Knots (46 page)

Her sunken heart is heavier to carry than a foot that has gone to sleep, she tells herself, as she advances gradually into the house and then eventually into the hall, where she means, eventually, to conduct her blocking and rehearsals. Most likely not today.

Everybody helps in bringing into the house the two suitcases, and the small tote bag in which she had her toiletries, a packet of dried and sliced prunes, some raisins, and a few clothes; the suitcases are heavier and fuller, containing books, notepads, sketch pads, and only two of the miniature masks. SilkHair and Gacal supervising, she indicates that the tote is to go to her en-suite, never mind that there is no bed to speak of, only a mattress on the floor, soiled brown and full of tears. She prays that Irrid will return with the purchases before the end of the day. She has no idea where Dajaal is and does not recall seeing Qasiir when she was coming in the truck, maybe because she was on the floor and wasn't in a position to see anyone.

In the cool disquiet of the hall where she is alone for a moment, Cambara allows her imagination to soar to great heights so as to conquer her umbrage, overpowering it with her creative sanction, the license to do what she pleases in the family house, now that it has become hers. It is then that a couple of images come to her in the shape of a woman who has a lot of fight left in her and of another woman who will not cower at the sight of blood or at the sound of bullets passing close by. She wonders if the network of women will continue its commitment to giving her unconditional support if Kiin interprets her hasty move as unwary, thoughtless to the point of undoing all that they have done to recover the property for her. Will some of the women support her loyally, because of her determination to put up a fight, her fearlessness unequaled? She envisages living in the house—she has no idea for how long—and working in the service of peace and justice as the situation permits. Cambara pictures spending quality time with Bile, who, in her imagining, is enamored not so much of her as he is of the idea of a woman like her.

Then she hears small scuttles, similar to the sounds that rats make when scurrying to safety. She does not know where the noise is coming from, and cannot decide whether to look up at the eaves or toward the window, her pique, mixed with a worrying dose of fear, rising up for the first time since she alighted from the vehicle, from her viscera, as if to choke her.

“We are here,” Gacal says.

She is relieved when she locates SilkHair and Gacal, approaching sheepishly. Why do children hide behind doors or pillars inside houses and delight in frightening adults? Although the two boys seem to be moving toward her, Cambara is of the weird impression that they are not gaining on her, the distance between them remaining unchanged. She urges them to get closer, and when they do and are within a meter of her, she says to them, “Please let's not startle each other.”

Then she gives them hugs and, as she kisses them on the cheeks, in turn, remembers both the dream and her conversation with Raxma, from the combination of which the urge to move into the property has mysteriously sprung. She senses that even though neither has had a bath, SilkHair's day-old sweat has the hint of an adult's BO odor, as compared to Gacal's, maybe because Gacal's skin is less oily, and has something of an unchanged diaper smell to it. She deduces from this that SilkHair is probably Gacal's senior by two, three years.

She looks hesitantly around, the unfinished nature of the battle of the evening before beginning to haunt her. She realizes that her head is empty of original ideas that might help her to confront the situation at hand. Because she does not wish to allude to the attack on the house, she picks a neutral topic. She asks Gacal, “Where were you when I looked for the two of you this morning?”

Gacal is equivocal. “Here and there.”

She asks, “Where is here? Where is there?”

“We went nowhere.”

“He won't tell you, but I will,” SilkHair says.

At Cambara's encouragement, it comes out that they went to see movies—SilkHair his favorite kung fu films, Gacal another blue flick. What bothers her is not that Gacal is being equivocal or refusing to answer her but that he is lying. Of course, she is aware that it doesn't mean that SilkHair's truth-telling is symptomatic of a more truthful nature; maybe he fancies that he can earn her affections that way, whereas Gacal is in a survivalist mode, behaving like a boy who had everything one day and none the next.

“Why, Gacal?”

Gacal's face loses its natural color, blanching with discontent. He wants to say something, but he cannot, as though fearing the consequence. She wonders, but does not dare inquire, how Gacal conducted himself in the situation of the night before. He is rattled. How much effect will Cambara's moving out of the hotel have on the two boys? Will it bring Gacal's reunion with Qaali, if she is alive, closer? SilkHair has known a tougher existence, doesn't mind trying his hand at cooking or fending for himself; he is eager to tell the truth, get on her right side. Gacal's difficulty in operating under this sort of condition is more recent, and he needs to adjust to his situation. On first meeting him, she suspected that the boy had attitude and that she would get used to it, and he to her.

Unprompted, SilkHair asks, “Shall I make a fire and then some tea?”

“Later. But tell me, when there is fighting and all the small and heavy guns are blazing, do you manage to sleep at all after things have quieted down and the attackers have withdrawn?”

“It is difficult to sleep,” he says. “Your ears are full of noise, your heart of fear, and you are excited, and you want to talk, but you can't, because you do not know when or if the attackers will return. You don't want them to hear you. Sleep runs away, not daring to return for several nights. Then you stay up and another type of energy floods your body. You think you won't miss sleep, but when you do, you go crazy from sleeplessness.”

“Where would you go in this house if you had no guns and they attacked?” she says to Gacal.

“I would hide up in the attic,” Gacal says, “close to a water tank if there is one, or in a pantry. Not in the cupboard where clothes are hanging, for that is where they look for anyone hiding. At least, we did when we searched a house. If the fighting was brief, that is where I hid for a whole night, crouched by a water tank when the militiamen came to attack the lodging where my dad and I were staying. When no one was around, I would come down to the pantry. There is dry bread sometimes.”

Cambara does not know what to do. She mouths the words “Oh you poor thing,” but she can't bring herself to say them.

SilkHair is enjoying himself; that much is clear. He says, “What matters is to be patient and when you get the chance to kick their teeth in. Always good to chase them off. Never take any of them prisoner, you have to feed them.”

“I won't know what to do,” she admits.

“With the likes of Qasiir and his mates around, fighters known for their fearlessness,” SilkHair, sounding like an old man speaking from experience, says, “you can relax. Just keep your mobile phone charged, and we can call Dajaal. Problem solved.”

Then SilkHair turns to Gacal, his long stare focused on him in a forbiddingly communicative way; it is as if he is daring Gacal to contradict him.

“We are fine,” SilkHair assures her.

She says, “I am not so sure.”

SilkHair puts a physical distance between him and Gacal on the one hand and Cambara on the other. “Have you ever known any fighting?”

“Never.”

SilkHair and Gacal look at each other in bafflement. She relives the commotion that Irrid created: The driver making snide remarks, in which he predicted that Gudcur's men would come, maybe after nightfall, gunning for her and determined to do their worst. The question is, which is better: to arm oneself or to insist, as she is wont to do, that they do not; and to hire gun hands until the conditions become livable.

SilkHair's excited voice awakens her from the brief trance as he says, “We know our lines. Shall we start rehearsing?”

“Maybe not now,” she says.

“It'll pass the time, rehearsing.”

“Yes, let's,” Gacal says.

To SilkHair, “Where's the tea you promised?”

Gacal says, “I'll come and help make the fire.”

SilkHair insists, “After tea, we rehearse.”

“We'll rehearse after I've had tea.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They rehearse; she waits for Bile to come.

Nothing seizes the imagination as relentlessly as fear does, Cambara thinks. However, even though she is fretful, she is determined not to permit the dread that she feels—which is only natural, given the circumstances—to cloud her judgment. Then she remembers the drift of a Somali adage that says that the mother of a coward seldom mourns the death of her child from impulsiveness. No matter. She will admit that she has been as foolhardy as a brave woman who has decided to tempt fate but who has had luck on her side up to now. From now on, no more harebrained daredevilry. She must get down to serious work to counter the onslaught of the panic beating in her heart…while waiting for Bile.

Cambara calls for an unscheduled pause in the resumed rehearsal, because she is making too many slip-ups in her directorial suggestions, repeatedly having to change her mind and contradicting herself. It is as if her heart is occupied, in part with consternation, despite her resolve to abandon herself to repossessing the house, and in part by her eagerness to see Bile. She has just about whipped out her mobile phone debating whether it would be wise or not to ring him and ask when and if he is coming, when she hears the commotion of voices and then the arrival of a truck, most likely Irrid with the purchases. SilkHair and Gacal run off to join the excitement.

A couple of minutes later, Gacal reappears to report to her that he has seen the beds, unopened boxes of crockery, mattresses, a small midget fridge—“maybe for our room,” he guesses—and lots and lots of other things. She is out of it, though, dejected in appearance, mild in her enthusiasm, whenever one of the boys comes to inform her of what he has seen. Looking at her sitting there, still, her gaze distant, you can't tell from her bearing what it is that she wants done.

There are comings and goings of the men bringing in the generator, a stove, the beds, the sheets, the mattresses, the bedspreads, boxes and boxes, creating a brouhaha. Only when decisions concerning where this item is to go and to which room that other item must be taken are to be made is she consulted, but she is indifferent. She will think about this later, she half shouts. Leave them where you like for the time being, she says, clearly annoyed with SilkHair, who is fired up and demanding that she give an answer right away. SilkHair feels put out and he walks away in silence to minister to his sulk in a corner. Just then Gacal returns, hanging out with the men bringing in the mattresses and pretending to work, and he spots SilkHair looking hurt. Asked what the matter is, SilkHair reminds his friend that they have forgotten to make the fire and the tea that they promised
her.
SilkHair speculates, “Maybe
she
is irritable, because she hasn't had her tea, the kick that some adults need. Like
qaat.
”

The fire in the charcoal brazier ready for the tea, Gacal suggests they throw away the pan, all beat up and blackened by soot, in which they cooked food and boiled the water for tea the last time and open one of the boxes in which there is sure to be a new kettle. SilkHair doesn't agree, and the two of them, arguing back and forth, each giving their reason why or why not, go to Cambara to adjudicate. She says, “Do what you like. In any case, I don't want tea anymore.”

Neither knows what to do or say. They look like two tomcats that have just been fixed, their faces drained of stamina. They slink away, giving each other a wide berth and avoiding any bodily contact whatsoever, as if they are sore. They make the tea and return to offer her a cup and ask if she wants sugar and condensed milk. Cross, she says, “Didn't I say I do not want tea?”

Irrid accepts a cup if it is on offer. Four spoons of sugar and some milk please. And biscuits, if there are any. He pulls a chair, clutching lots of chits in his right hand, receipts for his purchases in millions of the devalued local currency. Lacking somewhere else to spread them, he holds the one he is explaining about close to Cambara and lays out the rest on his lap. When he has gone on far too long for her liking, she says, her voice lackluster, “It doesn't matter. Give them to me, and I'll study them in my own time.”

Then her mobile phone squeals: It is Bile at the other end, announcing that he is less than two minutes away from the property, Dajaal driving. Such is the animated change that takes place in her features, her boisterous movements, her spirited feistiness that Irrid, preparing to flee from the scene, searches unsuccessfully for a table, some surface anywhere on which to place his unfinished teacup. No longer the morose woman whom SilkHair and Gacal have slunk from, and no longer the woman with the moody take on the purchases Irrid has made, she is now vivaciously engaging the two boys—she wants them to join her at the rehearsal hall for them to resume their blocking—and thanking Irrid, warmly shaking his hand and politely requesting that he see himself off and give a handsome tip to the youths who've escorted him to and from the Bakaaraha market.

In an instant, the rehearsal is in full swing.

And Bile is spellbound.

Cambara can see that whenever she turns around, for he is seated way in the back of the hall on a hard chair, his legs outstretched, his expression that of a very contented man. He has taken a long look around, seen how much has been done, with a lot of input from Seamus, who has apparently kept him informed. He has been cursorily in the bedrooms, bathrooms, and kitchen and has satisfied himself that it will be a beautiful house when completed.

To her, he doesn't look anything like the man whom she saw yesterday: sick like a cat suffering from a bout of flu and soiled. For the life of her, she can't recall with any precision what it is that excites her about him. The times are confusing, and it doesn't help when you have to attend to too many life-and-death matters.

“Let's do this scene again,” she says.

Gacal and SilkHair are at each other's throats, each blaming the other for not paying attention to his lines. They fight like two actors getting into a confrontation that is likely to ruin the chance of her working through the part of the text she wishes to solidify. Gacal accuses SilkHair of messing it all up for everyone; neither is prepared to listen to reason; their never-ending quibbles know no limits; and they take yet another unscheduled break, which gives her a chance to join Bile.

“You are very good, considering,” he commends her efforts and stands up to greet her. They hug, and as they do so, she observes perfunctorily that all is well with him: hair combed, clothes freshly ironed, shoes polished, and fingernails scissor-trimmed, not nervously bitten off to the quick. He is having a good day.

“If only I had more time,” she says.

“Gacal is excellent,” Bile comments, his hand remaining within reach of hers but not touching or taking it, their closeness producing sufficient warmth to enliven the chemistry between them.

“He is a natural,” she agrees.

“Where did you find him?”

“A long story, which is telling itself by the day, you won't believe it,” she says. Then she pauses, this time taking hold of his hand and kissing him on the right cheek. Then she calls to the two boys to return to the stage, which they do a little unwillingly. She says to Bile, “Half an hour and we'll break for the day.”

The moment they are on the stage, they become who they are: two boys seeking her attention and, knowing no better, scrapping to decide which will have the upper hand in a misguided tussle. SilkHair in particular is in an unpardonably sparring mood.

Cambara takes SilkHair aside, “Cut it out.”

“I don't like that man at all,” SilkHair says, then looks jealously over his shoulder at Bile.

“Why?”

“I've seen him before.”

“Where?”

“At The Refuge that he ran.”

“What did he do that you didn't like?”

“He was very, very strict.”

“When was that?”

“I was younger, before I became a fighter.”

“Why didn't you like him? Tell me.”

SilkHair, she gathers from his response, saw Bile as a wizened old man with skin so smooth, manners so affected, that he fled and joined the first fighting force that might trust him with a gun.

They return to the stage, she pulling him, and they resume their rehearsal, Gacal performing his role very well, and SilkHair adequately. Then all of a sudden, SilkHair says, “I won't be a chicken, only an eagle. I must be one of the eagles; I am no chicken and won't be one. No matter what.”

Not for the first time, Cambara takes the trouble to explain that a real actor, who is human, may on occasion represent a fictional character, say an animal, and that a child at times may play the role of an adult, provided one follows certain conventions. Her patience a little too stretched, she tells him that it is because of a convention that younger boys playing the roles of men older than their age sport a full beard and walk with a stoop. Younger girls wear the head scarves of older women, and they hunch their shoulders as part of the make-believe.

In a theatrical aside, Gacal, using the side of his mouth that is close to her, makes a snide comment: that SilkHair does not know the difference between playing the role of and being the character or the animal. Then he says aloud, more to impress Bile and Cambara and to goad SilkHair into further outrages, “SilkHair's problem is he does not know and does not want to say that he does not know.”

“Say what you like, I won't be a chicken.”

Determined to find the underlying cause of his obstinance one way or the other, Cambara asks SilkHair why he is unprepared to play a chicken, even though she has not assigned such a role to him.

“I am giving you advance warning that I will not play the role of a chicken,” he replies. “No matter what.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not want my mates the fighters to point at me and make clucking sounds, as if I am a chicken.”

“Who says they will see you as a chicken?”

“Some of the fighters will, like Qasiir.”

“But you don't mind being an eagle? And Gacal has no problem playing the chicken?”

“Because where I come from, my clan family owns everything, including the sky. Gacal comes from a family of farmers, lowly people who, like chickens, live on scraps, on other people's leftovers. They are as cheap as the dirt at which they pick.”

“I think a brief pause is in order,” she says.

As they disperse, in silence, she tells herself maybe the break will help her deal with the other hurdles of an artistic, text-related nature, although she doubts that she will be able to remove these obstacles until they are well into serious rehearsals, and even then may not be able to take care of the problems. Reading a text through the one time may not highlight or unbury all its inadequacies right away. This being her directorial debut, with the likes of SilkHair, she wonders how well her first attempt at playwriting and directing will work and how much rewriting she will have to do before she is happy with it. Written texts, she imagines, often require more than a read-through and much rewriting before the dialogue takes on its own life, independent of its author.

SilkHair goes off in a huff and sits away from everyone, on Seamus's toolboxes; Gacal finds a stool and is admiring a handful of the props, makeup paraphernalia, and other tools of her theatrical trade. Cambara, who walks over to where Bile is, wonders aloud when she might lay the groundwork aimed at making SilkHair and Gacal come to grips with the challenges that lie ahead of them.

“All will be fine, you'll see,” Bile says.

Cambara has no heart to contradict his optimism, even if she is actually entertaining second thoughts about the whole thing. “Maybe I should put in more time, school Gacal in understanding the role he is playing. That it is not a chicken. I hate to make it sound so hoity-toity and literary and talk to him about metaphors and all that crap.”

Bile struggles with a thought before saying “It's always novices who believe they know better. SilkHair strikes me as being used to fighting his way to the top. But you can't do that in life all the time.”

She asks, “Do you remember ever knowing him?”

“I've seen lots of children in my days at The Refuge,” Bile says. “He may have been one of the ‘tourists.' We used to refer to them as such, because they would come infrequently when their families ran out of food, or when there was fighting in their area that displaced them. Am I supposed to have met him?”

“At The Refuge. You were too strict.”

“And he left?”

“And joined a fighting force.”

Now Bile and Cambara pay attention to the boys. They can hear their conversation, Gacal saying “I have no problem playing the role of a chicken. You become the eagle; I, the chicken. How about that?”

SilkHair, his index finger warning Gacal to stop provoking him, starts shooting arrows of venom now in Gacal's direction, now in Bile's, his hard look weakening only when it encounters Cambara's, and he turns back to Gacal angrily. “If you don't stop messing with me, I'll make you eat shit.”

Gacal eggs him on with his sarcasm, saying “Oh please, please, SilkHair. Spare me. Don't hurt me; don't harm me. I'm quivering.”