Qaali says, “To a thirsty person, a mirage contains more water than whatever moisture there is under one’s feet. It is very difficult to summarize the conflicting thoughts that went through my mind when I heard about the program. In fact, it wasn’t I who heard it, but a neighbour whose children I coach in English; they are, as a family, waiting to join their family breadwinner, who lives in the U.S. One minute I saw my son and imagined holding him in my arms; the next minute, I told myself that I was to be the recipient of sad news, only this didn’t make sense. Why would a woman ask me to look her up when all she has to dispense is the news of my son’s death?”
“Let’s talk of life, Qaali.” The wells of her eyes flooded, her ears ringing with pent-up emotion, Cambara takes one decisive step toward Qaali. She picks her up and, throwing her arms around the small woman whom she must take care not to crush, says, “Your son is alive.”
Qaali goes rigor-mortis rigid in Cambara’s arms. She frees her bird-small body and raises one hand, palm facing Cambara. Qaali backs away, stiff and tense, not believing her joy, if there is any in her; as yet it is inexpressible. Her withering appearance belying her sense of optimism, she asks, “Where is my son?”
“Downstairs.”
Qaali sits down with her hand under her chin, contemplative, then begins rubbing her eyes sore, as if trying to squeeze out at least one teardrop, given that Cambara’s are runny with buckets of it, her nose sniveling. It appears that Qaali has done all her wailing, howling, cussing; there is no more weeping.
Her voice cold, she asks Cambara, “Who are you?”
Cambara pulls herself up, stops sniffing, and looks at Qaali, convinced that it is untimely to wipe her tears away, lest Qaali think of her as a paid mourner who weeps and wails at funerals. There is aggression, anger in Qaali’s question; there is suspicion and pain in it as well.
“Who are you? Angel or devil?” Qaali says.
Cambara takes a long pause, breathing nervously, deeply at first then shallowly, until she can collect herself and gather her thoughts, thoughts she wears like a body tent. She emerges, wrapped in self-confidence, and tells Qaali her own story of loss, and then of her chance meeting with Gacal. She talks, and the longer she speaks, the more she feels the sine qua non to explain how it has all come out the way it has; what Gacal told her about his arrival with his father in Mogadiscio; how the taxi driver laid a trap, and how the attempt to rob them led to his father’s death. Then Cambara relates her conversation with Raxma—also known as Raaxo, where the first part of the pseudonym comes from—and how her friend delved further into it; how the headmaster of Gacal’s school in Duluth confirmed a significant part of the story. Cambara speaks on and on and continues talking until she sees the first teardrop, hears the first sniff, then Qaali’s weeping, her eyes streaming so suddenly with so much liquid output that Cambara, who has now regained total control of her emotions, thinks of a tropical downpour.
She sounds weak as she asks, “Can I see my son?”
“Yes, of course.” Cambara makes as if to leave.
“Wait,” Qaali says.
Cambara does as told.
“Why did you do this?”
Cambara takes a few minutes to come up with an adequate answer to a question she hasn’t asked herself up to this moment. She says, “I am neither an angel nor a devil. I am a mother, mourning. Like you. That’s why I’ve felt for you from the instant I saw Gacal, why I’ve made it my business to pursue the course I have.”
Meekly, Qaali says, “Thank you.”
As Cambara is leaving, Qaali says, “Is it possible for you not to send him up right away? Give me a few minutes to get ready?” Cambara thinks of a lover preparing herself for her paramour. “You’re a woman yourself and know what I am talking about, I am sure.”
“Of course.”
“And can I see him alone?”
“But of course.”
THIRTY-TWO
In the rehearsal hall, which Cambara has revamped with help from Seamus, tirelessly loyal and more than willing to comply with almost all her refurbishing demands, there are the usual faces that have been a permanent feature of the scene.
Because of the large number of uninvited persons milling about, at times standing in her way and interrupting the easy flow of the rehearsal on account of their on and off susurrations, Cambara has asked herself if word has gone out that one can have fun sticking around here. She wonders who has spread the good tidings: that the property is an open house and that no unarmed person will be turned away as long as they are prepared not to make a nuisance of themselves. Rather than take heart from the interest others have shown in her efforts, Cambara tells herself that this is no cakewalk and that there is a lot to go through before she is satisfied with what she has achieved.
Of the usual crowd, there is Bile, her principal pillar, staunch supporter, frequent companion, and untiring consultant on the reconstruction of the text, who is reticent about offering advice in public on matters to do with the rewrites and acting with the discretion of a man who wants everyone to accord Cambara the deference due to her; Dajaal, who has been getting more directly involved in providing logistical assistance, shifting chairs and running errands, driving folks around whenever asked, and making himself available as a stand-in for the ScriptWoman; SilkHair, who has been left off balance by the new presence of Qaali in Gacal’s life, which has resulted in Gacal showing less enthusiasm to eat with him, be with him, or remain a partner in disporting himself with SilkHair than he used to. Off-kilter, SilkHair has had to adapt to his enforced aloneness, often in a brooding, sulking mood, silent, withdrawn, wrought up over the slightest jab from Gacal or any hint of affront from Bile or herself. Cambara has observed that, of late, he has lost the wild, mischievous shine in his eyes. Gacal too is an altogether altered boy. You can catch him often lapsing into English at unexpected moments, as an indication of the difference his mother’s presence has brought about. This way, too, he banishes SilkHair from his life.
There are also half a dozen young faces that she does not know, the majority of them female, who are attentive to detail, as students are, a couple of them taking notes. Cambara can’t tell if they are journalists or theater directors in training. All she remembers is seeing two or three of these arrive with Farxia. There is also the daughter of Odeywaa, the shopkeeper, an acquaintance, through her parents, of Kiin, who has volunteered to fit the bill of ScriptWoman, even though this is the first time she is doing this sort of thing.
She can also count Qaali among those present, watching with interest and raring to help, but she is a cautious person, given to standing back and supplying even her interlocutors with sufficient breathing space, the better to know if she is imposing herself on them. Qaali, dressed in baggy shirts and trousers two sizes too large, which Cambara has lent her, has come along with Gacal. She and Gacal have spent close to fifteen hours talking, reconnecting, and getting reacquainted after their long, tormented separation. Gacal often looks in Qaali’s direction when he thinks no one is observing him, maybe to make sure that she is still there. Every now and then, he even inflicts unnecessary breaks in the rhythm of the rehearsals by pausing right in the middle of a take, going to her, and whispering a son-to-mother secret in her ear. He continues not only to inquire aloud what she thinks of his performance, thereby irritating some of the others, most especially SilkHair, but also to barge in with comments that impose a moratorium on anyone else participating in their family in-jokes. Once or twice, mother and son have been driven back to the Maanta just to be there in what used to be Cambara’s inner sanctum, which has now become theirs. Kiin won’t hear of Cambara footing the bill, insisting, “The pleasure of providing free lodging to Qaali and Gacal is mine.”
Kiin has been in and out the entire day, bringing food and other necessities, and putting her resourcefulness at Cambara’s disposal. After lunch, she brought along her two daughters, intent on exposing them to the camaraderie that is part of creating theater. When no
t serving tea or busy helping in other ways, the older of the two girls sits close to Qaali, keeping a keen eye on the rapport between Gacal and his newly recovered mother in a manner clearly indicating that her mother has told her about what has occurred. Cambara, however, has, of late, discovered that Kiin is forbiddingly reserved, especially about the fact that she has not found roles for her daughters, as promised. She keeps resorting to either changing the subject or moving away on some pretext or other. No longer of the habit of deriving great joy from reiterating that it is through Raxma that she and Cambara met, something she has often done when being presented to a new person, Kiin has evaded making any reference to this link. Cambara isn’t sure why. She wonders if Raxma has upset Kiin by keeping her in the dark about Qaali and Gacal or if there is some other more telling reason that will eventually come to light, something to do with her and Raxma. For it has occurred to Cambara that, as she saw in the dream the other day, maybe Raxma and Arda are planning to descend on Mogadiscio in time to watch the first performance.
All of a sudden, Gacal’s voice reverberates across the hall as he gives a superb performance of a scene thought of as salient to the entire play. When he has done two more takes, and Cambara compliments him on his rendition, Gacal runs offstage and over to Qaali. He is so excited that he goes around hugging all those near him.
With everyone’s concentration broken, Cambara wanders in the direction of the trestle table and the chair close to where the ScriptWoman is and stands there admiring the handiwork, not because it is very beautiful but because Cambara appreciates the gesture of someone providing her with a table that has sufficient surface for her to spread her papers and notes. She kicks gently at the trestle, as if testing the firmness of the wooden support. Then, carrying her stacks of paper and some notes in a folder, she walks over to the ScriptWoman to ask, “How are we doing?”
ScriptWoman is petite and very pretty at that: nose aquiline, skin yussur black, so dark it has a touch of blue to it. She is in an all-black blouse, dark blue skirt, and grayish head scarf. The smallness of her build and her choice of dark as a theme, plus the fact that her chin is weak, sets alight in Cambara the bizarre memory of having known this woman before. She remembers why: ScriptWoman distantly reminds her of Raxma, because of her friend’s preference for all-black outfits. But whenever ScriptWoman speaks—she has stained teeth the color of brown curry—or walks—her footwear being of the cheap, leather-upper, rubber-heeled, ill-fitting kind—Cambara forswears never likening the two, thinking of it as a putdown of Raxma, who has a particular fondness for all-leather, stylish, Italian flat-heeled shoes, which she buys as much for their durability as for their comfort. Not necessarily expensive footwear but well made nonetheless. For the second time today, she wonders if the dream is dictating which of the many forks in the road her thoughts tread whenever they go off the beaten track. Now that she has seen her friend in the mien of ScriptWoman, she is bound to ask herself if she will see her mother, who was in the same dream, in the gestures of someone else.
Cambara suggests to ScriptWoman, who is reorganizing the unnumbered pages of the script, to put her marked-up script and her notes, some of which she used yesterday, on the center of the trestle table. She adds, “I will compare the changes made today to yesterday’s when I have a moment.”
ScriptWoman does as told: She puts the lot on the trestle table.
It is then that Cambara realizes that she does not know who brought the trestle or how it got here. Inexplicably, she feels put out, as if she were a conservationist disturbed at the thought of being responsible for the unwitting introduction into the environment of some alien vegetation detrimental to the survival of the local species. If this is my house and I live in it and will contribute so much money toward keeping it secure and safe, then it follows that I ought to know what pieces of furniture come in to it. But she has been remiss in paying close attention to what is going on.
She asks ScriptWoman, “Have you any idea who brought this trestle table?”
“The white man,” replies ScriptWoman.
Seamus, she thinks. “When?”
“An hour before you returned from lunch.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“Not with me.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wish someone would know these things.”
“I am only a volunteer,” ScriptWoman says.
This is a new one on Cambara: a volunteer. She wonders to herself, but doesn’t ask, if the young woman belongs to some civil society of some sort, like the Women’s Network or some such, and if so to which? You need unpaid volunteers to perform many of the tasks that must be undertaken if Somali society is eventually to recover from its losses.
“You’ve come at Kiin’s suggestion?”
“I’ve come with her, in her truck.”
“How many others?”
“Half a dozen, all of us volunteers.”
“Are some of the other women volunteers too?”
“I’ve been told they are.”
Cambara looks around and observes these women’s frenetic movements. Impressed and invigorated by what she sees, she feels heartened by the commitment of the young women, though she hasn’t a precise idea what they are committed to. Maybe to peace and to the coexistence of the warring communities through collaborating on theater projects that are deemed beneficial to all.
Now she trains her intense eyes back on ScriptWoman and then, softening her gaze, smiles at her before ogling the trestle table, which Cambara assumes has taken Seamus a couple of hours to knock together, the hallmark of his benefaction. It is characteristic of every one of Cambara’s new friends that each contributes his or her fair share in the hope of making a difference in her life here in this city. But where is Seamus? She is looking around, as if trying to spot him among those sitting way in the back of the hall, when a girl in her teens in a see-through dirac robe approaches her, bearing a kettle, very hot by the feel of it, and a mug. Who is she? The young woman introduces herself as “the TeaWoman” and asks if Cambara wants some.
“I would love a cup, yes.”
TeaWoman raises the slim kettle with the long spout to a great height and then pours it, gradually bringing it down and then going up and down again in a half-moon arc, her hand steady, the curvature of her arm in a semicircle, mesmerizing.
Cambara takes a sip of it and, discovering it too sweet, winces. She says “Thank you,” but doesn’t tell TeaWoman that she takes hers without sugar. She puts it away and tries to get down to the business of imposing some order on the rehearsal schedule, seeing that Gacal is standing beside her, calmly waiting.
She motions to Gacal and SilkHair, who approach and indicate their eagerness to resume rehearsing. Bile is there too, humbly awaiting her command, his reading glasses balanced on the joint of his nose. After remarking that she has picked up the marked script and, turning the pages, murmuring to herself, receives from him a single sheet on which he has scribbled his notes.
“You’ll see some more suggestions for word changes,” he says. “You may need to think about them before we incorporate them. We can talk about them in a moment of calm.”
Taking the sheet and adding it to the pile, she says, “Thank you, my dear.”
Just as she is about to announce the resumption of the rehearsal and says which scene they will work on, she notices that neither of the boys is on the stage, where she wants them. Gacal is sitting with his mother, and SilkHair is skipping rope and showing off his athleticism to Kiin’s two daughters. She claps her hands together, and they immediately join her on the stage. It is then that Cambara calls to Qaali.
“Qaali, dear?”
Qaali, smiling, turns to face Cambara.
“Here is the text of the play,” she says. “I’ve hesitated for a long time to ask you to read the part of the wife. You’ll see that whereas the parts for the eagle and the chicken and that of the farmer, whic
h Bile will play, are closer to my idea of working text, this part needs a lot of rewriting. Will you volunteer for the part?”
Qaali takes the proffered text with both hands, her head slightly bowing. Cambara proposes a few minutes’ break to give her a chance to read it at least twice. Then she hears a few snatches of conversation in the form of phrases that Gacal and SilkHair are exchanging as they egg each other on. It pleases her that the two boys have committed their respective parts to memory and can recite on cue when prompted. She knows that Bile has a problem controlling his ad-libbing, constantly improvising, his working script crawling with insectlike scrawls, especially SilkHair’s part, which he has squiggled with chicken scratches. But that is the least of her worries. She is in a state of some high expectation, and her ears burn. She is in no haste to resume rehearsing, because Qaali is still reading and rereading the text.
Highly strung, she is anticipating that something unusual will happen. Touch wood, Bile has not been in low spirits ever since the two started to spend a lot of time together. He has also been an asset, ably ad-libbing several parts, now sounding like a mother in distress, now a preteen boy upset because his father has opted to alter the rules of the game plan. It has been well worth her while to recruit his services in an attempt to solve a theatrical cul-de-sac of sorts. She is grateful to him for suggesting that she add a new part: that of a narrator, designed to accommodate his expansive baritone voice.
Bile and Cambara find themselves standing close to each other. You can’t tell whether it is totally by chance or through Bile’s deliberate machination that their hips frequently collide. Maybe they are both experts at stealing private moments of intimacy in a public place, as they clasp hands, both cautious in the fluidity of the contact they make, ready to pull back. He, tall, slim, and very presentable, his eyes squinting as if a little impaired; his gaze conspiratorial, as though he knows something he is not prepared to divulge, secrets upon which their future happiness might depend. As rivulets of memories swirl inside her head, a breeze of emotion teases her heart. She thinks that the slight wind blowing into the open door that is her mind is the harbinger of good tidings of which Bile is the bearer. Alas, he won’t speak of them. Is it the same reticence that she discerned in Kiin earlier in the day, which she misinterpreted in a negative way?
Knots Page 47
