Knots (34 page)

Looking for something to wear, she lights upon a plain caftan, which she puts on in haste. Her hair combed back, head uncovered, she wraps her shoulders in a
garbasaar
shawl of Indonesian make that boasts an elaborate pattern: peacocks in pursuit of peahens, the one in full display and eager to get done, the others acting coy and delighting in the long-drawn-out courtship. A pair of drop earrings for her ears. For shoes, she has leather sandals, bought in Rome a couple of years ago. She isn't carrying a handbag, which she thinks of as an ecumbrance, and her hands swing freely as she takes her long strides. Finally, she does an odd thing: She admires her neatly varnished nails, colored gentle purple.

She applies a very light makeup, a balm to her current state of unease for not being one of the first to arrive. So far, she has been able to pay little attention to her body. She is happy to have made inroads into other areas of interest, namely the recovery of the family property. She feels certain that a fruitful expedition into her imaginative side when she starts to block and rehearse the play will prompt the serious healing she needs. She prays that the evening will provide her with inspiration that will give her a fix on the very qualities that set her apart from the other women at the party, many of whom, she presumes, have their bases here and are deeply involved in the politics of the city.

She walks down the steps, past reception, which has no staff and thus no one to answer the two telephones that are squealing. She strides with the perturbation of someone who is heavy of heart, disturbed of mind, because of a gap in her memory as to what caused her blackout—exhaustion? In her distraction, she nearly collides with two women, young of voice but of indeterminate age, who are giggling as they share a bit of gossip about one of their number caught in bed with her bodyguard, whom she accused of raping her at gunpoint. “When it's clear it's been voluntary,” adds one of them and, chuckling, takes her friend's hand, pulling it toward her, the two of them doubling over in rip-roaring laughter. Cambara does not see what is amusing in the rape story she has just overheard. What kind of women are these?

She slows down her pace, pretending that she is listening to the loud Somali music blaring out of the upstairs hall where the party is taking place, when she is actually avoiding making eye contact with Gacal and SilkHair, who are sitting on the floor and playing cards under the light. She goes around a pillar and then seats herself on a chair in the café. She looks up at the clear, starry, beautiful evening. Again, her memory fails, because she cannot remember where in the sky she might look if she is to spot the camel-in-the-heavens constellation.

As she resumes walking, she tries to identify the Somali song coming from the hall. Alas, she fails to do so and reminds herself that Kiin will be presenting her to a handful of her friends, among whom, she hopes, will be the gynecologist who helped not only to deliver Jiijo's baby boy but also to organize for her a safe home away from Gudcur's reach. But will Cambara remember these women if she meets them somewhere else, or will their names have dropped into a black hole, irredeemably lost, like what happened a couple of hours earlier. Maybe she has nothing to worry about. Maybe she just had a simple fainting spell, not that she has ever had one before. Anyhow, there is no reason to give way to unwarranted anxieties. This is no way to proceed; she might as well pack up and leave. The question, however, is this: Is departing an option? She has already committed herself to cutting off her relationship with Zaak. Does it now make sense to alienate Kiin and all the other people who have put their lives on the line? It is time that Cambara relax, time that she prepare to enjoy herself at the party.

As she ambles forward, taking her time, she recalls the countless instances of newly arrived Somali women living in Toronto inviting her to one ceremony or another: a daughter graduating from university; a son, a nephew, or a niece getting married; a young woman or man being honored for her or his achievement in business or sports. It is no wonder that Cambara, who attended only a few of the numerous occasions to which she was unfailingly invited, is now dragging her feet, no longer eager to get to this party.

Now she finds herself standing as two women in all-black chador who are chattering away and gossiping about a man pass her. The women speak loudly and do not seem at all bothered by who might hear them. Stepping aside, Cambara is curious that although veiled to a tee they are in stiletto heels, which click away with echoing intensity, irritating Cambara. Moreover, when both lift their veils off the ground to make sure they don't get dirty or do not trip on them, Cambara is certain she can see the bright pink undergarments of one of them. She can hear the two women talking ceaselessly and coarsely until they go up the stone steps that will lead into the dance hall.

Patience is of the essence, she tells herself. It gives her a moment's comfort to think that this is the first time that she has seen Somali women behave uninhibitedly, remembering of course that outside the hotel grounds, it is bandit country where women may not step out of line. Or else!

The party is in full swing, and Cambara's entry attracts long gawking from several women near the entrance to the hall. Not wanting to interfere with the flow of human traffic going in and out, and behaving excitedly, she reins in her enthusiasm, and stands to the left of the doorway, watching. She leans against the wall, close to a coat rack on which the women have hung lengths of dark material, presumably their veils, now that they are among women only, indoors, and no longer required to wear them.

There are many women on the floor, animatedly dancing, even if their arrhythmic bodily gyrations are at variance with their intentions. Several of those near her are hip heavy, and they can barely move in keeping with the fast beat of the music, a few of them giving up and then being encouraged by those in the same circle to adapt their pace to the pulse, to measure their movements against theirs. Alas to no avail, for they fail in their efforts to achieve the required tempo. When Cambara surveys the scene from her vantage point, taking in the extent of the dancing qua dining hall, she sees a sea of beautiful richness in varicolored vibrancy, reminiscent of Soviet-and Chinese-style displays that used to be mounted often to celebrate special national occasions with the pomp and ceremony of the so-called socialist states. Tens of thousands of children, trained in acrobatics and in the art of sycophancy, would be coached in constructing color-coordinated collages representing all the good things that the state had accomplished in the name of its valiant people. Looking at the scene before her from close range, she does not find much that appeals to her aesthetic, not with so many mistiming, and their missteps now and then causing the dancers to fall over one another.

Then Kiin comes on the scene. She hugs Cambara, kissing now one cheek, now the other, and, speaking endearments, adds, as if for good measure, a tribute, “How good that you are here at last.”

Cambara feels certain that she is well advised not to entertain any worries. All is well with Kiin and her. Whatever has made her think otherwise?

Kiin takes Cambara by the hand, almost dragging her, and says, “Come, my dear, come.” And she presents her cursorily to a number of women before offering her a paper cup with a bright yellow drink of which Cambara takes a cautious sip, her expression guarded, so as not to give it away. Finding the proffered drink too sweet for her liking, she puts it on a windowsill at the first opportunity, ostensibly to shake the extended hand of a woman to whom Kiin has just introduced her, and then walks away from it.

“You know who I would like to meet?”

“Who?”

“The wife of the shopkeeper in the neighborhood of the family property,” Cambara says. “I feel I know her. Just to say hello. That's all.”

“She's out of town, I am afraid.”

“Gone out of the country or something?”

“As a matter of fact, she has,” Kiin replies. “She is in Nairobi at the National Reconciliation Conference as a delegate, representing our branch of the Women's Network.”

“Another time, maybe.”

“Let's go.”

Then Kiin and Cambara embark on a walkabout, with one or the other of them engaging in inconsequential talk with women whose names she is not likely ever to remember. But she enjoys the tactile nature of their camaraderie, the fellow feeling with women whose names won't matter to her, because she hasn't caught them, given the loudness of the music, and won't remember, because she can't think of a reason why she should. From what she can gather, Kiin, who is leading her by the hand the way a sighted person might guide a blind one, is looking to spot someone, her neck craned, her eyes peeled. Yet they move on, at times with the faint acknowledgment of two young women in jeans who are registering everything on a video camera.

She and Kiin separate when Cambara knocks into one of the chairs placed against the wall. She hurts her right knee, stops, and then nurses the bump, rubbing it. Then she lights upon two young women who are different from many of the others not only in their approach to dancing but also in what they are wearing. One of them is standing in a pair of bloomers, with nothing covering her upper torso, not even a brassiere, her breasts firm and her body equally so. She is belly dancing and doing it well, almost like a professional. The other is in a very tight dress, her long, jet-black hair down, her frontal and posterior bulges prominently distended. Not that Cambara, fascinated, falls under their spell, but she finds it curious that no one else has. Every woman is doing her own thing.

Cambara finds her hand in the good warm grip of someone else's. Turning, she is face to face with Kiin's eager eyes, which put her in mind of the troubled muddy waters of a river working itself up to an overflowing point before finally bursting at the banks in a rainy season. Cambara puts a lot of effort into hiding her feeling and smiles reproachfully, because she has no idea why she senses a disturbing stir in the hollow of her stomach. Nothing that Kiin has done or said to her so far accounts for her behavior.

Kiin says, “Come with me.”

Kiin holds out her hand to her and grabs it, taking a very tight grip of it. Cambara has the eerie sensation of a minor tremor running through them, only she is not certain which of them is responsible for the quiver.

“Where are we headed?”

“Come and you'll find out.”

In the café downstairs, Kiin introduces her to Farxia, the medical doctor at whose clinic Jiijo delivered her baby boy and who has been looking after her since then and providing the “fugitive” mother with a temporary safe house. Farxia is holding a mug and sipping from it. (In a number of Muslim countries, someone drinking alcohol may disguise it this way. Cambara is not sure if this is so, in Farxia's case.)

Farxia, austerely dressed in a shirt and khaki trousers, is sitting in a dimly lit corner from which she can watch all the comings and goings. She has three strings around her neck, two for mobile phones and a third for her computer's memory stick. From what Cambara can see in the little light provided, she wears no makeup at all and no jewelry either. Farxia, whom Cambara guesses to be in her late thirties or early forties, is a slender, soft-spoken woman of medium height, with a stern expression and a slight squint.

She has a firm handshake, however. Once introduced, she nods to acknowledge Cambara's presence but does not say anything. There is a brief intense look in the eyes, nothing else. Barely have Cambara and Kiin seated themselves when a young woman arrives with platters of finger food: chicken wings lightly sautéed in honey, lemon, and garlic; baby carrots and a few sticks of almost-dry celery; a variety of dips and a choice of baguette and
nan-
like
sabaayo;
and a spread of salad for the three of them.

Farxia dispenses with all formalities and serves herself a very small portion of the food, at which she nibbles. As she does so, she looks down and studies her trimmed nails and her well-scrubbed, many-times-washed hands; she might be consulting them, she is so focused, her lips astir. Then she says to no one in particular, “Jiijo and her baby are both fine.”

Farxia frets; she is a little on edge, probably thinking not so much of what she has so far done for Jiijo as of the commitments she will have made to keeping the woman and her baby safe. And she keeps peering around in the softly lit darkness with which they are all surrounded, as if she is expecting an attacker to materialize. However, there is no fear in Farxia's eyes. Cambara thinks she can read the unbending determination of a woman pursuing an ideal.

Farxia continues, “We're lucky the delivery went smoothly and happy that to date there have been no complications of any sort.”

Cambara speaks despite the fact that she sounds highly unprepared to let go of the words, as if parting with them might cause offense. “Where are they, mother and baby?”

Farxia hesitates, clearly not wanting to divulge a secret pact. She looks at Cambara, then at Kiin before replying, “I have had them moved from the clinic to a private home. To a place where they are safe. And I have assigned a nurse to attend to them. I am in constant contact with the nurse, a trustworthy woman who used to work with Bile, whom I understand you've already met. I look in on them twice daily: just before dawn and late at night.”

At the mention of Bile's name, Cambara fidgets self-consciously. She is reassured that neither woman takes notice of her squirm. Maybe as a decoy to put Farxia off, Kiin, in an audible tone of voice as confident as it is welcome, says in the manner of someone anticipating the relevant question that is to come, “Our network delivers them food and all their other needs.”