Knots

by Nuruddin Farah

  Then, as if on cue, more like a referee stopping a boxing match, a fresh sandstorm gets up so fiercely again that she cannot make them out anymore, and in fact she loses them in the wake of its rise. And when next she spots them, it feels as though they are stirring themselves into her sight, hurtling into view in a tumble of somersaults. At first they appear peripherally, then they come closer, assuming a physical prominence that she associates with imminent danger. Finally, they are there as an unwelcome menace to her existence.

  She waits for them. At their approach, her discomfort empties her of all her courage and she feels weak where she has known herself to be strong: in her convictions. This is because she does not know the first thing about what they are after, or if the pad of papers that she picked up and put in her bag has anything to do with it. What can they want? Just to be sure, she stuffs the papers into the front of her veil, close to her chest, her heart beating abnormally fast. It has not been her intention to provoke anyone or attract attention to herself. However, if this is what has happened, she will have to deal with it; she will not fear them or run away from them, conscious that, like dogs, they will zero in on the slightest intimation of panic. They are now bearing down on her, as though they are a pride of lions cornering their pushover prey. She unzips the sides of her custom-made veil so she has more space in which to move about for self-defense.

  Four youths, only one of them ostensibly armed, a second bearing a heavy club. She tells herself that she can take the armed one and the one with the club at a go, no question about it. She is worried about the two others, one of them a youth of indeterminate age, more like a dwarf, because of his size and his fully developed muscles, the other thin as a weed, barely a threat. Her knife in her left hand, hidden from view by a shopping bag, she moves away from them with the slowness of a huntress in a territory familiar to her, convincing herself that she is the one in pursuit of them, not they her. She stops all of a sudden and turns on them, the urge to strike at the gun-toting one so great in her mind that she struggles under the weight of her conscience, preoccupied that she might murder him and the one with the club too.

  Then she speaks, her voice mean like a man’s. She addresses her words to the tallest of them. She chooses him, because he is moving quickly toward her threateningly while the others stay back, as if deferring to the bodily boundary around a veiled woman, whom a man must not approach in an irreverent way.

  “What’s it you want?”

  He puts a hard edge into his voice, and, throwing his club away to his right, he studies her expression, maybe with a view to finding out if she is afraid, before saying, “It’s such a shame that you have to cover yourself. Why hide the beauty with which God has blessed you?”

  The youth is an addict qaat-chewer, to judge from the rotten state of his teeth and his eyes red from sleeplessness. His demeanor is utterly disdainful once he gets going. He is in all likelihood a flasher too. She has seen his kind of sexual poise and lusty look in other men with equally sick minds. She will not let him frighten her into easy submission. Red-Eyed Randy cups his crotch with his hands and fondles the entire area, his stare trained on her.

  “Don’t you want it?” he asks.

  To get the better of him, she takes a step back, creating a distance, as she weighs her options, considers what she must do in the face of such crass behavior, and tries to anticipate what his response might be. Of course, she is a novice when it comes to physical violence, this being the first time she has engaged a total stranger in this way. She reasons that it is one thing exchanging blows with Wardi, who in any case was no stranger, and another to take on the city’s rogues. Her body temperature rises to the hotness of an airing cupboard; she is short of breath, her lungs empty of oxygen, feeling as though dried up. If she is not scared stiff, it is because she knows she can karate-kick him in the balls and for good measure boot him on his bum too.

  Red-Eyed Randy is surprised that, unafraid, Cambara is fixing him through the veiled netting with a hateful smirk and treating him as if the two of them are duelists holding each in the other’s steady stare, she looking the more amused and he appearing bothered, if a little shaken. This is the way she is playing her mental game: She wants to irritate him into acting prematurely. He has his own plan, however, and starts gesticulating as though masturbating. When she makes mockery of him, Red-Eyed Randy is flummoxed. He becomes more self-conscious the instant he imagines what impression his two mates, who are watching with great interest, will have of him.

  In his attempt to gain the upper hand, Red-Eye appeals to his armed companion, maybe suggesting that he intervene. Cambara now concentrates her stonier stare on Red-Eye’s mate, ArmedCompanion. The movements of her hand under her robe meet his worried expressions, and the armed youth takes a step backward. He stands apart from everyone else, vigilant, and even with his weapon poised, ready to shoot, he acts as though he is noncommittal. Cambara behaves as if none of this fazes her. She waits for one of the youths to make a move, and as she does, she bores her barely visible eyes into the soft center that she identifies in the youngest of the youths, who strikes her as very sweet and of a vulnerable age and perhaps background, even if susceptible to peer influence. She reckons that he has not the mad courage to challenge either Red-Eye or ArmedCompanion or to stop them from being a nuisance.

  She says to him in an older woman’s tone of voice, which sounds effortlessly shaky, “Have your friends no respect for a woman their mothers’ age who is on her way to an ailing granddaughter who is as old as they are?”

  MereBoy fidgets. He looks from Red-Eye to ArmedCompanion, then to his silent mate, and finally to Cambara, his expression marked with a huge indecision. The unreality of her current situation and MereBoy’s pleading look prompt her to reach deep within her in an effort to tap her requisite sense of aplomb. She is aware that MereBoy is no challenge to them; she knows it and knows that they know it. Moreover, he does not have the words with which to set himself apart from them. And even though she discerns that he wishes he had the means to express his separateness, yet it is obvious that he is not bestowed with the physical strength or experience to fight off Red-Eye and ArmedCompanion successfully. It eases Cambara’s anxiety a little that MereBoy is on her side. That leaves her to contend with the two who are picking a fight and a third who is silent all the time. Not knowing what he may do or if he will want to get involved, she prepares to practice her karate on anyone who makes the slightest threatening move.

  When Cambara’s hand moves in the direction of where her weapon and the pad of papers are tucked away, hidden, Red-Eye changes his mood as quickly as a traffic light turning amber. Cambara looks from Red-Eye to ArmedCompanion and to MereBoy.

  “Give it here,” he says.

  Cambara looks from Red-Eyed Randy to ArmedCompanion and to MereBoy, and she acts with feigned fright. She achieves her aim.

  MereBoy says to Red-Eye, “Why do you not let the lady be? Now look at what you have made her do. You are frightening her.”

  Cambara says to Red-Eye, “Give what here?”

  Red-Eyed Randy stands close to ArmedCompanion, who has the unfazed expression of a professional boxer challenged to a fight by a drunken nightclub bouncer.

  Meanwhile MereBoy is saying, “My mother walks to the market veiled. Please let’s leave this woman alone. Can’t you see? She is respectably veiled.”

  Red-Eyed Randy whispers in ArmedCompanion’s ears before saying to MereBoy, “I’ll kick you in the teeth if you don’t shut your mouth. She is not like your mother or mine. She is a city-bred whore.”

  MereBoy says, “Whores do not cover themselves as this good woman does. So let her go about her business. Please.”

  Red-Eye says, impatiently, to MereBoy, “Ask her to take a couple of steps forward and a couple of steps back and you will see what I mean.”

  “What will I see?”

  “Remember, you fool,” he says to MereBoy, “that I was the one who spotted her yesterday and followed
her for a long time. She does not walk like a respectable woman.”

  “Why does any of this matter?”

  ArmedCompanion struts about pretending to be a model on a catwalk.

  “She is not as beautiful as Iman.”

  “I bet she is. Underneath.”

  “Let us make her take off her veil,” says Red-Eye.

  “Will you find out what she is hiding in her bosom?”

  “Let’s.” Moving in her direction, Red-Eye says to ArmedCompanion, “Cover me and I will.” He stretches out his hand toward her.

  She says, “Don’t touch me.”

  “What if I do?”

  “Be warned.”

  He turns to his companions. “She is threatening me.”

  “Show her you are man enough,” says ArmedCompanion.

  He says to Cambara, “Are you daring me?”

  At his approaching, his hand ahead of him reaching to touch the material of her veil, Cambara smells his bad breath and is as repulsed as if he had requested that they have unwanted sex. She is most indignant at the thought of him defiling her, and she breaks rank with decorum and allows herself to become violent. She springs a surprise on them by grabbing RedEye by the hand and twisting his arm until she almost pulls it out of its socket. Then, in a move whose ferocity surprises even her, she acts as the mad version of a dog whose rabies shot is overdue, and, before ArmedCompanion knows what is happening, she aims a high kick with unexpected fury at ArmedCompanion, then at Red-Eye’s crotch. ArmedCompanion loses his gun to her, and Red-Eye rolls on the ground, moaning and holding on to his wounded manhood. She does not bother with MereBoy, who, wide-eyed with fear, bears witness to what has been done to his two tough-looking companions and looks from Cambara to Red-Eye and ArmedCompanion, who lie almost lifeless on the ground, the one holding his throat and groaning, the other clutching his crotch and crying with pain, and finally to their silent companion, who is probably deaf or dumb or something, Cambara thinks. For a moment, MereBoy is not certain whether to raise his hands in submissive surrender to her authority or reiterate his position that he has all along been of the opinion that they should let her be. Deciding to stay, MereBoy remarks not only that she has no need to behave in an animated way—she has made her point all right—but also that she is wearing handsome boots. Under her veil, which is no ordinary veil, because it unzips on the sides, allowing her kicking legs freedom of movement.

  No sooner has she kicked the gun away from their reach than she hears a car approaching, then stopping, and men coming out. Cambara is clear in her mind that she will stand her ground and not run, no matter what. She reaches for her weapon in the event she may need to use it, at first to frighten them away and as a last resort to defend herself. The men, however, are taking their leisurely time, the ramrod-straight man walking toward her with the authority of one to whom the roads and everything and everyone on it belongs, the other, his hands hidden from her, assessing the situation with the professionalism of an army man. He bends down, never permitting his eyes to leave Red-Eye and ArmedCompanion, kicks the gun away as they do in films, and then nods at the ramrod-straight man.

  The more she stares at the straight-backed man the more she feels drawn to him, convinced that her life will have changed immeasurably between the instant the two of them exchange a few words and the instant they part company. The mysterious man has the full features of a destiny offering itself to Cambara, and she is more than willing not only to acknowledge it but also to accept it with the powerlessness of a woman who has fallen victim to her fascination. The question is, is she ready to receive it?

  The man with the ramrod back says to the military type, his voice deep and reassuring, “Are there any problems? Can we help?”

  Cambara works herself up to a point of no fear. Moreover, she senses there are not many other courageous undertakings that are beyond her ability to handle. She is amused at her remembrance of an adage ascribed to a cowardly Mogadiscian that any man who can kill a rat with his bare hands and without fear is also able to slaughter a human.

  Her voice belying the extent of her worry, she says, “There are no problems that I know of, unless you are bringing some yourself.”

  “We bring peace.”

  Misty-eyed, she looks from the man who introduces himself as Bile to the military type whom he presents to her as Dajaal. Bile is squinting at the sun as he does the presentations, whereas Dajaal is moving about as one does when securing a battle zone, making it safe for the victors currently occupying it. First off, he retrieves the firearm and the club before telling MereBoy to move away. Then he walks over to the car and brings out elastic cables with which he ties Red-Eye’s and ArmedCompanion’s hands to their backs.

  Cambara asks Bile, “Why is he doing this?”

  “To render them inactive until we leave.”

  Dajaal wonders aloud, “Where do we go from here?”

  “Let’s ask the lady,” Bile suggests.

  “A lift, please.”

  “Where do you live?” Dajaal says.

  Cambara seizes up.

  To assure Cambara of his good intentions, Bile says, “We’ll take you where you want to go.”

  Dajaal does not seem to approve.

  “Come anyway.”

  Eventually, as they leave, a general sense of triumph pervades the air. A feeling of relief etches itself on Cambara’s face, as at Bile’s insistence, Dajaal escorts her from “the scene of a virtuous woman’s battle against the wicked forces that are besieging the city” to the vehicle, the tips of his fingers in discreet contact with the voluminous sleeve of her veil. Dajaal tells Red-Eye Randy and his mates to bugger off and gives them fierce kicks in their pants, promising them worse reprisals if he sees them in the neighborhood. Inspired hope rises before her as she sits in the back of the car behind Bile, who, when silent, strikes her as living in a world of his own.

  Cambara acknowledges with caution that she must beware of surrendering to Bile’s magic charm: a handsome man with a distinctively remote gaze not likely to come into close focus, despite Dajaal’s gentle prompting. The only bodily exertion he engages in is to take off his glasses, breathe onto them, one at a time, and then wipe them with a clean handkerchief, which he then replaces in his trouser pocket. Then he rubs his eyes, permitting a smirk to spread across his features. Bile strikes her as if he is a child refusing to wake up from a deep sleep.

  Dajaal asks, “Where to?”

  He receives no response.

  He says, “I’ve asked where you live.”

  She looks away from Dajaal to Bile, who, to the trained eye of a woman who takes pleasure in interpreting facial expressions, looks battle weary. Not that she can explain why it bothers her, but she cannot work out Bile and Dajaal’s relationship: Dajaal takes the initiative, and Bile quietly and self-absorbedly sits in the back, hardly advancing an opinion. She notes that he is holding a book gingerly and using his index finger as a bookmark; he stares away impatiently as though he were eager to return to his interrupted reading. No matter how hard she tries, she is unable to make out the title of the book he has on his lap. Convinced that he is more interesting to get to know than Dajaal, Cambara wishes she could eavesdrop on his unspoken thoughts.

  Restless, her drifting gaze meets Dajaal’s, and she smiles. Although she does not wish to admit it, the truth is that she does not know the names of the streets they are in. Nor does she know how to lead him to the family property. After all, walking to a place is different from getting there in a car, driven by someone else.

  “Shall I guide you to where I want to be taken?”

  “Kindly do,” says Dajaal.

  He follows her instructions, making a conscious effort not to look at either her or Bile. He stares ahead of himself, turning left, veering right, and then going straight until they arrive at the shopping complex, where she requests that he stop, and he obliges. She gets out, thanking them both. She stands on the passenger side of the vehicle, close to where Bile i
s. He is writing phone numbers on a piece of paper, which he hands over to her without saying anything.

  As she takes her first two steps away from the vehicle, she becomes mindful of the undeniable consciousness that her life in Mogadiscio and her destiny have both taken decisive turns. She hopes that her encounter with the two men, Bile above all, will prove to be propitious.

  FOURTEEN

  On her way to the family property with an escort, Cambara is delighted that the shopkeeper, to whom she returns the bag he loaned her, with thanks, has proven himself worthy of her confidence and admiration, because he has served her truly well. A pity she didn’t remember to ask him about his wife, of whom, insofar as she could tell, there was no sign. Cambara has come away from the shopping complex laden with a motley collection of edibles, some of which she bought from him or some with his help; he has a friendly way of sending one of his assistants to get for her whatever she desires. At times, they go to other shops and on occasion to the stalls where you get fresh produce. Her purchases being too heavy for her to carry all by herself, the shopkeeper’s nephew, a teenager, has volunteered to help her cart the stuff, the two of them walking level for much of the way, neither speaking. She wonders how she can dispense with his services just before she reaches her destination without arousing his suspicions or inconveniencing herself, considering the number of bags she has to haul all on her own. After all, she does not want him to know what she is up to, nor is she keen for him to meet Jiijo or any of the other objectionable characters. If luck is on her side, they will get to her target with no one near the gate to the property or its vicinity, or for that matter anywhere along the road. She thinks that she will stop two gates down or up the road from the property’s, depending, tip him generously, and then dispose of him, saying, “Thanks, you’ve been most wonderful. I can cope now.” When he has been gone for a couple of minutes, then, unescorted, she will knock on the gate.