Knots (48 page)

In Somalia, she thinks, one does not marry an individual; one marries a family, whose constituent units are hardly salutary in their symbiotic rapport with the couple, such is their economic interdependence. A family organized around blood is different from one built around the idea that circumstances determine its formation. She is not sure that she will manage to insinuate herself without strain into the ménage à trois. Somebody has to give, but who? Talk of hatching chickens, she muses, in the menacing vicinity of eagles about to prey on the eggs just laid.

She remembers committing several minutes to studying the photographs on the walls of Bile's apartment the one and only time she was there: photographs of Raasta just born; of Makka, wrapped up in a blanket, waiting to be found; of Bile, holding one, then the other; of The Refuge soon after it was established; of Seamus, with grease up to his elbows, fixing a generator; of Seamus with Bile, Raasta, and Makka; with Raasta and Shanta. No pictures of Dajaal and none of Shanta, save in the first two years following Raasta's birth. None of her husband, Faahiye.

Bile's mobile phone rings. He listens briefly, saying “Yes” twice and then announcing, “Lunch is on its way; it will be delivered soon. From Kiin's kitchen, with her kind compliments.”

The monotony of work, work, and more work is broken with the pleasant arrival of Kiin, who delivers the lunch herself—a plain meal of fresh fruit, several large bottles of mineral water, and lots of lemon for the fish dish. Cambara has the pleasant sensation that Kiin has brought something with the lunch—a bit of news, maybe some gossip about Zaak, who knows? It amuses her to remember a quip ascribed to Norman Mailer, who is rumored to have said he couldn't vote for a man who hadn't the balls to cheat on his wife. Is Zaak capable of stirring a one-liner to life so others would repeat it?

“You and Bile are always working,” Kiin says in a tone of voice that has a bit of why-don't-you-include-me envy in it. She serves Gacal and SilkHair, who need no encouragement from anyone to leave the adults to their wearisome talk. They take themselves as far away as they can, within reason.

“There is a role for you to play, Kiin,” Cambara says, accepting the plate of food that Kiin is offering her. She mumbles her thanks, and goes on, “The main female protagonist in my play has good lines, and I am sure that you will do justice to them, even though you have never acted in a play. Do you wish to consider it?”

“I haven't the time,” Kiin says, dishing a small portion of fish and salad for Bile, because he has indicated his small appetite by holding his middle and forefingers together just as she is doling out his share. “I am a single mother having to fight my in-laws daily for the custody of my two daughters, a manager of a hotel, and an active member of the network. When will I have the time for such a luxury—to learn the lines of a character in a play, rehearse repeatedly with you until I get them right?”

Cambara and Bile eat in silence, but they soon pay compliments to the chef and heartfelt thanks to Kiin. Several images from Cambara's dream at dawn flash through her mind, and at one point she catches herself smiling when she revisits the scene at Farxia's clinic What was
that
all about? A hidden reference to the lies mother and daughter told about Cambara being infibulated? What was the point of her being examined physically, and the result being passed on like gossip from one person to another?

Kiin says, “I've had a visitor today.”

Neither Bile nor Cambara shows much keenness about this statement, assuming it to be an everyday thing. They do not inquire into the identity of the caller or the nature of the visit.

But when, elaborating, Kiin explains that the woman who came to the hotel earlier today said she wanted to talk to one Raaxo Abduraxman, Cambara sits up, jolted out of her inattention. Kiin then remarks, “I knew that there was something unusual about the woman as soon as she gave that sequence of the names.”

Bile starts to display a little more curiosity—at the mention of the two names, he recalls that he has heard something vaguely to do with a family tragedy. It is nothing specific and about no one whom he has known or met. No matter how hard he overworks his exhausted brain, no clue presents itself. He also finds it curious that Cambara is silent, in the way of someone who knows the answer to a puzzle but won't speak it, so as not to spoil it for the others.

Bile asks Kiin, “What's unusual about a woman looking for someone called Raaxo Abduraxman? Do you know such a person?”

Kiin replies, “No such person exists.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know Raaxo to be the abbreviated version of the name of Cambara's and my mutual friend Raxma, and I know Abduraxman to be Cambara's father's name.”

“What did you think then?”

“It's like a pseudonym, I thought of an author writing and not keeping his writing in a drawer but publishing it,” Kiin says. “I thought that someone is telling me something while keeping it partially hidden from me. She was not a threat of any sort—a small woman, all skin and bone, haggard as hell and in someone's hand-me-downs, but not the begging kind. She had elegance to her careworn aspect, has known better days, I could tell, and was certain that all would be well with her and her world shortly if only she could get to this Raaxo Abduraxman. When I pressed her to tell me how she came by the name and she replied that it had been on the radio, I remembered vague mentions, of Raxma telling and not telling about Gacal and his mom, and of Cambara speculating about Gacal, but not getting me involved in the search for her.”

“What did you do?”

“She is at the hotel, in your room, as it happens, most probably sleeping off a year of bedbugs, creaky mattresses, and other discomforts,” Kiin says. “I felt you wouldn't mind if I lent her your room, since she is looking for you and you are looking for her.”

“You haven't told her anything?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It's not my place to do so.”

In Cambara's thoughts, several images mix and match: meeting Qaali and liaising with her about Gacal and what might be done about him; encountering her mother, as she did in the dream; the thought of her mother arriving—“I've come to see your play, darling, I hope that I am welcome.” Knowing her mother, however, it is in the realm of the possible that she might just turn up.

“Shall we go and meet my visitor?” Cambara says to Kiin.

“Let us.”

When it is clear that Bile is inclined to stay behind, Cambara wonders aloud whether it would be easier for all concerned and wiser if Qaali were brought to the property, or if she, Cambara, should visit her at the hotel, with Gacal in tow. Kiin and Bile suggest that Cambara visit the woman, on condition that, once it is ascertained that she is the boy's mother—and it won't be difficult to do that—then the son and the mother are primed for the meeting. As to the question of how to minimize SilkHair's anxiety about being separated from Gacal, Bile says, “Leave it to me. I'll keep SilkHair entertained.”

They exchange parting words as if they are going on a traumatic journey, Bile and SilkHair stepping out of the house to wave good-bye to the departing truck.

“See you when you get back,” says Bile.

“No more rehearsal today,” she says to SilkHair.

Kiin gives Cambara and Gacal a lift to the hotel. And it is as if Cambara is seeing him with different eyes—a child traceable to his antecedents. Is this why the idea of illegitimacy is so abhorrent to societies, because of this missing link to the starting point?

When they get to the hotel, Cambara and Kiin go their different ways, but agree to meet later for an update. Cambara encourages Gacal to spend half an hour or so with the youths whom he hasn't seen for a couple of days, promising she will call him. She goes up to the room alone, her anxiety level high and aware that she will have managed a coup with no equal if she brings this off, uniting mother and son. Failure is no option. She knocks on the door out of politeness, even though she has the key in her hand. At her light tapping, the door opens. A small woman with drained features is standing in the doorway, anxiously waiting. Neither speaks. Cambara's thoughts race off like a well-looked-after pet, exploring what there is in the vicinity in hope of returning with interesting findings. Qaali lacks the courage that comes from knowing what to do or say. The room is not hers, and she doesn't know who the woman calling is and why they are meeting here.

This is when Cambara realizes it is incumbent upon her to speak first, as it is her room and world in which they are meeting. Besides, she has more information about Qaali than the other way round. True, they have never met before, but Cambara feels that she knows enough about the woman through the tragedy of her story, and to a lesser degree through Gacal, to give her a hug and a kiss too. Then she decides to speed matters up, and speaks as if they are late for a bus or a plane.

She says, closing the door behind her, and going past the petite woman, “If it is hard for me to know where to start, I can imagine how much more difficult it is for you to begin.”

“My name is Qaali,” the woman introduces herself.

“I know. Mine is Cambara.”

“Not Raaxo Abduraxman?”

“No.”

Qaali is the calmer of the two, considering—a woman who has known storms, dreams of hope turned to daily nightmares. Cambara is nervous, shaking, behaving in a manner that gives the wrong impression to Qaali, something she must put right immediately.

Her voice level, Qaali says, “Maybe you'll explain who you are and who Raaxo is and whether any of this has to do with my husband's death, or my son's life and his whereabouts. Please tell me why I am here.”

Calmness becomes Cambara. “The news is good.”

“What news? What are we talking about?”

Cambara sits down, motions to Qaali to do likewise.

Qaali says, “You have the advantage of knowing who I am, but I am at a disadvantage, because I don't know who you are. I know I've come in answer to the announcement, and that I bear grief and hope in equal measure.”

Overwhelmed and yet able to speak, Cambara says, “Maybe you can tell me what went through your mind when you heard your name announced on the BBC ‘Missing Persons' program.”

As Cambara waits for Qaali to speak, her first thought is to look for a family resemblance between Gacal and this woman, Qaali. When Qaali begins to talk, her features grow more pleasant to the eye, even if gaunt; her voice is a delight to listen to, unrestrainedly rich, like the kind of yogurt to which a good chef might put any number of uses, fluid, malleable, and cultured.

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.