Knots

by Nuruddin Farah

  Her former husband, on the other hand, had marketable qualifications: an undergraduate degree in gynecology, in addition to a postdoctoral in a related subject from Germany. He became one of the few Somalis to whom the CMA granted a license, and he was in high demand, serving as a consultant to two hospitals. Well paid and highly sought after as he was, it was not long before world bodies with UN backing, including WHO, recruited him for assignments here and there, eventually posting him to the Indian subcontinent as its representative. By then, his professional success and her apparent lack of self-fulfillment became the third party in their lives, which he gradually opted out of. He started having affairs, first with the women working with him as assistants and then zeroing in on one of them as his mistress.

  On discovering these shenanigans, she went about her business in a mature style, neither letting on that she knew about his infidelity nor displaying any signs of tension or unease in their day-to-day intercourse. She put the two boys in a boarding school and then, thanks to a lawyer, put the screws to her wayward husband, making him agree to a large one-time alimony payment and, in the bargain, taking possession of their five-bedroom family house. Then, with the money in the bank, topped off with a guaranteed loan, she set up an import-export business with an office she ran from home and, when necessary, traveled back and forth between the various cities she had to get to, mostly in the Arabian Gulf. Rarely, however, did she spend more than two consecutive weekends away from Toronto, making certain she was available for her two sons, especially when they were younger. She brought her elderly mother and a younger half sister, almost Cambara’s age, to fill in for her in the event she did not get back in time. Now that both boys were at universities—one at Guelph, the other at McGill—the responsibility of looking after their mother and running the house fell to her younger sister. In addition to her important role in their household, Raxma remains the main bedrock to a community of Somali women, among whom Cambara was proud to be one.

  The two women first met barely a month after Cambara had set up a makeup studio with seed money from her mother, following two years of apprenticeship at another one similar in conception but different in its clientele. Cambara intended hers to appeal to the up-and-coming young black professional classes, in particular the women, who, as a group, were conscious about their appearance and wanted to “improve” the flow, ebb, and texture of their hair. Many of these women, being of an independent cast of mind, were more likely to be single, even if they were of the view that the reconstructed men with whom they might be prepared to set up a life and a home were seldom easy to come across. Because of the particularity of their status, the women spent a lot of money to look good.

  The paint on the inside walls was still fresh, the patrons rare, the business lean, when one afternoon Raxma walked in, not so much to pay for the services of a makeup artist as talk. How she talked, as if at the touch of a button, about the plans she had the moment Cambara had seated her at a chair and, wrapping a white cloth around her front, asked, “And what have we got here?” For one thing, Cambara did not expect Raxma to answer the question, which to her was another way of saying “What can I do for you?” or “How would you like me to be of service to you?” For another, she was equally intrigued, once the flood of words suffused with charged emotion sluiced out of the new client, when, by way of introduction, she presented herself as “Raxma” and mentioned a friend of hers and Cambara’s, a name that rang no bell in the memory of her listener. Prompted by Cambara, Raxma talked not as if she were sad or enraged, not at all; she spoke as if she were talking into a Dictaphone from which someone else would transcribe her chatter into decipherable text. Even so, she did not pass up the opportunity and therefore spoke quite openly to Cambara about her agitated state of mind, as if they were old friends. Raxma explained that she had just discovered that her husband of many years had been cheating on her with one of his assistants at the hospital where he worked as a consultant. The expression on Raxma’s face, as she talked, seemed snarled up into a sudden tangle of indefinable emotions. Moreover, her wild gestures, now that Cambara had meanwhile removed the cloth from around her and freed Raxma’s hands to gesticulate liberally, alerted Cambara to a deep hurt. This set Cambara’s mind to do what she could to hearten Raxma, at least gladden her day.

  Remaining inside but not drawing the curtains, Cambara put up the “Closed” sign and waved away a couple of potential customers. Face to face with Raxma, she listened some more as her newfound friend elaborated on the agonized articulation of her suffering. Half an hour later, they left the studio and together—with Raxma still talking and Cambara attentively listening—went to a café where Cambara was a regular; sat in a corner, away from all the others; asked for tea, coffee, and cream; and chatted. They remained there until the lights came on, had a light dinner, and then drove in their respective cars to Cambara’s apartment, where they had more drinks.

  Raxma rang her two boys, addressing them by their pet names, into which she put as much affection as she could into each of the syllables they comprised. It was clear that the two boys were the world to her and that she would not do anything to harm them, including denying them the filial right to live together with both parents. Before ringing off, she suggested, since she was coming home late, that they order a pizza and pay for it from the cash kitty. They were very happy to do that. Of course, she knew they would watch TV all night, if they could, and not, as they promised, do their homework. When she returned from speaking to her two boys on the phone, Raxma was saying “Good riddance to bad rubbish” in the improvisatory manner of an actor rehearsing a part for the first time.

  Hesitant to ask what Raxma meant, Cambara looked away, obviously pretending that she did not hear anything. Raxma hung her head in pensive silence, narrowing her eyes into slits of utter concentration. Apparently, she had made a snap decision in the instant between the time she suggested that the boys order a pizza and the minute she got back into the living room with Cambara. Raxma resolved to send the boys off to boarding school, and she shared her impulsive choice with Cambara.

  “What will you do with the time and freedom that you earn from this?” Cambara asked.

  Raxma said, “Do you know a lawyer?”

  As luck had it, Cambara had a lawyer friend, a neighbor she had known for a number of years. Mauritanian-born Maimouna was a diehard feminist who had experience as a litigator for the cause of women in the Canadian courts. A powerhouse, Maimouna was dedicated, loyal to the wisdom attributed to Simone Weil that if there is a hideous crime in modern society, it is repressive justice against women. She saw her principal role as a fighter for women’s causes, especially the Muslim wives who often had a raw deal in Canada. A patron of the studio and someone she had known for much longer, Maimouna frequently dropped in on Cambara both at work and at home.

  “When would you like to meet a lawyer?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Would you like me to present you to one?”

  “Yes, soon, and preferably a woman.”

  “Consider it done,” Cambara said.

  “Then I will take him to the cleaners.”

  “After which?”

  “If successful, then I’ll work toward settling on an occupation,” Raxma said. “The idea of getting into the import-export business appeals to me. I will have to see how much money I am able to raise from taking someone I know to the cleaners.”

  She did not find it curious or annoying that Raxma never, ever mentioned her husband by name—something, Cambara knew, Somali women who were displeased with their spouses tended to do as a way of self-distancing. Such women referred to their spouse only in the third person, as “he” or “him,” without once allowing his name to pass or, rather, sully their lips.

  A phone call half an hour later sufficed to get Maimouna to come to Cambara’s apartment for a chat and a bit of salad, and before midnight, the lawyer agreed to represent Raxma. All told, it took about nine months to set a
date for the preliminary hearing of the case and less than a year for the couple to reach an out-of-court settlement. In the hiatus, Cambara saw a lot of Raxma and her two boys, spending a lot of her free time with them or their mother. All four of them would drive to Ottawa in one vehicle and visit Arda on long weekends. As it turned out, Raxma was the only person other than Arda who was privy to Cambara’s true thinking about becoming a spouse to Zaak. It was during these early days that Cambara filled her in on what was happening and Raxma chose to stay protectively in the background, reserving the right to remain circumspect until Zaak’s arrival in Toronto. She displayed untiring loyalty to Cambara and held her hand all through her ordeals. When it came her turn to help Cambara, whose life was upended, Raxma stepped in and provided companionship and other forms of encouragement to speed her recovery. She pronounced her catchphrase—“Good riddance to bad rubbish”—on the day Cambara booted out Zaak. Then Raxma filled a designer’s clay pot with water, and, to the accompaniment of ululation and loud drumming, Cambara, at her behest, took a stick to it, breaking it, so that the water, now set free, might flow out, a symbolic enactment of a woman’s release from eternal bondage. They had a weeklong party, together celebrating their status, two women rejoicing their newly enfranchised respective conditions, with Raxma decidedly backdating the coming of her freedom, because it was time, she argued, that she commemorated the event with a reinvigorated sense of accumulated joy.

  Before long, Cambara needed Raxma’s wise admonition, having made the acquaintance of a charmer named Wardi, whom she described as her one and only infatuation ever. As Cambara gushed about him in a midnight phone call from Geneva—Cambara did not ring her mother to share the news until several hours later—her advice took the shape of a warning wrapped, with flair, in an offer that Cambara could not refuse. Not only did she reprove her friend to stay clear of the fellow under whose magic spell she had fallen, but she also agreed that were Cambara to respond positively to her own heart’s dictates and choose to disregard her advice, then she could rest assured that this would not upset her at all. She would continue to support her, regardless. She concluded, “Don’t be deceived by his honeyed tongue, but if you feel you are in love and therefore a fool, then I am all for you, my sweet.”

  Arda, on the contrary, was unflattering in her first comments about Cambara’s choice of love, her negative response being instantaneous, visceral, scurrilous, and as insalubrious as a city surrounded by swamps fraught with ill-favored affliction. When Cambara’s pleas to talk about it sensibly met with condescending rejection and Arda resorted to making threats that she would have nothing more to do with either of them if Cambara went ahead with this madness, Cambara found a way of bringing their conversation to an end without being terribly rude. But not before Arda had this to say: “How can you be besotted with him when you’ve barely known the man for a week? I have other plans in place for you, my love. Unfortunately, my plans have no room for a loser like him. Let’s be clear about that.”

  “It is my life, Mother, and I will do with it what I please, with or without your approval,” Cambara retorted, and hung up the phone.

  Raxma met Cambara at the airport, welcoming her back from Geneva with flowers and comforting hugs. Then she had her to dinner that very evening, and, for the first time ever, Cambara embarked, sadly, on mapping out a plan that would alter her life from that time forward, without Arda occupying center stage. Raxma had the privilege of providing what assistance Cambara needed to design the framework, which would facilitate Wardi joining her in Toronto as her spouse. Further input, from a legal point of view, came from Maimouna, whom they consulted shortly thereafter. Meanwhile, convinced that Cambara would come to her senses, what with an ocean separating her from her flame, Arda found herself refusing to negotiate her way out of the tight corner; instead she dug in, unwaveringly adamant that they would see which of them would eat humble pie. The impasse was in place—Arda continuing to help financially and Raxma serving as a link in their indirect contact—until long after Wardi’s arrival and almost three months after Cambara’s visit to the maternity clinic, when she learned that she was pregnant. Then Arda summoned her to visit, alone. Pushing aside their differences, without either alluding to what had transpired, Arda and Cambara got cracking. They did their window-shopping, their arms linked, and Arda showered Cambara and the unborn baby, sex yet unknown, with gifts galore. Truce holding, Cambara flew back to Toronto, joyous. A fortnight later, Arda summoned Wardi to Ottawa, again alone, to assess his trustworthiness. Pressed to pass her judgment, Arda described him as “crafty, with long-term chicaneries hatching on a back burner.” No one dared tell Arda that Cambara had put his name down as a co-owner of the apartment in which they lived. Dalmar’s birth brought Arda fully into the swing of things.

  Cambara might have relaxed herself into believing that she was on to good stuff, especially after motherhood and Wardi landing a job with a law firm, thanks to Maimouna, if a curse had not looked upon her with the disfavor: He found other women an eyeful and strayed into other beds. She stepped away from confronting him, at times reasoning that neither would win and that Dalmar, their son, would ultimately be the loser, at others thinking ahead about what Arda might say in her riposte. Then, one day, she left her son, by this time an exuberant, bumbling nine-year-old, in Wardi’s care, only to learn barely six hours later that afternoon that Dalmar had drowned in the pool while Wardi was giving Susannah, his host and law partner, a tumble.

  On hearing the news of Dalmar’s death, Cambara froze, at first refusing to bring herself to accept it, not even after she identified the corpse at the mortuary. Her heart stopped in reaction to the gravity of what had happened: that he would no longer be in her dreams, living, active as the young are, loving, and seeing her in his dreams. Wardi was to blame; so was she, come to that. She crumbled to her wobbly knees, screaming obscenities, mostly at herself, for entrusting Dalmar into his irresponsible hands. She felt so incapacitated that she disintegrated, her paralysis complete. No “I told you so” from Arda, who was impeccable in her self-restraint, no self-satisfied remarks either.

  It was not long before Wardi wore his crafty colors to the courts, cashing in on the deed declaring him the co-owner of her apartment, which he now proposed they sell. From then, he inspired nothing but derision in her, and she showed her aversion toward him in both private and public. When he got physical, hitting her, and walked away from her with a swagger, she struck him more fiercely, paying him in the currency of his aggression and causing him pain where men hurt most, in the whatnots.

  The surprise stunt Zaak has pulled on her now prompts further anger, which works its way into her joints and affects her muscular coordination. By turns murderous—when she thinks about Wardi—and mortally offended—when she thinks about what Zaak has said—her body goes rigid at the thought of resorting to violence, something she has done once before, against Wardi, when he struck her in the face. Her temperature rising, her posture becomes that of a kung fu master balling his hands into fists and gearing up to hit back. Scarcely has she talked herself into calming down when the idea of beating Zaak to a pulp dawns on her. She relives in her memory the one and only occasion when she hit back, in anger and in self-defense. It troubles her to imagine what might become of her if she carries out retaliatory measures every time someone upsets her. How can she square her liking to settle arguments through violent means with her claim that she has come to Somalia, among other things, to put a distance between her and Wardi? And to mourn, in peace, while living in a city ravaged by war.

  Looking back on it all, Cambara decides that the one fundamental fault in Wardi’s character is that he presumed that just because Cambara was a woman, she was more vulnerable in the event of a fistfight than he was. He discovered to his detriment, however, that fury insinuates itself into the fists of a woman who has been spurned and then struck in the face, with the adrenaline resulting from the spleen so far accumulated turning into brute strength. And
with so much suppressed wrath going round, the scorned party might transform the gall gathered in the pit of her pique into brawn as powerful as that of an elephant going amok.

  She remembers training in martial arts for years in secret, ever since marrying Zaak, whom she wrongly assumed might one evening have a go at fighting his way into the privacy of her bedroom and then imposing his uncared-for sexual appetite on her. As it turned out, he did no such thing, either because he lacked the necessary pluck and pulled back just in time before pushing his luck with her or because he feared what Arda might do to him if he had. To be sure, there was a great deal of subdued aggression implicit in Zaak’s behavior, but he did not take it out on her; he did so only after he separated from her and married a poor woman whom he could ill-treat with impunity. That Cambara eventually let loose the animal wildness of her bottled-up decade-old rage toward Wardi did not surprise those who knew her full story. That she got the better of Wardi, beating him to near death, was a testament to a spurned woman’s fury mutating her pent-up anger into strength.