Knots (43 page)

Looking at the telephone, as though willing it to ring, she wonders when Raxma will call to give her the news she has so far gathered about Gacal's parents. Eventually, she falls asleep in the small hours but not before reminding herself that she needs to know just as much about SilkHair.

Cambara wakes up, dazed, to the ringing telephone in her room. She stretches her hand out to answer it, and, as she does so, her eyes still closed, she thinks, who can be calling at this most ungodly of hours? Perhaps Bile to thank her for the stupendous bunch of grapes she presented him with and which they shared with pleasure. But when she grabs the phone and then opens her eyes, mouthing the words “Hello, who is this?” she realizes that she is making two errors: one, it is later in the morning than she thought—probably about eight-thirty, nine o'clock; and two, she did not see him in real life or give and share grapes but in a dream, which the phone call interrupted.

She hears a confirmation of this in the distant voice of a woman who says, “This is Raxma with the latest. Are you up, ready to receive it?”

“Just a moment, Raaxo.”

She gives herself a moment to look at her watch, which is by the bedside, sees that it is quarter to nine, and tells herself that it is time she has been up, eaten her breakfast, and asked after her two charges, to find out how their night has been. She sits up, rams a pillow behind her to lean against, and says, “I am listening, Raaxo.”

Raxma's voice sounds closer, as if coming from next door. “I've rung around and am able to confirm much of what he has told you.”

“You're a comfort to me,” Cambara says. (The two friends alter each other's name—Raxma abbreviating Cambara to Cambo, meaning “apple,” and Cambara changing Raxma to Raaxo, meaning “comfort.”

“What time is it where you are? Don't tell me that you've stayed up to call me, because it is close to one in the morning.”

“What won't I do for a friend?”

“I appreciate it, I really do.”

“Anyhow,” Raxma starts to speak, then pauses. “Gacal's parents, namely Qaali and Omar, lived in Duluth, Minnesota, until Omar found a two-year consultancy in Nairobi and the boy's mother, Qaali, moved to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to complete the remaining one-year compulsory coursework for a postgraduate degree at that university. Just before Qaali's departure for her fieldwork in anthropology in some faraway village in the Dogon country, the people whose traditional culture she was researching, she and Omar agreed on a date, in three months' time, when she would visit them in Nairobi for a break. From what I hear, they communicated as frequently as they could. In the part of Mali where she was stationed, telephones were unreliable and e-mailing was impossible, because there were frequent power cuts, at times for a week and more.”

“Tell me what you know about her.”

“Qaali has been described to me as a very determined woman intent on making up for lost time, in that she was determined to take her Ph.D. before her fortieth birthday. This was her second marriage, Omar's first. She had other children by another man; he had none, except their only boy. Add to this the fact that Omar was her junior by five years and the one with the job and the money. As a family, they often avoided the company of other Somalis, and they chose to relocate because of the adverse comments some Minnesota Somalis made about the gap in their ages and their respective incomes.”

“I feel for Qaali, I like her,” says Cambara.

“I knew you would.”

“So they had no friends among the Somalis?”

“They had only American friends, who call her ‘Precious,' a direct translation of her Somali name, Qaali. Here you have a Somali woman reinventing herself as an American. I suspect, too, that she may have put ‘Precious,' not Qaali, on her U.S. passport, so we must keep that in mind when searching for her whereabouts,” says Raxma. “Anyway, Qaali and Omar spoke Somali to Gacal, their son, and English to each other, and wanted to have nothing to do with this clan business, his side or hers, it didn't matter.”

“I'm curious how you garnered this information?”

“Don't interrupt my flow. Wait until later.”

“Go on.”

“What was the last thing I said?”

“Nothing to do with this clan business.”

“But they were nationalists, and they wanted to provide their son with a worldly perspective,” Raxma continues, “and while he was still young and malleable wanted him to speak the language, learn about Somali culture, and pick up enough Arabic to be a useful tool for later in life. They saw the well-paid job in Nairobi as a godsend, for it would afford Qaali a number of years to devote to her studies; and Omar and Gacal would be close enough to Somalia to make brief visits. It just so happened that a fortnight before Qaali was due to visit, Omar bought air tickets for the two to make the first of what they hoped would be many trips. Omar was making a cursory reconnaissance, taking a good look at the city, deciding on a good enough hotel for them to stay in when the whole family reunited to spend four weeks together, after Qaali joined them in East Africa.”

Cambara interrupts, “Come the week for Qaali's visit…!”

“No answer at home when she phoned, because by then they were in Mogadiscio,” Raxma continues. “One thing you need to know is that she came to the nearest town to make the phone call, since none was available in the village where she was doing her fieldwork. So she stayed in the town for a couple more days, ringing Omar's mobile, his direct line at the office, his home in the evenings, and after several unsuccessful attempts, the school at which Gacal had been enrolled. She struck lucky there, the headmaster promising to look into Gacal's disappearance. He called him his star pupil, and said that the whole class missed him. Apparently Gacal was ‘a charming kid,' He asked her to phone him in a couple of days. When Qaali did, he informed her that he had learned that her husband had gone to Somalia, intending to be back after the weekend and that no one had heard from or about him or Gacal.”

“What did Qaali do?”

“She flew to Nairobi, a city unknown to her,” Raxma replies. “She had little money and therefore found a cheap hotel for the night. The following morning she went to her husband's workplace, and they couldn't tell her more than what the headmaster had relayed to her, nor did they know anything more at the school when she called on the headmaster. She didn't bother asking the Somalis, of whom there are hundreds of thousands in Nairobi, putting up at every expensive hotel and frequenting the city's cafés, teahouses, and restaurants, certain that Omar would not have had dealings with them. Two days later, she took a twelve-seater,
qaat
-carrying plane to Mogadiscio in search of her husband and son, last seen when they were both well and planning to make a weekend visit to Mogadiscio.”

“And then?”

“Not a word from her. Vanished.”

Shocked, Cambara can't think of anything to say. She takes a deep breath, shifts her position in the bed the better to know what to ask. After a brief pause, she asks, “How have you gathered this information? To whom have you spoken?”

Raxma responds, “First I called Information, and got a Duluth number registered in Omar's name. When I rang, I spoke to a woman who denied knowing who I was talking about, but she passed me on to the estate agency from which she rented the apartment, who initially couldn't find either Omar's or Qaali's names as clients in their books. Then it transpired that they had her down as ‘Precious,' not Qaali. Then I rang Information again, once I knew that she was a postgraduate student in anthropology at U of M, and I spoke to her head of department, her supervisor, and even the secretary to the department, all of whom answered my questions voluntarily. They had her first name as Qaali and her second as Precious, and used the two hyphenated. Insofar as the Americans are concerned, Qaali has disappeared in that large continent called Africa, and they have no way of knowing how to trace her. She isn't in Mali, at least not in the Dogon village where she is supposed to be doing her fieldwork. The last phone contact from her was when she rang the head of the department, but, because he wasn't there to talk to her, she informed the secretary that she might need an extension, because she was off to Nairobi and then Mogadiscio in search of her husband and son; she hoped to be back in a month or so. Alas, no word from her since that day. And then I spoke with the headmaster at her son's school in Duluth—he was the last to speak with her. And finally, I spoke with our friend Maimouna, who knows everything about international law and passports and such, and she was able to help me collect many of the details. I'm afraid she became obsessed with the story—but she was very helpful.”

Cambara pauses to smile at the thought of their friend doing so much work. Then she asks Raxma for Qaali's and Omar's last names and other particulars, and, after giving her the hotel fax number, she asks Raxma to fax her photographs of both adults, if she can lay her hands on any. “The university can provide you with a mug shot, if there is nothing else.”

“Are you sure you don't want to drop it?”

“While at it, give me their clan names as well.”

“To what end?”

“To identify them, of course.”

“Don't you have better things to do, my Apple?”

“No, Comfort. Not anymore. I am decided.”

They laugh until their ribs ache.

“I prefer asking Kiin to intervene,” Raxma says. “For one thing, she has much better connections than you; for another, she can get the Women's Network on board faster than you can. The network will be keen to give a hand. I'll talk right away to Kiin, whom I will get onto the business of tracing Gacal's mother,” announces Raxma. “She and I are to speak tomorrow when she is due to update me and Arda on the progress of your affairs. Why don't you let me, since you have enough on your plate already?”

“Because Gacal is my precious little man and I adore him.”

“In all seriousness, let Kiin intervene.”

“I insist.”

“How're things with you by the way?” asks Raxma.

“Can't complain; can't complain.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Everything will be working out well,” Cambara says. “Someone at the door,” although there isn't. “Let's talk tomorrow or the day after. About this time. Either you call me, or I'll call you.”

“Take care, Precious Apple.”

The line disconnected, Cambara feels its dead weight and drops it. What do you know? she tells herself. Raxma and Kiin talk to each other often, and Arda is kept abreast of her daily activities. What other arrangements, of which she, Cambara, is unaware, are in progress?

After showering, Cambara orders room service. She does not have the heart to face anyone, least of all Gacal, the sight of whom will sadden her; Kiin, who is bound to ask her about her latest doings; and SilkHair, whom she meant to talk to today, but can't be bothered now to contact, in view of her current mood.

Breakfast consumed, she tries to read Flannery O'Connor's “Good Country People,” but is unable to concentrate, turning the pages without retaining any of what she has read. Then the phone rings, and, answering it, she is connected to a male voice with which she is unfamiliar, Bile's.

“I've phoned just to let you know I am well.”

He sounds top-notch, and they chat with extraordinary ease about this and that but never touch on what transpired at his place yesterday. He does not ask her questions about it; she does not allude to it at all. He refers, however, at some point, to his talks with both Seamus and Dajaal about the masks, and reiterates that the idea of “limited release,” which has always been his, reduces the risk, as it does not rouse the enraged sentiments of the Islamists who oppose producing any play, with or without masks; and it will also not give ammunition to other injured parties who have lost out in the process of the reacquisition of her family property.

Then he asks, “When do we meet?”

“Tell me when,” she says.

“I'll come and visit you at the property.”

“Look forward to seeing you then.”

The line off, she feels half livened up by a memory of her dream of the night before, in which she and Bile are alone, near a knocked-together shack. But they are very calm in themselves and sit in the sweet shade of a fruiting mango tree. They are eating grapes from a bowl, feeding each other in turn, their fingers touching as they do so, their lips, their eyes, their faces framed with traces of joy. Close by, two half-naked boys, in their preteens, are in the water, noisily splashing themselves and playing a catch-and-throw ball game, their contentedness apparent.

Then Cambara marks out the presence in the heavens of a medium-sized gray hawk surveying the scene from just above them for a long time before eventually alighting on a branch in another mango tree adjacent to theirs. The hawk nests quietly, and, as Cambara returns her attention to the goings-on, which are close to her heart, the hawk's short broad wings flap now and then, as if it might take off or perhaps it is reminding her that it is there, deciding on its next move.

And before she knows it, the hawk comes down, unafraid, landing noiselessly very close to where she and Bile are still feeding one another, touching, preparatory to lovemaking. Strangely, neither Bile nor Cambara seem to mind, once it becomes obvious to them that the hawk poses them no danger and is feeding on the fruit insects proliferating in their vicinity. When the two boys arrive, disporting themselves, wrestling catch-as-catch-can, dashing about, and frolicking, the hawk does not appear to approve, and, zeroing in on them, chases them away. Scarcely has she had time to wonder why when she notices that the hawk is raking in pursuit of a large-headed snake, which it secures with its mighty talons, dismembering it instantly.