. Yes. Yes, yes.

Fidelity Customer (36:39)

No. Okay, okay. Was it that kind of conversation, that call and response? Or was it the other kind, the no? No, really, I insist. No, we just couldn't. Okay, okay. No. Then okay. Of course you can't pay. They will never let you, fasil said, ending Saba's deliberation. He announced, I'll weigh the suitcase, and there was a general sigh of approval, but Fasil continued, if it's overweight, which it is, we are going to have to make some tough choices. He turned to Saba. You are going to have to make some tough choices. She nodded and hoped silently that it would come in. Wait, Please. If she could be granted one earthly wish in this moment, that was what she would wish for. She watched Facil heave the suitcase onto the scale and winced as the needle that hovered and Almost vibrated above zero shot to the right. 30 kilos, 10 kilos. Too heavy. The crowd began to murmur anxiously, and a few shouted out sounds of frustration. Then, one by one, the guests began to speak in turns, as if pleading their cases before a judge. Konjeet was the first up. She was old, at least 70, a verified elder who settled disputes and brokered weddings and divorces, part of that council of respected persons that held a neighborhood together. As Konjeet walked towards Saba, Saba bowed a little bit. Noor, Saba said, a sign of respect. Bags, konjeet replied, acknowledging that the order of things hadn't been completely turned on its head. Kanjit lifted the edge of her shawl, flung it around her shoulder, and walked slowly right up to the suitcase and unzipped it. She took out a package of chickpeas and tossed it on the ground, and though someone grumbled at this, Konjeet just smoothed her pressed hair behind her ears as if she was calming herself before an important announcement, an orator about to make a speech, an actress set to perform. Khaji held a hand up to the others who sat on the couches and chairs and waited for total silence. Then she turned to Saba, put her hands on both her hips, which swayed as she stepped closer to Saba, and said in a low voice that filled the small space, please, Saba, I haven't seen my grandchildren since they were two years old. How old are you? 20, Saba said apologetically. 20?

Narrator/Actor (39:14)

Ah.

Fidelity Customer (39:15)

In all the time you've been alive in this world, I have not seen them. Imagine I'm old now. Who can even say how old I am? I'm too old to count and getting older. I want to send this bread so they know people here love them. Most of the others in the room nod in agreement, but not Rachel. Rahel shook her head as she stood from the couch and walked right up to Khanjit, putting a hand on Khanjeet's arm. Who can say how old you are, Khanjeet? Me? I can say how old you are. Not the number of years, of course, but I can say for sure that I am older than you. One month, Remember? Rahel brought up that one month position of seniority often, and Saba had come to expect it within just her first week there, Saba learned that Rahel and Khonjit had grown up and grown old, fighting often about things like which church had the most blessed holy water, Ladeta Raquel or Giorgis Konjeet, or whether it was better to use white teff flower congeat or brown tefflower Rahel, or where you could get the best deals on textiles, Mercado Konjeet or Cherameda Rahel without fail, each argument ended with Rahel staking out a win by virtue of being slightly elder. Rahel bent down and removed one of the three loaves of bread from the suitcase and tried to hand it back to Kanjit, who refused to take it. Saba, wanting to hurry things along, reached out for the loaf, but Rahel placed the bread on the floor by her feet. You can bake a loaf, Kanjit, I give you that. But it takes you three hours to make that bread, eh? I spent two days, two days making this beautiful doro wat for my nephew. The power kept switching off. I had to go to Bole to freeze it in Sintayo's freezer, and she has all those kids and all those in laws and hardly any space in her house, let alone her freezer. But still, that's what it took to make this beautiful wat. Then I had to wrap the container so tight that should any melt in transit, it will stay safe and secure. And with these old old old fingers, she said, putting up her index, middle and ring fingers. Can you believe it? These old old fingers, she said now raising her pinky and thumb. These fingers a month older than yours, Kanjit. She pulled Saba over and put her fanned fingers on Saba's left shoulder, leaning on her. Just take this beautiful wat for me. It will be no problem. Right before Saba could say that this seemed reasonable, Wuro walked up to Saba and Saba shifted her attention again. I may not be the oldest and my hands don't ache like Rahel's, but please think about this objectively, Saba said Wuro, whose utilitarian views led her to make obviously questionable decisions like employing 15 workers in her small grocery store so that 15 more paychecks went out each month and 15 more families would be happy even if it put her one family on the verge of ruin. Ruo never argued her utilitarian views as forcefully though, as when they matched her own purposes. She cleared her throat and Saba waited for what she feared would be another well argued plea. Wirro began, if you don't send this bread Konjeet, your family will still eat bread. If you don't send this wat Rahel, your family will still eat wat. Woo took Saba's hand and said, my niece had a difficult pregnancy. You have to take this gun foe because if you don't take it well, there is no way to get gun fo in America. And who has ever heard of a woman not eating gun fo after labor? If you don't bring it she won't have it. Milk for the baby, Gun Fo for the mother. It is natural logic. You can't deny it. But American women don't eat gun pho. Do they eat gung pho? Saba asked Lula. She's never been pregnant in America, right? How would she know? Asked Waro. She's never been pregnant here. Does she even know Gun fo? Can't she? Saba said, I know Kunfo, and was met with whispered words of approval, so she refrained from adding how hard she had to swallow to get a spoonful down of the thick paste made from, she'd heard corn, wheat, barley, or banana root. She wasn't even sure. Whatever Gunvo was, she'd rather not bring it if it was up to her, but she wasn't actually sure of that either. Was it up to her? Saba is a smart girl, lula said. She probably read at least ten books in the four weeks she was here. Saba felt guilty then, because it was true that she had declined as many invitations as she accepted, choosing sometimes to read alone at home. She must know Americans have high tech things for women after their pregnancies. They don't need gun fo, lula said, rearranging the contents of the suitcase to make room for her own package. But you know what they do need in America? Have you ever tasted American butter? Lula looked at the others as if this would end the discussion. She stood up, opened her arms. Have you had American butter? No one spoke. Saba kept quiet, for of course she had eaten American butter, but what good would it do to mention that now? Besides, few had the courage to challenge strong willed, Lula, even with the the truth, no one here has ever had American butter. So then, that settles it. Lula took out another of Konjeet's loaves of bread and a bag of roasted grains. I have eaten American butter. I have tasted it with my own tongue. I can say with certainty that American butter is only the milk part. No spices, no flavor. It just tastes like fat. Please bring this butter to my best friend for her wedding banquet, lula said with her hands now pressed over her heart and looking pleadingly at Saba awe her wedding. And what a feat to get that man to the altar, his gambling and staying out late and Aye, aye aye, khonjir interrupted, shaking her head and removing Lula's butter and putting a second loaf back into the suitcase. You want her to bring butter so your friend can marry a bad man? Have you ever heard of such nonsense, Konjeet asked Saba. Saba shrugged and Konjeet said, see, she has never heard of such nonsense, and Saba didn't have the heart to correct her and didn't have the heart not to correct her, and she didn't know which would have helped her bring this to the right resolution, so she just made a vague gesture and let them finish. He is not a bad man, just a man man, lula said. Well, my son is a good man raising good grandchildren. Lula, my son brought you the stretchy pants you asked for from America when he visited Wuro. My son brought you a laptop last time he came, Rahel. He brought you cereal with raisins, the kind you always ask for. Facil. He brought you back books. Since you have long gone through everything at every library here, I assume, Saba one day, if you live in Ethiopia, he will bring you something too. Anything you ask, name something you miss here. Too much talk. Kanjit. Rahel yelled the traffic. She has to go. Kanjit swatted away Rahel's interruption and gestured to Saba. Saba tried to think of what to say. She didn't want to offend them by making them believe she had lacked for anything. She remembered how hurt Konjit had been when Saba visited after lunchtime, only to find a full meal waiting for her when Saba refused. Konjeet insisted that the dishes were very clean and the food fresh. That wasn't as bad, though, as sitting down to eat just a little and passing on the salad, the water, the cheese, the fruit, eating only the lentils and bread, accepting some coffee, but not even the milk. You've all been so kind to me, saba said, bowing respectfully, pronouncing all her syllables perfectly, precisely, as quickly as she could. I have not missed a thing. But it's late and it's true the traffic is bad. Khanjeet dismissed Saba. She has learned the Ethiopian way. Good girl. Too polite to say you need anything here, konjeet replied, putting an arm on Saba's shoulder. Kanjit continued, okay, don't tell us that's okay. But if you visit again to stay a while, and if you find you are homesick for something you grew accustomed to there in America, my son will bring it. He is a good son. I am asking you to take two loaves of bread, okay? Forget about the third. I don't want to ask too much of you, even though I am an old lady who has not seen her grandchildren in oh, I don't. Who knows how long? But these two loaves of bread must stay in the suitcase. Two loaves for my three grandchildren, so they know I am thinking about them, that I have not forgotten them. Saba could see that Konjeep was too proud to say what she really meant. She didn't want her grandchildren to forget about her, a fear she must bear, living so far away for so many years with only limited lines of of connection. Kanjit's argument hung in the air until Fikru stood hesitantly and walked over to the suitcase, finding his bag of spices on the floor beside it. He reached into the suitcase and took out three Amharic English dictionaries and tossed them onto the coffee table. Hannah shouted out, ay, why, Fikru? Would you do that? She ran over and picked up the books, then threw them back in. But Konjeet took them out, for they crushed her bread. Fikru, who kept opening his mouth to speak but found himself overpowered by the more forceful voices, seized his opportunity like a fourth chair orchestral musician stealing a flourish at the end of a number. He stood next to an overwhelmed Saba and said, everyone here has a relative in Seattle, yes? Then why is it that only my son is going to pick Saba up from the airport? He turned to the others. You talk about what so and so needs or has done, but my son, without asking for anything, has volunteered to get her. He will be carrying these heavy suitcases to his car. Then he will take her to her dorm and bring these heavy suitcases up the stairs, if there are stairs. Or down the hall, should there be a hall. What can it hurt to bring a few items for him? Vikru showed Saba his item. Just a few bag of spices. Kororima, Grain of paradise. Berbere. Please, Saba, a humble parcel for my humble son. Saba turned to her uncle Fasil and discreetly pointed to her watch. Okay, okay. You all have something to say? Fasil offered, cutting off the remaining guests who gathered around the suitcase, eager to make their appeals. But the traffic. Yes, the traffic said fit crew. The traffic. Rahel and Konjeet said in unison, and Lula nodded. Fasil turned to Saba. She asked him, what do you want to do? What do you want to do? Fasil asked her, though each person in that room had his or her body turned to the suitcase. All eyes were on Saba, who was trying to figure out how to navigate this scene. They looked her over and imagined she looked so. What? Different, just apart with her woven bag, which intermittently glowed with the light from her iPhone or beeped and pinged and vibrated from the sound of her other gadgetry, her American jeans tucked into tall leather boots, a white button down shirt, and gold earrings while they wore modest clothes and hand me downs, some of which she had brought herself. She had been in the country one whole month and had tried, they must know, to learn the culture, to reacquaint herself with her first home and fit in. And now here she stood on the last moments of her last day, still not sure what to do. While they looked at her lovingly and with curiosity too, Saba felt the weight of choosing what should be taken and what should be left behind. She was looking for a way out and a way in, but she realized there were really no shortcuts here. You have all been so kind, saba said. Rahel, you took me to listen to the Asmerus sing, she said, omitting that she had been too shy to dance such unfamiliar dances, no matter how encouraging Rahel had been. A few days later Rahel came back to take her to one of the new fancy hotels where an American cover band played to a foreign crowd, and Saba pretended to like being there. She imagined Rahel had pretended too. Wuro, you took me to the holiday dinner and we ate that delicious raw meat, sava said, of course, not mentioning that Fasil had to take her to the clinic the next day to get Cipro for her stomach cramps. Fikru, you brought me to Mercado to buy a dress, sava said. But what she most remembered was spending the trip chasing after him through the labyrinthine alleyways. Every so often when Fikru looked back at her, she would wave and smile and he'd keep going, losing her. Twice. She remembered the man with the messenger bag that morning, the one who had crossed the street, and his warning about starting things you can't finish or giving up too soon. Saba walked to the suitcase she had packed herself, filled with her own things, and in one quick gesture opened it, emptied the contents. Her best clothes fell to the floor, her favorite old jeans, most sophisticated dresses, her one polished blazer, a new pair of rain boots, T shirts collected from concerts and trips and old relationships. She pushed this empty suitcase to the center of the room. Dear friends, neighbors, and relatives, she said in forced Amharic, looking at the confused expressions that confronted her. Please, now there is room for it all. There were gasps, whispers, whistles, and inexplicably loud thud, but no laughter. Are you sure? Fikru asked. This is the least I can do, Saba said slowly. It is the least I can do. What about your belongings? Facil asked. We'll keep them safe for her in case she returns, konjit said, her voice commanding the space. Until she returns, rahel corrected. Until you return? Konjeet asked, and Sava said yes. Fasil got a bag, put Saba's things in, and told her he would store it in his own closet. The two suitcases were packed, weighed. The room applauded when both came in just under the limit and thrown into the trunk of Fascinating, which sagged a little in the rear. There were three cars in their little caravan that headed to the airport. The ride was slow. The weight of the overfill cars possibly complicated the trip, as did the rocky side streets and, of course, the congestion at the difficult intersections. They pressed on, and they reached the airport with absolutely no time to spare. Saba said quick, heartfelt goodbyes, thank yous, made fresh promises, then pulled the two big suitcases onto a luggage cart. Her family and friends of family watched from the waiting area as she moved quickly through the line to get her boarding pass. They looked on as the two suitcases were weighed and thrown on the screening belt, and they saw her pass the main checkpoint. Every time she looked back to the lobby, she could catch glimpses of them on tiptoe, waiting to see if they might connect with her one more time.

Meg Wolitzer (56:01)

That was Renee Elise Goldsberry with Marone Hedero's the Suitcase. The story is not only a wonderful introduction to a vivid and lively cast of characters, but leads us inevitably to the simple solution. I'm Meg Wolitzer. After presenting several of Hedero's beautiful stories, I was eager to speak with her, and happily she was available. The idea for every short story obviously starts somewhere and sometimes takes a kind of roundabout path, you know, to become eventually what it becomes. But with this story, I'm really wondering, how did it begin? How did it germinate?

Maron Hadero (56:35)

It came from a moment in my life when I was with family in Seattle and we heard that family that we knew, or friends that we knew were going back to Ethiopia, and there was rumor that there was space in a suitcase. So the request was cereal with raisins in it and stretchy pants like yoga pants. So, you know, we kind of went shopping and we gathered our items and we went to the suitcase, and when we arrived it was as if everyone we knew had the same idea. And I just remember standing in that room with this Raisin Bran and these yoga pants and looking around at everyone around me and Thinking what I'm seeing here isn't really what the meaning of this moment is. You know, it just seemed like there were so many layers in that moment and there was so much emotion and so much loss and this feeling of distance. And it. It struck me that this is what Diaspora feels like.

Meg Wolitzer (57:50)

That's a really beautiful description. I love it. And it also describes that wonderful way that a writer just sort of looks at something and then it becomes something else. This idea of this sort of quotidian thing of, you know, a suitcase becomes this powerful, meaningful thing to you and deeply haunting.

Maron Hadero (58:12)

This was a very unique experience. And I just remember thinking of the kind of dimensions of this, not just of the suitcase, but of the kind of unspoken stories around me. You could hear the stories that weren't being.

Meg Wolitzer (58:28)

Every member of the family in this story is so wonderfully distinct. How do you go about building character?

Maron Hadero (58:35)

I started with Saba. She feels like she doesn't have or doesn't deserve the authority that she's given. I think that allows her to step back and let the other characters kind of have a moment. They have to be distinct in this story because, you know, they're fighting for space. The kind of premise, like structurally it's a zero sum problem. You know, if somebody wins, someone else loses. So when Khonjeet is asking Saba, please bring these three loaves of bread, you know what she's saying, but not saying is really important. And that's what I think makes her kind of fleshed out. What she's saying and not saying is, I haven't seen my family for decades. I'm lonely and it's painful being left behind. And, you know, I wish it was me who was traveling this distance and not these three loaves of bread. But bring these three loaves of bread so that there is that connection that.

Meg Wolitzer (59:38)

Was author Maron Hedero. See, wasn't that simple. In all these stories about problems and solutions, we're made to realize that you can't provide a of sense solution unless you've really identified the problem, which is often not what you think it is. You may not be able to do much personally about climate change, but I hope we've at least made your next family occasion easier. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Myles B. Smith. Our programs presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Dierdorf Petersen Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.

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