Crossbones

by Nuruddin Farah

  But this was not the case in the home where Taxliil grew up, thanks to Ahl. The three of them lived as a nuclear family: a man, a woman, and a child, with Uncle Malik occasionally visiting, an ideal model, one would have thought, for a boy growing up. There was order and abundant love in the household. Ahl made time to supervise Taxliil’s homework. Twice a week, Taxliil went to the neighborhood mosque to receive religious instruction from a Somali teacher with rudimentary Arabic, and often Ahl would subtly set Taxliil right without pointing out the teacher’s failings.

  On his first day of secondary school, Taxliil met a green-eyed Kurdish boy, Samir. The two became inseparable. They played sports and computer games together; swapped clothes; swam and took long walks on weekends. They spurred each other to achieve their ambitions. Neither admitted to knowing what the word impossible meant. Doing well wasn’t good enough; they did better than anyone else.

  One summer vacation, Samir flew out to Baghdad with his father to visit Iraq for the first time since the American takeover. He was sitting in the back of the car with his grandparents, his father in the front next to the driver, Samir’s uncle, when an American Marine flagged them down at a checkpoint. Samir alighted speedily and waited by the roadside, away from the vehicle, as instructed. His father helped Grandma in regaining possession of her walker and held his hand out to her as she shakily stepped out of the vehicle. Meanwhile, his uncle bent down to assist Grandpa, who was still in the car, in retrieving his cane, and he took a long time, half his body hidden from view. Panicking that one of the two men would shoot him, the young Marine opened fire, killing everyone except Samir.

  Back in the Twin Cities, Samir became morose. The two friends still spent time together, but their life lacked the fun and ambition they had previously shared. Then Samir began to speak of attending to his “religious responsibilities,” and shortly thereafter he vanished from sight. A month or so later, his photo appeared in the Star Tribune, the caption reading: “Local boy turns Baghdad suicide bomber.”

  The FBI came early the next morning and descended with unnecessary force on Taxliil, Ahl, and Yusur, as if they had detonated the bomb that caused the death of the soldiers. They were taken in separate vehicles and fingerprinted, their histories together and separately gone over again and again. Taxliil was made to endure longer hours of interrogation, with repeated threats. The FBI showed keen interest in Ahl as well, because of his birthplace and because he, Yusur, and Taxliil now lived in a house close to potential escape routes along the Mississippi. An FBI officer accused him of being a talent spotter for radical groups in the Muslim world.

  The officers cast Yusur in the role of witness. They handled her with kindness, in light of her history. In their narrative, she had gone from a rapist to a man with a history of subversive tendencies, the older brother of a journalist able to tap into jihadi resources because of his connections. The officer asked Yusur if Ahl was likely to recruit Taxliil as a suicide bomber. They suggested she get it off her chest; they were her friends, and they meant her well. Who were his friends? Whom did he contact, and how did he do it?

  Eventually, all three were released by the FBI. Even so, they were told to inform the agency of any suspicious activities. If they failed to do so, they would be reclassified.

  Ahl sits with his mobile phone close by, yet it does not ring. He thinks that misfortune has followed the Somalis who fled their warring homeland; braved the seas; and put up with rape, daily harassment, corruption, and abuse. Just when they were on safe ground, they turned on themselves, with their young setting up armed gangs, as if they were out to prove that they could be better at cruelty than their elders. Somali-on-Somali violence in the Twin Cities rivaled Somali-on-Somali violence in their civil war–torn homeland.

  The next time misfortune called, Taxliil was ready to follow. It took him back to Somalia, his route an enigma, the source of the funds that paid for his air ticket a mystery, his handlers a puzzle, the talent spotters who recruited him a riddle. When Ahl decided that he would go to Somalia, Yusur asked him why he would risk his own life in pursuit of the hopeless case of a young boy who had disappeared to God knows where. Ahl replied that he wished to reduce the number of unknown factors. He added, “I do not want to regret later that I did not go in search of our son. Taking the risk is the least I can do.”

  News arriving from Somalia is often no more than hearsay bolstered by scuttlebutt, fueled by rumor. Essentially this is what Ahl and Yusur have come to learn: Taxliil has joined the volunteer Somali youth brigade, recruited from within Somali communities in the diaspora and earmarked to train as jihadis. Ahl shakes at the thought that an innocent Taxliil, misled by an imam on whom he modeled his life, might come to harm. He doesn’t know what would become of him and Yusur if something terrible were to happen to Taxliil.

  When he has waited long enough and Malik has still not rung, he heads toward the Baraka Mall, to get additional phone numbers in Bosaso from a relative of Yusur’s who owns a stall there. As soon as he gets out of his car, his gaze meets the stare of one of Taxliil’s uncles, who rudely turns his back on him without so much as a smile or greeting. That the man does not bother to ask if there is news of his nephew disturbs Ahl. He probably wouldn’t tell the man much; certainly not that he is off to Somalia in search of the runaway boy. Ahl is aware that Yusur’s former in-laws blame them for what has happened, given that he and Yusur have had custody of Taxliil. He walks away downcast, then looks up at the sign that reads, Welcome to Baraka Mall. He reads it softly in English, and then loudly in Somali.

  The Somali mall in the Twin Cities has been open for a number of years. It was the idea of a Pakistani émigré who bought it dirt cheap when it was an abandoned auto repair shop, and subdivided it into ten-by-ten-meter shops and six-by-eight kiosks. He rented these out to Somalis who needed to establish businesses to supplement their families’ meager incomes from the welfare department. The scheme worked to the Bangladeshi’s advantage and he was able to recoup his investment. Ahl can’t tell if the contention that he levies rents higher than market rate is true or just loose-lipped Somali talk, but clearly the venture has been successful.

  In the warren of narrow passageways, Somali merchants sell clothes and memorabilia from Somalia, and goods imported mainly but not exclusively from the Arabian Gulf and the Indian subcontinent. Somalis, with no English or qualification in any profession, and no possibility of finding other work, have set up these stalls and opened restaurants, barbershops, music shops, and outlets for DVDs in Somali. This all-Somali mall has created a symbiosis, with many Somalis coming to exchange news about their country. The Somalis in charge of running the mall have agreed not to show TV news such as CNN or BBC, fearing this might cause flare-ups; they play only sports channels.

  Ahl walks through the narrow hallway, bright with fluorescent lights. He passes a travel agency, a fabric store, and stalls specializing in jewelry imported from the Gulf. A large shop with metal bars in front of it promises to transfer your money into the recipient’s hands anywhere in Somalia in less than twenty-four hours.

  Up the steps to the first floor, two more shops down a shorter corridor, and Ahl enters a shop. The owner is on the phone, talking loudly—Somalis have the habit of speaking at deafening levels when they are making long-distance phone calls, as if the greater the distance their voices have to travel, the higher the volume must be. Every passerby stops and stares and then continues walking, many shaking their heads, even though they, too, shout just as animatedly as this man when they make long-distance calls.

  As Ahl waits, the man’s voice grows louder by the second, then suddenly he disconnects, and is quiet. He turns to Ahl, greets him warmly, and then opens a drawer and brings out a piece of paper with phone numbers written on it. The man’s lips move, like a child practicing the spelling of a new word, and then he says, employing his normal voice, “Here they are, the numbers you wanted.”

  Ahl nods. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve just
spoken to Warsame,” says Ninety-Decibels. “All is well, as promised.”

  Ahl is relieved that Ninety-Decibels does not confuse him by naming the names of Yusur’s relatives, whom he is expected to know but doesn’t; he has no desire to get mixed up with the local politics, if he can help it, and he won’t do so, unless the situation demands it. Staring at the names on the piece of paper torn from a child’s exercise book, Ahl is aware that he is encountering a catalog of relationships entangled through blood, marriage, or both. This is where his upbringing in an insulated nuclear family fails him. To operate well in Somalia, one memorizes and makes active use, on a daily basis, of a multitude of details having to do with who is who in relation to whom. Most Somali speakers can’t help but mention the clan names of everyone they talk about, and so he is often left utterly confused.

  Ninety-Decibels continues, “Xalan and Warsame have been informed about your arrival, and one or both of them will meet your flight in Bosaso. They will take you to your hotel.”

  Ninety-Decibels’s phone rings, and he answers it. To Ahl’s surprise, though, Ninety-Decibels lowers the timbre of his voice to forty decibels. Ahl assumes the man must be speaking to someone local, maybe next door. When he hangs up, Ninety-Decibels asks, “Will you be looking for Taxliil?”

  Ahl hesitates visibly, but says with a straight face, “We have no idea where he is.”

  “You say no news yet from your son?”

  “We wait and hope,” Ahl says.

  When the phone rings and Ninety-Decibels’s timbre escalates to 150 decibels, Ahl decides it is time to leave. As he departs, he mouths, “Thank you.”

  DHOORRE, WEARING A DRESSING GOWN AND, UNDER IT, A PAIR OF pajamas and slippers, shifts in the discomfort of his sleep on the garden bench. Then he awakens in a startle, badly in need of a pee.

  It takes him a while to remember that he came out to the porch to take a closer, admiring look at a gorgeous bird with an immense beak and colorful plumage. Then a gust of wind shut the door and he couldn’t get back in. The bird gone, he walked around the unkempt garden, where the trees, their bark like peeled-off skin, and the shrubs are emaciated from neglect. He feared he might come up against city riffraff camping out here, or someone fleeing the fighting, which has lately been ferocious. Property, after all, does not mean what it used to mean. He knows what he is talking about, he owned several houses, some of which were rented out. He was once an important man in Mogadiscio himself. Today he is a man without property, living in a house that his son himself is renting.

  With no book to read and no one to talk to, he fell asleep on the garden bench. Now his bones are sore and the sciatica in his legs is extreme. He remembers he was having a sweet dream, in which he and a childhood friend were watching one of his favorite Italian movies, Vittorio De Sica’s Shoeshine. He recalls the mesmerizing beauty of the camera work as it captured the two boys riding a horse through Rome. Two boys living in innocence until tragedy strikes. There is no innocence in this city. After all, every resident of this city is guilty, even if no one admits to being a culprit.

  He gets up, yawns leisurely, stretching first his arms, then his legs until he feels he has overdone the stretching. For a man his age, he is blessed with a sharp mind, but his body is bent as the young branch of a eucalyptus tree. He feels the belt of his dressing gown loosening; in an instant, he’ll feel exposed. Not that it matters—he presumes he is alone and his son, his daughter-in-law, his brood of grandchildren, and the maid are all out. It will amuse them to find him in the garden, unshaven, unwashed, in his pajamas and his dressing gown.

  Suddenly his heart beats faster; he hears sounds from inside the house and realizes that this can only mean danger. He debates what he should do. He is on the verge of walking around the house to find out if there is a way of entering through a back window, when the front door opens. Out comes a young thing bearing a gun bigger than himself. The old man and the boy with the gun size each other up. Dhoorre thinks, What if he reacts as if the boy is holding a toy gun? What if he tells himself, even though this may not be the case, that the young thing does not know how to shoot and can’t pose much of a threat?

  He asks, “What have you been doing inside?” He speaks the way one might to a mischievous grandchild.

  The boy says, “What are you doing outside?”

  Looking at the two of them and listening to them, you would not be able to tell who is the guest and who the host—the boy standing guard at the entrance to the house or the old man, befuddled and amused. Befuddled, because he can’t figure out what to do; amused, because he can’t imagine such a young thing frightening him. However, there is uncertainty in Dhoorre’s demeanor when the boy says, “Answer my question.”

  Dhoorre tells himself that the boy is putting on a brave face, because he has a gun and this endows him with the hollow bravado of a coward. Is the boy the type who will beg for mercy when things turn nasty?

  Hardness enters the boy’s voice. “Answer before I lose my patience, old man. What are you doing outside, in near rags, in the garden?”

  Dhoorre replies, “The wind locked me out, pushing the door shut behind me when I came out to enjoy a bit of fresh air outside, in the garden, and I couldn’t get back in, so I napped on the bench. There.” He points at the bench, his voice laced with a genuine tremor.

  The boy is thinking, What if he is wrong about the old man, whom he first imagined to be a drifter with nothing more than the rags he has been lent by a kinsman? A typical tramp, come off the streets without his begging bowl, maneuvering his way in.

  “The wind, eh?”

  “That’s right, the wind.”

  The boy is not convinced.

  “And your clothes, where are your clothes?”

  “Inside.”

  YoungThing considers his next move, and the implications if it does turn out that the Old Man lives in the house. He stares at the man, wondering how he can make him disappear before the advance team arrives. He could act like a trained insurgent—shoot first and explain later that he found this worthless hobo in the garden, insisting that he lived here. But the option of shooting the old man does not appeal to the boy. Yet how will he explain himself to the leader of the cell when he shows up?

  The old man is saying, “My name is Dhoorre,” and his outstretched hand waits, ready to shake the boy’s. When the boy doesn’t react, Dhoorre says, “At least tell me your name.”

  Then he takes one speedy step closer to the boy and another step closer to the door. The muscles of the boy’s neck stiffen, his jaw goes taut, his whole attitude becomes more threatening. He raises his gas-operated AK-47 and presses the selector switch that turns it fully automatic. This action gives him the composure of a boxer who has just won a KO in the second round.

  “I wouldn’t act the fool if I were you,” says the boy. “It is at your peril that you take me for a lamebrain. You make one foolish move, you are dead.”

  Fresh worries congregate in Dhoorre’s head, where they huddle together like a clutch of poorly clad men suddenly exposed to unseasonable frost. This is the closest Dhoorre has been to danger in his seventy-plus years. His hand runs over his head, smoothing what hair there is, a head as bereft of hair as it is of new ideas. How can he bring his peace-making pleas to bear on a young mind that has known only violence? He moves nearer to the boy, no longer afraid.

  “Go ahead,” he says. “See if I care. Shoot.”

  “I won’t shoot unless I have to,” the boy says.

  They embark on a badly choreographed, lurching dance.

  “What’s the matter?” challenges Dhoorre.

  “One wrong move and you’re dead.”

  In their gyrations for more favorable positions, Dhoorre now has his back to the door. All he has to do is move a step back and he’ll be inside the house, the boy outside. But to what end?

  “Why are you here, armed?”

  “I am not authorized to tell you.”

  The word authorized coming out of
such a small thing gives Dhoorre a jolt. Perhaps this is one of the boys he’s heard about—the new order of youths trained for a higher cause, who, even though they receive their instructions from earthlings, ascribe their actions to divine inspiration. He has heard about boys such as this, whom Shabaab has kidnapped and then trained as suicide bombers, boys and a few girls who see themselves as martyrs beholden to high ideals. But what can this boy want? Or, rather, what can his superiors want? And why here, why him and his family? He must disabuse the boy of the notion that he, Dhoorre, harbors any resentment toward religionist ideals, it is only that he privileges dialogue, prioritizes peace.

  “I am not an enemy to your cause,” Dhoorre says.

  Their eyes meet, the boy’s glance anxious in its desire to make sense of the old man’s sudden friendliness. Dhoorre’s gaze takes on a more incisive shrewdness, his bearing grows more sanguine. He adds, “Tell me what you want done and I will do it.”

  “Just relax,” says the boy. “That’s all.”

  Dhoorre asks, “How can I relax when you haven’t told me why you are here in our house, with a gun, threatening to shoot me, an old man, of the same age as your grandfather, if you have one?”

  “You say our house? How many of you live here?”

  “My son, his family, and I.”