Gravel Heart

by Abdulrazak Gurnah

  On the other hand, if I just turned up outside the deputy minister’s mansion, which I knew had walls topped with barbed wire as well as an armed guard in a kennel beside the gate, I was not likely to be allowed to reach Yusuf. I might even be arrested for something: disturbing the peace, suspicious behaviour, audacity. It was still late afternoon and I thought that might help, as if I might be there on pre-arranged business rather than disturbing the family while they were relaxing. I thought I would rely on the old-fashioned politeness usually extended to a caller. And if that failed, then I would ring and arrange to see Yusuf at his office the next day. That was what went rather anxiously through my mind as I cycled to ask for his help.

  The deputy minister’s house was set back some fifty metres from the main road. The ground either side of the drive was cultivated, with hibiscus and bougainvillaea and oleander and cannas and other plants and bushes I did not recognise. This spectacle was protected from the attentions of adventurous children and wandering goats by a chicken-wire fence on the verge. The house was on the edge of town, and some people brought goats there to graze. I am talking about twenty-five years ago. Now that area is built up, although the houses you see there are still mansions with large gardens.

  When I turned into the drive of the deputy minister’s house I saw there were two soldiers at the tall green gate. One of them was armed and the other was without his beret, as if he was off-duty and standing there informally, rubbing his head in an absent-minded way. I dismounted some metres from the gate and wheeled my bicycle towards them, to give them plenty of time to observe my approach. I had never in my life touched a gun or even the sleeve of a man in uniform, though both were ubiquitous in our lives. I hoped there would not be a tremor in my voice when I spoke. Both guards saw me, and the one who was armed adjusted his beret carefully as I approached, as if he needed to look his best as he fired his gun at me. While I was still a couple of metres away, the one without a cap said, Simama hapo hapo, bwana. Stop right there, mister.

  ‘Salam alaikum,’ I said, and was relieved to receive unhesitating replies from both soldiers. It is always so reassuring to hear a prompt reply, because hesitation means the person you have greeted does not like you and is only replying because God commanded that a Muslim must reciprocate that call of blessing when another Muslim makes it (and must not when it is uttered by an unbeliever). ‘I’ve come to speak to Bwana Yusuf,’ I said.

  The soldier without the cap, whom I could now see was the senior of the two, did not look impressed.

  ‘What about?’ he asked.

  I dropped my eyes deferentially to suggest that, with all due respect, I could not discuss the matter with him. These powerful people are always doing something they shouldn’t and I thought if I made it seem that I was doing some dirty work for the deputy minister’s son, then the soldier would not ask too many questions. When I looked up I saw the bare-headed soldier reach into the guard post to retrieve his beret. He fanned himself with it a couple of times before putting it on. He glanced at his watch and gave me a long scrutiny before reaching into the guard post again to retrieve a heavy-looking black phone. He held it in his hand for a few moments, his head cocked to one side, and then reluctantly seemed to reach a decision. He was not happy with what he had to do. He asked for my name and retreated out of earshot before making his call.

  To my complete surprise, Yusuf was at the gate within minutes. I had expected to wait or perhaps be given an appointment, but he was there, calling me inside as if he did not want us to be seen from the road. He stopped right there in the yard, with the gate ajar, in sight of the guards. He must have guessed that some trouble had brought me to the house, which I had not been to before and would not have dared to visit in other circumstances. As we shook hands he gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, like a teacher confronted by a nervous student.

  ‘You are welcome. How can I help?’ Yusuf said.

  ‘My brother Amir was taken away by two men in a white Datsun with government plates,’ I said, speaking in a whisper although there was no one nearby to overhear. I raised my voice and spoke properly. ‘We think he has been arrested. We don’t know why, or where he has been taken, and we don’t know who to ask. I have come to ask for your help.’

  We had known each other since primary school where we used to compete and to share books, and of course play coram together in later years. At one time we had looked a little alike, and people had taken us for relatives with the same large eyes and lop-sided smiles, the same dark complexion, but then I put on a spurt of growth while Yusuf remained short and plump and our similarity disappeared. After I finished speaking, Yusuf nodded and said: ‘Amir, your wife’s brother.’

  ‘My wife’s brother is my brother,’ I said.

  ‘What has he done?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I have no idea.’

  We looked at each other in a long moment of silence, two young men who had known each other all our lives and still felt a residue of the friendly affection we had shared as children. Well, I did anyway, and I think Yusuf did too, because he nodded and said, ‘I’ll try to find out. I don’t know if I will be able to but I’ll try. I’ll have to speak to Baba. Come to the office tomorrow and check with me. It will be easier to speak there.’

  ‘What time?’ I asked, using the same business-like tone as Yusuf.

  ‘Make it afternoon. It will give me more time,’ he said.

  As we stood in the yard just inside the gate of Yusuf’s father’s mansion, I saw the extent of the façade of the house, with its windows and balconies and hanging baskets, and how the drive continued down the left-hand side of it, perhaps towards the garages and the pool and the gardens. I did not know how far back the grounds went, and how many wings and outhouses they accommodated. It was a different world from the paltry one I knew, with its cramped rooms and exhausted furniture and ineradicable smells.

  On the way home with my news, I went over the encounter with Yusuf. Was he a little unfriendly? Cold? He could have just told me that he couldn’t help, and he did not do that. Was there a tone of distaste in his voice when he said Amir’s name? And what was the meaning of that correction, saying Amir was my wife’s brother and not mine? Was it a way of saying that because you are a friend, your brother would have had a claim on me but your wife’s brother does not? Yusuf could not know that Saida was everything to me, and could not know how much what mattered to her, mattered to me. Perhaps Yusuf was one of those people Amir had offended in some way.

  The next day, I went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and waited in the reception area as I was instructed. The receptionist sat at a large desk with a telephone and a few scraps of paper in front of her. On the wall behind her was an airways wildlife calendar and above that a row of photographs showing the President in the middle and a host of dignitaries either side of him. The large barred window beside her was open, letting in light and a hot breeze from the road. If I made the slightest move she looked up from her desk to see what I was doing. She had no reason to be watchful, her glances were intended to intimidate. I tried to sit quite still. After what seemed a long wait, perhaps because I had to sit so still, Yusuf came out, dressed in a white shirt and no jacket, shaking hands and smiling, looking every inch a young diplomat. When he shut the door to his office, the smile faded and his face turned stern; maybe he even looked displeased. He did not sit down and did not invite me to sit either. This was going to be brief. We were in a small airy upstairs room with a view of the sea, and through the open window I could hear the sound of traffic below. I thought it would be a nice office to work in. I watched as Yusuf went to stand by the window.

  He said: ‘Your brother has been arrested for raping an under-age schoolgirl.’ He waited for me to speak, his face wearing a sneer of distaste. When I did not say anything, because I was shocked speechless by this announcement, he continued, ‘Not just any under-age schoolgirl either, but the youngest daughter of the Vice-President. That is how her fam
ily will tell the story because they are so angry. They will say that he raped her, although possibly there was no coercion, maybe they both knew what they were doing. That’s all I’ve been able to find out. It was difficult enough. I can’t help you more than that. I don’t know any more and I don’t want to have anything to do with this matter.’

  All I could say was: ‘Amir?’

  ‘Yes Amir,’ Yusuf said.

  He moved away from the window and stood beside his desk, hands on his hips, angry that he was in any way a part of this. I took in the information. Rape the Vice-President’s daughter? But it was unreal, unfounded, a mad accusation, like something imagined or fantastic. At the same time I felt the impact of Yusuf’s words somewhere in the cavity of my body, a churn of terror for what was now going to happen to Amir. I wondered at Yusuf’s anger, perhaps he had had to humiliate himself to discover the information. Then he shook his head and turned towards the door. ‘It has been a horribly busy and messy day,’ he said. ‘I must get back to work now.’

  I understood this to mean that the interview was over, that there was nothing more to talk about, that there were powerful people concerned, and it was now time for me to go. ‘Thank you for what you have done,’ I said to him, reaching out to shake his hand in gratitude. ‘We did not know …’

  ‘You keep saying that,’ Yusuf interrupted, holding my hand for just a second longer than necessary. ‘Your brother has a reputation,’ he said, and I could not miss the sneer on his face again as he said your brother.

  ‘I had no idea,’ I said.

  ‘Well, my old friend, you are the only one in this town who doesn’t,’ he said. ‘You must excuse me now, I should return to these papers.’

  ‘Where is he held? What can we do?’ I asked.

  Yusuf shrugged and looked helpless, then he opened the office door, ushering me out. On my way out of the building, the receptionist who had been keeping an eye on me said, Give my regards to Saida, and I said I will, but I forgot to ask for her name.

  After I got home and reported my conversation with Yusuf, Saida too was speechless with shock for a moment, and then she said: ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Yusuf said we are the only two people in town who don’t,’ I said.

  But Saida meant something else. She said: ‘I mean, I had no idea he mixed with such powerful people. The Vice-President’s daughter. Where could he meet with such people? At the hotel perhaps. They must go there to relax. It can’t be true about him forcing her,’ Saida said, evading the word. ‘And anyway, being a schoolgirl does not mean she is a child.’

  ‘Yusuf’s words were that she is an under-age schoolgirl,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what the legal age to be under is, perhaps sixteen. People used to marry off their daughters at fourteen and no questions asked, and the husband could be anything from fifteen to fifty. I did not even know there was an under-age law now. Perhaps there always was and no one took any notice.’

  ‘Yes yes yes,’ Saida said impatiently, not interested in my ramblings. ‘We must find out where he is,’ she said, ‘so we can hear what really happened. I am sure it did not happen like that. Rape? Amir! I don’t believe he could have done something like that. He is the only brother I have, we must do whatever we can to get him out. Whatever happens afterwards.’

  I asked: ‘What does that mean, whatever happens afterwards?’

  ‘I mean whatever kind of person he really is or becomes,’ she said. ‘We did not do anything when they took my father, and then just watched while my mother died so wretchedly. Now we must do what we can, whatever we can, to get Amir out before he comes to harm.’

  ‘That was a different time,’ I said. ‘What can we do anyway?’ Perhaps I was speaking out of fear. We had become cowed by our rulers’ willingness to be stern with us.

  She said: ‘We can go and plead with the girl’s father.’

  We sat quietly for a while contemplating this bold suggestion, then I said, ‘That may make the father even more angry. Perhaps we should wait for a while, see what further news comes out. Maybe tempers will cool.’

  But Saida shook her head and said, ‘I’m not waiting. Tomorrow morning I am going to the Vice-President’s office to try and find out what happened to Amir. You can come if you want or you can wait until tempers have cooled.’

  Throughout the day, neighbours and friends came to the house to find out if there was any news, and we said no. All we knew was that Amir had been taken away. We were not yet ready to reveal our shame.

  The next day Saida and I went to the Vice-President’s office together, although I was very nervous about what I expected would be a humiliating encounter. I did not even think we would be allowed to see the great man, but would be shouted at and chased away by his guards and minders. The armed guard at the door looked as contemptuous as I had imagined and refused us entry into the building. What was it about anyway? he asked. Saida said it was a confidential family matter of great importance and we needed to make an appointment to see the Mheshimiwa. The guard was adamant: this was a place of state business, not of family troubles. I wondered if he expected to be paid something or if that would make matters worse. I did not know how to do such things, but I wondered if the guard expected it, and if he did, how it was to be done.

  ‘Well,’ Saida said to the guard in the end, ‘you had better be sure you know what is state business and what is family business. Because if anything terrible happens as a result of our failure to see His Excellency, the responsibility will be yours, and then you’ll come to know without any doubt whose business it is.’

  The guard looked displeased and I thought he would shout at Saida for threatening him in that way, but perhaps he too was afraid in a different way. After considering for a moment or two, he told us to go and speak to the receptionist. The guard glanced inside and saw someone passing by and called out. It was the appointments secretary, just the man who would be able to tell us if the Mheshimiwa would have time for us, the guard explained, conciliatory now that he had decided to be helpful, demonstrating to us the joyful caprice of power. The appointments secretary waited for us to approach and then signalled for us to follow him to a desk in the reception area. He was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and khaki trousers, the humble costume of a lowly clerk or a teacher, unexpected in the office of such a high grandee. He looked at us coolly, watching us with a sinister stillness that was surprising in someone of such modest and benign appearance, and then he enquired the nature of our business. For some reason, I guessed that he already knew who we were and why we were there.

  ‘It’s a private family matter,’ Saida said.

  The secretary shook his head, so she said it concerned her brother Amir Ahmed. The secretary pondered this for a moment. Amir Ahmed Musa? he asked, and Saida nodded. The secretary reached forward and put his hand on the telephone without picking it up. I thought I had seen a slight leap in his eyes when Saida said Amir’s name. He picked up the receiver and dialled a number. Then he said into it, The sister of Amir Ahmed Musa is here, asking for an appointment to see His Excellency. After listening briefly, he rose to his feet and called out to someone in the office behind him. We are going upstairs, he said, and asked Saida and me to follow him. We went up two flights of stairs and stopped outside an office with a sign that read Chief Protocol Officer. The appointments clerk knocked on the door and waited for a few seconds before opening it. He held the door open and then followed Saida and me inside, shutting the door behind him.

  The office was large and air-conditioned, and at the far end of it was a desk behind which stood a commanding-looking man with a shaven head. Nearer the door, chairs and sofas were arranged in an oblong. It was the office of a senior official used to receiving powerful visitors. The man was dressed in light green trousers and the wide-lapelled shirt so beloved by our dignitaries at that time. Now they all wear suits and ties because they want to look like statesmen, but then everyone wanted to look like a guerrilla.

  He came out fr
om behind the desk and walked slowly towards us. He pointed to the sofas and chairs as he approached, but then he stopped and glanced back towards his desk. The secretary nodded to Saida and me and pointed us towards the sofas and chairs, then he stepped to one side as if he was taking himself out of the picture. In the meantime, the Chief Protocol Officer turned and walked towards us again. All this walking about was intended to demonstrate that he had complete mastery of the situation, that we were powerless before him. It was something we understood anyway. We were sitting on a small sofa side-by-side and he stopped a few feet away from us. The sofa was low, which forced our knees to rise, and made me feel as if I was cringing. The Chief Protocol Officer stood in front of us without saying a word for what seemed a long time. I thought I felt something in the air, a kind of tremor or disturbance, a chill, but then I realised it was a shiver of fear running through my body. When I glanced towards the appointments secretary I saw that his eyes were shining with laughter or mockery or relish.

  We had both immediately recognised the Chief Protocol Officer, if that was what he really did in this office. I gave you that description so that you would have an idea what it felt like to be there and to be confronted in this way, but really we knew who he was as soon as we walked into the room. He was the son of the Vice-President, and we would have seen his image on television news bulletins several times, usually scowling over the shoulder of his father or sitting in the second row on a podium at functions and events. We knew all those people, their glamorous excellencies and their wives, whose images and names appeared to us several times a week in replays of old concerts and old speeches and in commemorations of old sorrows. Here was the brother of the abused sister, in person. He was known as a man of strength and discipline, a ferocious man whose preferred sphere was the army, with its brawn and guns and shouted commands. His name was Hakim, which I expect you know means the one who is wise and learned.