“At The Refuge. You were too strict.”
“And he left?”
“And joined a fighting force.”
Now Bile and Cambara pay attention to the boys. They can hear their conversation, Gacal saying “I have no problem playing the role of a chicken. You become the eagle; I, the chicken. How about that?”
SilkHair, his index finger warning Gacal to stop provoking him, starts shooting arrows of venom now in Gacal’s direction, now in Bile’s, his hard look weakening only when it encounters Cambara’s, and he turns back to Gacal angrily. “If you don’t stop messing with me, I’ll make you eat shit.”
Gacal eggs him on with his sarcasm, saying “Oh please, please, SilkHair. Spare me. Don’t hurt me; don’t harm me. I’m quivering.”
“I’m warning you,” SilkHair says.
Standing, SilkHair towers over Gacal, his teeth clenched in anger at being provoked when he cannot do anything about it. His hands appear underutilized, as if they wished they had a weapon to use. Looking away with exasperation, he turns to observe that Cambara is watching every one of his moves intently. Cambara thinks that he’ll need training in anger management, considering that he has been accustomed to falling back on the use of a firearm whenever he felt so inclined. He is clearly on a low, like an addict finding it difficult to kick the habit.
Gacal continues to incite him, saying “You haven’t the balls, have you?”
“I said I’m warning you.”
“Boys are boys,” Bile says.
“Are they…always?” from Cambara.
In her wish to preempt further provocative exchanges, she settles on inaction, assuming that if she shows no interest to them, they will calm down on their own.
Perhaps boys are boys because people believe that it is healthy for them to tease, prod, and incite each other, she thinks, but I am wondering if these two are behaving in this way now and doing what they are doing because they are enjoying the closest yet to a normal life. A baby will weep its throat sore when hungry, but once it has had enough of its mother’s breast milk, it will bite the nipple playfully and then laugh. Not before they have had their fill. Afterward, they fool with the food, spitting it, spilling it.
“Time to think of feeding the lot of you,” she says, getting up and waiting for Bile to do likewise. “Two young cantankerous mouths to feed, not to speak of a guest with refined taste, I bet. What can I offer? No more than good intentions, considering the crockery in unopened boxes, the chicken still in its live form. There are veggies, yes. But I doubt there are spices or if Irrid remembered to get salt.”
“We can order a takeaway,” Bile says, following her in the direction of what he knows to be an unfinished kitchen, the old tiles removed from the wall and the new ones not yet here.
“A takeaway? Fancy that.”
“First nights in new places are a challenge,” he says. “Why don’t we ring Dajaal, who can’t be very far, as he is overseeing the security details around here, and he can bring back a meal from Hotel Shamac or from Maanta.”
She considers the suggestion, fighting off an encroaching feeling of despondency that is activating her warning signals. For with shocking speed, unbidden, the thought of forever being dependent on someone—to drive her around, to mount checkpoints, to fix the fuse when the electricity fails, to fetch a takeaway—has reasserted itself.
“As long as you don’t hold it against me…”
“Hold what against you?”
“I’ll feed you from what we have in the house.”
And she summons the boys, assigning the job of washing the vegetables to Gacal—to whom she says, “Make sure you wash your hands first…with soap”—and to SilkHair the chore of fetching the live chicken and the sharp knife she remembers using when cooking for Gudcur’s children the second day she was here. SilkHair wants to prove to Gacal that he has balls, and so requests that he be allotted the honor of chopping off the chicken’s head, and that Gacal should then forfeit the right to play the role of an eagle.
Bile says, “Never killed one in my life.”
Gacal accepts the bet, and the two set their camp within view of Cambara and Bile, who start chatting, Bile agreeing that this is better than a takeaway any day. When he asks what Gacal’s story is, having heard SilkHair’s, she tells him the boy’s heart-wrenching story and how she is trying now to reunite mother and son. She adds, “He is a ‘tourist’ in the land of misery in the sense in which you used the word earlier to describe SilkHair’s probable status at The Refuge.”
Then silence as the two boys work, SilkHair encountering no difficulties in swinging the chicken until he and it are both dizzy and then in chopping its head off. He even helps Gacal, who is a novice in the kitchen, to peel the potatoes and deal with the cutting of the onion without crying furiously, after which SilkHair starts to tell a story in which he boasts, rattling off his exploits as a fighter for the clan-based militia. He gives exaggeratedly gory details of what he has done to the enemy combatants, adding that it excites him to dice with danger, show that he is man.
Cambara then asks him to start a fire in the brazier and then fill two pans with water, one for Gacal’s veggies and one for his chicken and to let her know when he has removed the feathers and the bird is ready to cook. She says for Bile’s benefit, “Maybe I have prunes somewhere in one of my bags. A Moroccan chicken dish, the closest to tagine we can have at this place.”
The two boys making very little noise and concentrating on their allocated chores, and Bile serene in her company, the evening appears majestic in its quietness, and she, but a woman who has it in her to take someone’s measure and then do the good thing, even if she is also capable of settling accounts with those, like Zaak and Wardi, who are given to unbecoming behavior. She comes to realize for the first time in a while, that her rages toward Wardi, who at times she seems to have completely forgotten, and her disappointment in Zaak, whom she doesn’t know if she will bother to invite to the private show at Kiin’s, have gone. In their stead is a sense of elation.
Inching his way nearer, careful not to disturb her or interrupt their conversation, SilkHair stands for a few minutes in the periphery of her vision. When she motions to him to speak, he says, “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?”
“Start cooking?” SilkHair says.
She remembers that she hasn’t looked for the prunes. In her travels, she carries prunes on the assumption that they help her digest her food better. That she hasn’t searched for them up to now only means that she wasn’t the cook. Up she stands and in she goes to a couple of rooms before she finds the tote bag in which they might be. Again, luck is on her side, because they are at the bottom. What’s more, she brings out her shortwave radio, hoping to discover if the “Missing Persons” BBC Somali Service program, which airs at about this time, will broadcast her message signed with her pseudonym today.
She is happy she has decided that they eat together as a foursome here, for this has brought out so much fervor in the boys’ wish to participate, and in Bile’s desire to share their company as a threesome.
Back at the brazier, she says, “Let’s!”
The communal cooking runs rather smoothly, and the two boys are in song, each taking their cue from the other’s sterling performance, like the lines allotted to a professional actor at his peak. She derives immense pleasure from watching SilkHair, who is in a league of his own, and Gacal, who is a dab hand, like actors teasing the multiplicity of possible interpretations out of a single phrase. It seems, however, as if SilkHair has been cut from a coarser cloth, a touch too nervous, crude in his manner and seldom able to cotton on to his failing. She has had to remind him to wash his hands with soap and water, because he keeps wiping them on his dirty clothes.
Supper ready, she serves the boys and tells them to give them space. Too eager to be on their own, they take off, each carrying one of the new plates—SilkHair has insisted on opening the box—and tumblers full of water.
&
nbsp; “How sweet of you to come,” she says when they are alone, “on the first night that I’ve resolved to pitch camp here. You’ve been of immense help. Thank you.”
He takes his first mouthful. “Good,” he says.
She raises her glass, saying, “Sorry that we do not have anything stronger than water in a tumbler. Let’s eat in celebration of peace.”
An air of certainty prevails, with Bile commending her for motivating SilkHair and Gacal to take their cooking or whatever else they are doing seriously.
“I would like to audition for a part,” he says.
“Would you?”
“Is there a part for an old man?”
“A villager. A wizened old man.”
“Lend me the text?”
Time to listen to the “Missing Persons” program of the BBC Somali Service. It takes her a long while to find the station, and when she does, she discovers that the news is on. They listen to it, both feeling disheartened as they hear a nothing-good-comes-out-of-Africa litany.
Cambara says, “It is a pity the world doesn’t come to hear of the very many excellent things that are accomplished daily in different parts of the continent by ordinary folks, achievements about which no one ever learns.”
“The news, sui generis, is about politicians and their doings, isn’t it?” Bile says. “Not about the ordinary person in the Midwest in the United States; in a small village in Darfur, surviving the daily horrors; a fisherman in Sri Lanka; or a mother raising her children under difficult circumstances in Baghdad.”
Cambara, confirming this and agreeing with the drift, adds that she knows that you can have a good day and a bad day in civil war Mogadiscio as you might in a small farming village anywhere. She goes on, “Before I got here, I used to think that it wouldn’t be possible to enjoy a moment of peace in the company of a friend, with twilight hours as breathtaking as the one on the horizon.”
“You think you may stay here,” he asks. “Long?”
“All being well, I might.”
Just then, “Missing Persons” comes on. Cambara is surprised that some of the people are searching for their cousins or half-brothers after so many years of being out of touch. She can’t imagine her and Arda being apart for three days without one trying to phone or if possible e-mail the other. It is toward the end of the program that she hears Qaali’s name mentioned and her pseudonym, care of Maanta Hotel, telephone number included, given.
“Let’s hope Qaali or someone who knows her is listening to today’s program,” Bile says. “For all one knows, she may be living close by, unaware that her son is here.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“If I may add, please count on me to help too.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” and she pats him on the hand.
They sit in the shadowy hour of twilight, like two lovers who have found quiet refuge in a corner of the night, away from the madding aficionados. She is tired from working her bones to exhaustion and feels she can do with a hot bath and pleasurable company. He is full of unexpended energy, the adrenaline of his enthusiasm having risen to greater heights.
“So what would you like to do?” Bile asks her.
She cannot find the courage to say what is on her mind, afraid that he might misunderstand her. For she wants to be in his company, never mind where—in his apartment and alone with him, at her hotel and in full view of many others, but she does not want to be sharing his bed. Not tonight.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“I’ve asked Dajaal to pick me up just about now and, knowing him, he will be showing up shortly. I can postpone his time of arrival, telling him to come later, or let it stand the way we left it.”
“There is always tomorrow,” she says.
The boys show up, carrying their cleaned-up plates, each willing to wash up his own as well as Cambara’s, Bile’s, and the pots. While they are busy with that task, Dajaal arrives on the dot.
Their parting words are not elaborate. She says, “Till tomorrow,” deciding on when she hopes to meet him again.
He says, “Tomorrow.”
THIRTY-ONE
A party is in progress.
Several of the roisterers are dancing to the latest Afro beat, and those not grooving are at the stand-alone barbecue spot helping with the grilling, in the pool swimming laps competitively, or simply whiling away the time enjoyably in their own way. It is early in the evening, and many of those present delight in being reunited to celebrate an event that means a lot to all of them.
There are about twenty or so revelers, among them Cambara, Bile, Kiin, Farxia, and standing behind the drinks table, wearing an apron, an elderly lady, an Arda lookalike, talking to an Unidentified Woman. Gacal and SilkHair are there, running errands, serving drinks, and performing odd chores, and there are also two girls, whom Bile introduces to the two boys. “Just come from Canada for a brief visit they are paying their uncles, Bile and Seamus. Cute, aren’t they?” When asked the girls’ names, he pauses hesitantly at first, then says, “One of them is called Raasta, the other Makka.” Raasta is not eager to speak to either of the boys, whom she finds uninteresting because they are rowdy and won’t allow her to concentrate on smearing the wooden masks with linseed oil. Makka is simply watching.
Cambara and Bile are at the shallow end of the pool, standing close to each other, talking. There is a platter floating between them, on which somebody has arranged a pattern of orchids, roses—some red, some yellow, and at least two white—and lilies. Kiin, distracted, is half listening to the Unidentified Woman, who is telling her about the tragedy that has befallen her, how her husband met his death at the hands of the militiamen who abducted him from the airport. Gacal arrives to put an intricate question to the Unidentified Woman, who politely declines to answer it, telling him, “Don’t interrupt, darling, when I am speaking to someone else. Haven’t I asked you not to butt in when you must not?” The Unidentified Woman isn’t at all keen to deal with Gacal’s question, on the assumption that it might lead them back somewhere she doesn’t wish to return. At the moment, she is enjoying herself meeting some of the people who have helped to bring about her reunion with her son.
With the Unidentified Woman gone to apologize to Gacal, who seems put out, Kiin returns to being a voyeur watching Cambara and Bile discreetly cuddling; they are in a world of their own, and she follows them with her eyes, in silence at first. A little later, when she thinks they are being bashful, she encourages them to feed each other, now suggesting to Bile that he give an orchid to Cambara to eat, now proposing that Cambara feed Bile the red roses, now insisting that they pose while she takes suggestive photographs of them, the flash of the camera so bright they both close their eyes.
In the dream, there is an abundant fund of fellow feeling and a lot of gladness. There is joy all around. The women from the network come in ones, twos, and threes to pay their tribute to Cambara, to commend her for her efforts to bring genuine smiles into the eyes of many of the members. Everyone at the party—whether dancing, swimming, feeding each other on orchids and red roses, performing menial tasks, giving a hand at the cookout, or waiting to eat—is a willing partner in this hour of rejoicing, striving to contribute to the well-being of the entire community.
Arda looks on from close by, profoundly happy. This is quite evident, despite her self-restraint—her uncontrollable enthusiasm at being home after several years and finding that her daughter has achieved a miracle, through what, if she were a politician, she might call consensus building. She chats amicably with Gacal and SilkHair—the one wearing a white shirt, dark trousers, and a bow tie; the other in a dark shirt, and trousers the color of cream with the feel of linen—whenever they stop to engage her interest in the drinks they are carrying around on a platter, as waiters do.
Arda asks Gacal, “Where is this famous Irishman whom everybody wants me to meet? He is not around here, hiding, because he is too shy to be in
troduced?”
Gacal replies, “Seamus will be here, for sure, after he’s finished building the stage for Cambara’s play and given it its final touches. Imagine—he’s built the stage and carved the masks all on his own, without any help from anyone.”
“I want to shake his hand,” Arda says.
“I’ll tell him that if I see him,” he says.
“I want to thank him too,” she adds.
“No one deserves our thanks more than he does.”
Then Arda comes adrift from her well-earned feeling of contentment and, becoming restless, moves away. Bored, she sprays passersby with Canadian dollars, according to a Nigerian nouveau-riche tradition in which the relatives or friends of a celebrant—the mother or the sisters, say, of the bride—paste cash on the foreheads of some of the invited guests and encourage them to keep the money, the better for everyone to remember the occasion. Amused, because he is not familiar with the Nigerian way of doing things, Gacal asks why she is sticking Canadian banknotes on the foreheads of the revelers. Arda replies, “My visit to Mogadiscio has coincided with my daughter achieving three unheard-of miracles: one, she has recovered our family property; two, she is producing a play; three, she has at last found a sentiment that has always eluded her—true happiness. I am so very, very delighted.”
Then Arda pauses close to the swimming pool, taking in Cambara and Bile’s doings. She walks toward them, maybe to say something disapproving. When on second thought she changes her mind and turns her back on them, Cambara and Bile interrupt their communing of their own accord, stepping out of the pool in their bathing suits.
It is Cambara’s turn to occupy the limelight, and she does so by calling to Raxma, who has just arrived and whom she embraces most warmly, welcoming her enthusiastically to the city of their birth. Then Cambara presents Bile to the woman she describes “as my closest friend ever.” Tired-looking, Raxma yawns and yawns before explaining that her journey involved a stopover in Nairobi.
Knots Page 45
