The line disconnected, Cambara feels its dead weight and drops it. What do you know? she tells herself. Raxma and Kiin talk to each other often, and Arda is kept abreast of her daily activities. What other arrangements, of which she, Cambara, is unaware, are in progress?
After showering, Cambara orders room service. She does not have the heart to face anyone, least of all Gacal, the sight of whom will sadden her; Kiin, who is bound to ask her about her latest doings; and SilkHair, whom she meant to talk to today, but can’t be bothered now to contact, in view of her current mood.
Breakfast consumed, she tries to read Flannery O’Connor’s “Good Country People,” but is unable to concentrate, turning the pages without retaining any of what she has read. Then the phone rings, and, answering it, she is connected to a male voice with which she is unfamiliar, Bile’s.
“I’ve phoned just to let you know I am well.”
He sounds top-notch, and they chat with extraordinary ease about this and that but never touch on what transpired at his place yesterday. He does not ask her questions about it; she does not allude to it at all. He refers, however, at some point, to his talks with both Seamus and Dajaal about the masks, and reiterates that the idea of “limited release,” which has always been his, reduces the risk, as it does not rouse the enraged sentiments of the Islamists who oppose producing any play, with or without masks; and it will also not give ammunition to other injured parties who have lost out in the process of the reacquisition of her family property.
Then he asks, “When do we meet?”
“Tell me when,” she says.
“I’ll come and visit you at the property.”
“Look forward to seeing you then.”
The line off, she feels half livened up by a memory of her dream of the night before, in which she and Bile are alone, near a knocked-together shack. But they are very calm in themselves and sit in the sweet shade of a fruiting mango tree. They are eating grapes from a bowl, feeding each other in turn, their fingers touching as they do so, their lips, their eyes, their faces framed with traces of joy. Close by, two half-naked boys, in their preteens, are in the water, noisily splashing themselves and playing a catch-and-throw ball game, their contentedness apparent.
Then Cambara marks out the presence in the heavens of a medium-sized gray hawk surveying the scene from just above them for a long time before eventually alighting on a branch in another mango tree adjacent to theirs. The hawk nests quietly, and, as Cambara returns her attention to the goings-on, which are close to her heart, the hawk’s short broad wings flap now and then, as if it might take off or perhaps it is reminding her that it is there, deciding on its next move.
And before she knows it, the hawk comes down, unafraid, landing noiselessly very close to where she and Bile are still feeding one another, touching, preparatory to lovemaking. Strangely, neither Bile nor Cambara seem to mind, once it becomes obvious to them that the hawk poses them no danger and is feeding on the fruit insects proliferating in their vicinity. When the two boys arrive, disporting themselves, wrestling catch-as-catch-can, dashing about, and frolicking, the hawk does not appear to approve, and, zeroing in on them, chases them away. Scarcely has she had time to wonder why when she notices that the hawk is raking in pursuit of a large-headed snake, which it secures with its mighty talons, dismembering it instantly.
It is then that a Dajaal look-alike approaches from the left to scare off the hawk, shooing it away with the accompaniment of untoward comments. The bird is not happy about being run off or having to abandon the dead snake in its disemboweled state. Cambara looks to Bile, hoping that he might intervene and persuade Dajaal not to interfere with the hawk or its exploits.
Bile does no such thing at first. He waits to see what Dajaal’s intentions are and if he can interpret them. Dajaal gathers the snake with care, and, carrying its corpse, which is dripping with blood, away from his own body, walks over to where the two boys are romping about in the water, competing, and he throws it at them. The boys shriek with fright. They plunge into the water, staying under, only to surface at the deeper end of what looks like a lake. Gacal appeals to Cambara, “Please help.”
Angry, Bile rises to his full height with such abruptness that he kicks over the bowl of grapes and spills its entire contents. He is enraged; he is trembling, at a loss for words. He stares furiously, in silence, at the figure that is no longer a Dajaal look-alike but a man resembling Zaak, even if he seems younger and a great deal healthier. Bile wants an explanation from Zaak’s look-alike, but it becomes evident soon enough that the figure that bears a likeness, insofar as Cambara is concerned, to Dajaal and, insofar as Bile is concerned, to Zaak has none to offer. Whereupon, Cambara picks up a club to strike the figure, who takes off. She runs after him, pleased to be chasing him from the scene.
It is in the midst of this dream that the phone rings, startling her awake. She answers it, perspiring heavily, her heart racing like a hound in pursuit of a fox. She hears that Raxma on the line. “Just a moment…”
Now, Cambara doesn’t know what to make of the dream, but she is delighted that, compared to an earlier one, in which there was also a foursome—Arda, Wardi, Dalmar, and herself at a dinner table having a dinner—no one dies in this one. She is also positive about her connection to Bile, whom she saw the first time early this morning in the dream and to whom she has now talked in real life
Out of bed, she changes into her work clothes—a denim shirt with snaps, a pair of jeans, and sneakers—and goes out of her room and down the stairway, feeling energized by the thought that from now on she will concentrate in equal measures, if that is possible, on getting to know Bile in as intimate a way as possible, on producing the play at whatever cost, and on helping trace Qaali, under whatever alias she might be using.
It crosses her mind, going down, past reception, to have the hotel send an e-mail to the BBC Somali Service five-days-a-week “Missing Persons” program, which benefits from the local support of the International Red Cross, asking that Qaali get in touch with Raaxo Abduraxman, a name made up on the spot, care of Hotel Maanta, for information about her son, Gacal. Then she leaves word with Irrid, the deputy manager of the hotel, that she is expecting a reply from one Raaxo Abduraxman about Gacal. One way or the other, she is sure she will get Qaali’s message if it ever comes.
A moment later, roaming aimlessly, she finds herself at the café end of the restaurant, her notepad open, and she starts to draw up a list of her immediate needs. She has not gone far in composing it when the waiter arrives. Having served her in the room earlier, he brings her the usual—a bottled mineral water and a couple of slices of lemon on a saucer—and asks if she would like some more? She places her elevenses order: tea and biscuits. No sooner has he taken it down and turned to go than her memory of the dream of the night before, combined with her conversation with Raxma, above all Raxma’s mentioning that she and Kiin are in frequent telephonic communication, wrings her withers for the second time. She sits, mulling over what to do. Faint with worry, she thinks that the only way out of this sad frame of mind is to act. She replays the talk with Raxma, then the dream, and scours the scenes for the second and third time in hope of appraising whatever possible interpretations there can be. Another thorough go-through—she also remembers Bile offering to visit—she affords herself the luxury of studying it from all possible angles, ultimately deciding that she had better move out of the hotel and into the family property.
This realization comes as a shock to her, so startles her out of her sense of calm that she is no longer able to go over the steps of the logic that have led her to this conclusion: Quit the hotel and take residence in the family house. Her stomach gurgles, babbling in the confines of her viscera, like a flushed toilet. Her agitated mood is tempered with a momentary self-control when she sees the waiter arriving.
He puts her elevenses before her: a pot of tea, biscuits, along with canjeera-pancake smothered in honey, and two slices of mango so sweet her mouth
waters the instant she picks up the fragrance; the latter two she has not asked for, but she won’t send them back, in case her charges come, as they often do. Cambara is of the untested view that even the waiter has figured out that she has the countenance of a troubled person and wonders if there is any point in looking away. No amount of gauging the intrinsic madness of moving out of the hotel—in which she has felt very comfortable and safe—and into the family property—in which she has never spent a single night, since her parents never thought of it as anything but an investment—can help her get a good barometer reading of her folly.
Nor can she bear the thought of the food: the tea looks undrinkable; the biscuits stale; the honey-smothered pancake too sweet; the mangoes hosts to their kindred flies and insects. She pushes them all away. A moment later, she pours herself a cup of tea, then unthinkingly puts condensed milk in it and some sugar, and stirs it. Now her demeanor is decidedly downbeat, and she is wondering why she has spooned condensed milk and sugar into her tea when she does not drink her tea that way and never has. She reasons that maybe these are part of the changes taking place in her, her deep sense of alienation taking root; presently a stranger to her everyday self. What will her life be like in her altered circumstances?
Can it be that she wants to prove several points to herself? That she is moving out of the temporariness of a hotel into a house that is hers to demonstrate that she is just as committed to this country as the gun-toting youths, in whose direction she is throwing a come-and-get-me-if-you-have-the-guts gauntlet; that she knows that it will be a lot easier for her to work ceaselessly on the play and to provide the semblance of a home to the two boys if she moves out of the hotel into the property. Privacy is equally important here, for she will be in a position to host Bile, in the sense of looking after him, and get to know him more intimately without the prying eyes of waiters, bellhops, charwomen, the armed security at the gate, the in-house security, the deputy manager, other hotel guests—and Kiin. Not that she can ever hope to meet Bile without many others getting to hear of it. Maintaining one’s privacy is a civil war casualty; people live on top of one another in ways they do not in peace times. No doubt, if she moves to the family house, she will have bodyguards, perhaps an outer ring of heavily armed security and inner in-house lightly armed day and night watchmen. She is far from sure that she will be safer or happier at her new home, but establishing a foot in the family property is as good a starting point as any campaign in which she has been involved, and she will launch it with a workable battle plan and a reliable safety net, never mind the deadly opponents that she may have to confront.
No sign of the boys today. What’s bizarre is she doesn’t ask about them, and the waiter, who has returned to collect the untouched tea, biscuits, pancake, and mangoes doesn’t mention them either. He clears her plates of food without a spoken word, even if the disturbed expression on his face speaks volumes to Cambara, who is conscious of her irritability.
Then Kiin arrives with the gushiness of someone bearing a surfeit of tenderness; she is all questions. Effusive, she says, “It’s all happening, isn’t it?”
“I am moving out of the hotel into our house.”
The idea is so unsettling to Kiin that she is not composed enough to ask her questions about Cambara’s visit to ailing Bile; about the phone call from Raxma, who may have spoken to Kiin earlier before ringing her; or about Bile’s purported suggestion that they invite a select audience to view the play, it being too controversial to be given a public viewing.
“I am moving into our house, which has been recovered, thanks to you and many other well-wishers’ efforts. I feel that otherwise all your achievements will have been for nought, comparable, as a Somali pastoralist might say, to pouring milk on the thirsty sand of the Sahara.”
Kiin stares at Cambara like someone whose center of conversational gravity has shifted to new shaky ground. Kiin fumbles among the wide repertoire of her wisecracks in an attempt to show that nothing will faze her.
She asks, “Do you think it wise to do so now?”
Cambara is selective in what she tells Kiin. She omits any mention of the dream and her conversation with Raxma, where the idea to move originated. However, she stresses the professional side of her keenness—“It’ll be easier, I’ll have continuity”—and then puts due emphasis on her monumental desire to show her gratitude to Kiin—“I’m moving into the house as a token of my appreciation to you and to all the others who have contributed to its recovery, above all you, Farxia, Dajaal, and the others”—and adds, “We’ll have a party at the property just before we produce the play. How does that strike you?”
“But why?”
“I am itching to get down to the business of producing the play,” Cambara says. Then she goes on, “There is a lot of work waiting for me. I need to start blocking the play, rehearsing, auditioning.”
“There is time yet, surely?”
Impatient, Cambara cuts in and says, “It’s all been wonderful staying here and enjoying your lavish kindness. Thank you very much; you’ve been all sweet and a boon to me, better than manna from any heaven, considering.”
“Have you discussed this with anyone else?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“But why?”
She dares not underscore the bleak dreariness of her lack of privacy, her need to rely on others so she might perform the most ordinary of life’s chores, aspects of Mogadiscio life that strikes her as utterly disheartening. An ancient unease returns. Will her moving into her house free her from these daily exigencies? Won’t she become even more reliant on others for protection? Kiin is silent for a long while, and Cambara watches her, her head buzzing with thoughts. Since it is characteristic of Kiin to precipitate an obstacle as she busies herself to remove it, Cambara anticipates Kiin’s initiative and preempts it with a single move in a sentence.
She says, “Given the choice, I would like to relocate right away, and for this I will require a bit of initial help from you.”
Kiin is looking at her mobile, as though willing it to ring, or maybe she is considering whether to phone Raxma to suggest that she intervene. She replaces the phone in her handbag and says, “Name your needs.”
“Your truck with armed escort, so I can move some of the stuff straight away,” Cambara says. “I would appreciate it if you could organize the purchase of a generator, a couple of beds and mattresses, a few pots and pans and other kitchen utensils.”
“Consider it done,” Kiin says. “What else?”
“Nothing else for the moment.”
The edge of Kiin’s voice is sharper. She says, “These are, as you put it, your initial needs. I am surprised that for someone relocating to a battle zone, abandoning the comfort and safety of a hotel and prematurely endangering her life, you have no more items on your shopping list. Bodyguards, handguns, at least two battlewagons? Are you sure this is the extent of your requirements?”
“I am sure.”
“No walkie-talkies or anything else?”
“I will keep my rooms here of course.”
“Of course.”
“And whenever our kitchen is not running, or if I get tired of eating my food between rehearsals or scene takes, I’ll be sure to arrange takeaways from yours.”
“No problem.”
“There is a lot to do,” Cambara says, sitting forward in her chair, the front part of her body stretching as if at some point it will go off on its own, she is so eager to get up and go.
By way of urging her to follow her own instincts, Kiin, making the “Go, go sign,” with her hand, says, “What are you waiting for?”
“When will things be ready on your side?”
“The truck, the deputy manager of the hotel, the head of our security, and the armed escort will be ready to take you in half an hour,” Kiin says.
“Then see you down here in half an hour.”
With Kiin gone to organize things, Cambara, now alone, is unable to square up to her neces
sities, which are in part determined by a matrix of theatrical and personal musts. Where to start? What to pack? What to do about the boys?
On her way to her rooms, the fires of enthusiasm, at the center of her being, suddenly start to dwindle. She is in a quandary, aware that she has been too hasty, but she is unwilling to change her mind. First off, she stops at the reception and brings wads and wads of cash in large U.S. dollar denominations out of the hotel safe, to buy a 2,000-kilo-watt generator for her electricity requirements, a fridge of modest size, a queen-sized bed and two single beds, mattresses, bedspreads, sheets, bath and face towels, soap, and some food, including some vegetables, and if there is no supermarket with already packaged chicken, then a live one. She replaces the cash she is not taking with her and locks the safe.
Then she turns her attention to the matter of the clothes that she will bring with her, settling easily on a number of middle-of-the-road choices, neither too ostentatious nor too plain, plus the kind of work clothes she is now wearing, informal and chic. She takes good care to choose her nightdresses, just in case. “I hope I am not making the chickens hatch the eggs of the eagles,” she says to herself. “In which case, too bad and too sad.” Then she throws in two of the masks, one presumably for Gacal, the other for SilkHair.
In the unrelenting clutch of an oncoming excitement, more like an onset of flu announcing its impending arrival via a sneeze, Cambara hurries to gather a few things together and dashes out of the room to join Kiin. As she double-locks her rooms, she realizes that there are difficulties to do with living in several places—an apartment in faraway Toronto; the two rooms in the hotel; and now the family house—at the same time. She is already finding out that she will have to return to the hotel tomorrow for some of the masks, which she is leaving behind, advisedly because she has no idea how the head of security, Hudhudle, who appears to be a devout Muslim, might react to their presence in the truck. The suitcase she is carrying knocks weightily down the steps as she descends, the two wooden masks sounding hollowly; she lifts the suitcase higher to make certain she does not damage them. She is pitching forward when one of the bellhops offers to relieve her of it, informing her that Kiin is waiting for her near the truck, waiting to be loaded and ready to depart.
Knots Page 42
