Knots (51 page)

“Where is Arda?” she asks Raxma irritably.

“She's broken her journey in Nairobi, where she intends to sleep off the jet lag,” Raxma explains. “We parted at the airport, she to take a taxi to a hotel, I to board my onward flight here. She'll be here early tomorrow. Kiin has offered to fetch her from the airstrip.”

“That woman is going to be my death,” she says.

“Take it easy, Cambo.”

“How can I when there are Zaaks and Wardis?”

“Forget about Zaak; he is a fool.”

“How can I?”

“Get on with your rehearsal, Cambo.”

“Give me a minute.” Cambara sits where she is, her eyes closed, as if this might afford her a look inside of herself, so that she might draw on her inner strength, which she is certain is there.

“Thanks, Raaxo,” she says a few minutes later, ready to get on with her rehearsal. “You've been a darling. As always.”

They soldier on rehearsing until late, by which time everyone is too exhausted, and the young women volunteers, including ScriptWoman and TeaWoman, have gone. Raxma takes over their jobs, moving about with formidable efficiency, never indicating for a single moment that she has arrived only a few hours ago. She won't hear of Cambara's suggestion that Dajaal drive her to Maanta. “Isn't that what friends are for: to be by your side when you need them? I'll be here until we are done for the day.”

The next day when least expected, Zaak makes a dramatic entrance, walking ahead into the hall with a figure immediately behind him, he like the first of two vehicles tied to each other by an invisible rope, the one with its engine alive and running, as it pulls the other, namely the figure of a woman.

Zaak is carrying two heavy suitcases. He stops frequently, breathing heavily and wiping away the sweat just as often, halting altogether now and again, only to pick up now one suitcase, now the other, all the while conscious of the figure behind him, who is silently urging him to go on despite it all. As he comes forward, taking one foot at a time, pausing, and then continuing, everyone onstage falling silent and turning in his direction, Zaak seems to want to curse but dares not, again because of the figure goading him on subtly from behind. At one point, he puts down the weighty suitcases and then absentmindedly moves forward, tripping over one of them, awkwardly falling, and almost somersaulting. As he collapses into a heap, he makes an unearthly noise, something like lightning cracking, as if in pursuit of the thunder it is chasing across a cloudy tropical sky.

In contrast to Zaak, Arda presents herself well-groomed, bright-eyed, lively, and full of post–jet lag perkiness. She walks tall and large, swathed in an elegant frock of light cotton, the fan in her hand actively in motion, stirring the air about, the smile on her face obtrusive to the point of appearing false, especially to those who know her very well. Her skin brown, and, seemingly, too young for her age, she has a rested aspect to her, a jauntiness that borders on the nervous. In the scheme of things, she is upset, because it is Zaak who determines her forward progress.

The scene before Cambara strikes a distant chord in her memory, reminding her of one of her favorite plays,
Waiting for Godot.
The mystery, the despair, and the uncertainty of human existence, all of which she discerns in Zaak's and Arda's faces, bring to mind Samuel Beckett's Pozzo, who drives Lucky by means of a rope around the latter's neck. The day hasn't been kind to Zaak, whom, you can bet, Arda must have bullied and shamed in private on the basis of what Raxma told her. Now Arda is deliberately putting Zaak in his place in public, in the presence of the very same men and woman in front of whom he humiliated her daughter.

Raxma appears to be enjoying herself, watching the proceedings. Cambara, however, feels sorry for Zaak, thinking that the poor fellow doesn't even have a stool on which to sit, as does Lucky in
Godot.
As far as she knows, his transgressions notwithstanding, Zaak remains a nephew to Arda, and that means he is also of the same blood as hers. Maybe the midday heat, it being siesta time, the exhaustion pervasive, and the stress unbearable, is making Cambara start to see things, conjure up discordant images of a Pozzo-and-Lucky drama of desolation.

It's even clearer the moment they come near the stage where Cambara, Bile, Qaali, Gacal, and SilkHair are that there is bad blood between Arda and Zaak. Not only do they keep the same physical distance as before—Arda spurring him on, Zaak plodding wearily forward—but Arda is in a rage, and she wants everyone to know it. She halts all of a sudden, just as Zaak acts in a mutinous manner, refusing to take a step farther and also to lift the two suitcases. Arda says firmly to Zaak, “You've been rude, behaved in an unacceptable manner, hurled invectives in all directions whenever you've felt like it. It is time you apologized.”

Only she doesn't name the person or persons to whom he must serve up a travesty of regrets. In addition, she handles him physically, pushing him out of the way, and rudely going past him toward the stage, where the others are gathered, watching in silence. When she reaches the stage, where Cambara is expecting her, with her arms open, her face adorned with a wide smile, Arda changes her voice. The vitriol that has oozed out with malicious intent when she talks to Zaak is transformed to sweetness, now that she is addressing her words to her daughter. They exchange remarks, neither moving toward the other.

“Done it, haven't you, darling?”

“Not yet, Mother.”

“You have, my darling.”

“There is a lot to do.”

“You've done it. No question about it.”

“Let's not tempt fate, Mum.”

“In any case, come down and give your doubting Arda a hug and a kiss,” and she motions to Cambara to come forward, “and tell me how you've managed to achieve all of this.” In one sweep, Arda takes in the stage and the people on it, the hall and those in it. “All on your own. In spite of the numerous odds. Despite Zaak,” and she looks at him.

Arda, to free her hands for Cambara's embrace, tosses the fan toward the stage in the attitude of an athlete who, winning the finals of a game, throws her racket into the admiring crowd. Bile has the fortune to catch the fan before it hits the floor; Raxma applauds. Cambara approaches, her heart racing, but she takes care not to collide with Zaak or stumble against the suitcases, which he left bang in the aisle

They hug, mother and daughter; they whisper in each other's ears, like two young beaux meeting after a long separation. Then each wraps her body around the other, Cambara finding it difficult to reach round her mother's waist, because of its dimensions. Her voice low and teasing, Cambara says, “We must lose weight, mustn't we?”

“That we will; that we will.”

They turn their backs on everyone and walk out of the hall. It is not clear if Cambara means to show her mother the rest of the house or if Arda wants Cambara to herself for a couple of hours, in which the two might spend private time together and talk.

Three days later, at which point Cambara's days of work, more work, and more of the same, have extended into nights, and the nights into all-day affairs, she mounts the special performance before a select audience of mainly women. When not revising, rehearsing, or rereading and she is awake, she consumes lots of coffee to stay on her feet and spends her time, now in the company of Arda, who is ever so sweet; now Raxma, who is discreet and gently merging into the background, silent, unobtrusive; now Bile, with whom she is alone in the apartment to chill out and take long hot baths; and now Kiin, Qaali, SilkHair, and Gacal.

Raxma volunteers to do whatever is required of her, occasionally acting as ScriptWoman, recording the start and the end of the takes on the clapboard and penciling in the changes to the text as dictated to her by Cambara; at times, as TeaWoman; at others, accompanied by Dajaal, she goes to a part of the city she has not been to for more than fifteen years, because Cambara has requested olive oil for the wooden masks, since linseed oil, which is ideal for it, is not available. On another occasion, she is assigned to collect the costumes from the tailor. On her return, Raxma, appearing more desolate than either Arda or Cambara has known her to be, speaks of how she has borne witness to a skirmish in which two youths lost their lives right in front of her. “Felt like watching a horror movie live but on the big screen,” Raxma says. “Only this was so insanely real, I couldn't bear the madness of it.” To the question of how it all unfolded in front of her, she explains that teenagers got into an argument, for a reason unclear to her, and then all of a sudden started shooting at each other bang, bang, bang. Point-blank. No emotions at all. “As if they've done it for me to bear testimony.” She sighs, then goes on, “I don't want to go out anymore. Enough. I am staying put; I feel safe here.”

Where others might put questions to Cambara, gently probing, Arda stays decidedly in the margins, behaving differently from her usual self; she acts as if she has no opinions on any matter, no advice to offer to her daughter on any topic whatsoever. She is often heard saying “You know it better than me, darling. Who am I to give you counsel on anything after you've achieved what you have?” Nor does she have anything to say more particularly about Cambara's apparent closeness to Bile, even while others keenly watch the bourgeoning intimacy between them. Arda overhears the others talk of the amity flowering, their tongues wagging, some hinting at the possibility of a wedding, yet she makes no comment, either to Cambara or to the others, maybe because she does not wish a repeat of what occurred with Zaak—admittedly, her own mistake—or when her daughter married Wardi against her advice and they were alienated from each other. She doesn't want to mention Wardi's name or make reference to Zaak, knowing that she opposed Cambara's marrying the former, just because her daughter loved him, and imposed the latter on her—and what disasters they both turned out to be.

Curiously though, Arda takes to SilkHair, whom she has more or less put under her solicitous care. She talks of sending him to school somewhere to train as a mechanic or in one of the trades, provided he is up to the challenge and prepared to follow it through. She is on good terms with Qaali and Gacal, but alas there is little she can do to help them solve the bureaucratic muddle even though she tells them that she has spoken to one of her friends in the Canadian diplomatic corps. Both she and Cambara are relieved when Raxma informs them that she has been in touch with Maimouna, who is making representations with the U.S. consulate in Nairobi.

Arda and Dajaal get on well too; they discuss the security situation at length and the possibility of a sudden attack, which he shrugs off, describing it as “virtually impossible, considering.” Then he continues, “I can understand your worries, which are the worries of an untrained mind. I am saying ‘untrained' vis-à-vis security matters. Leave it all to me. Have no fear. We're okay as long as we stage the play for a special audience, masks or no masks. My worry is about giving a public viewing of the play with masks. Too risky.” But from the way the two of them converse, Cambara feels that they are better acquainted with each other, more than they care to explain.

Arda takes to talking to Seamus more than to any of the others; he is less inhibited with her and he teases her. He tickles her memory to the extent that they exchange the jokes they knew in the day when Italian culture, language, and cinema were pervasive in their lives. She tells him some priest jokes, and he, for his part, cracks some ‘peasant comes to town' ones, full of below-the-waist punch lines. Gacal is a constant listener to the ribaldries.

Bile, however, is more formal with Arda, very courteous, maybe as it behooves a future son-in-law. And Arda is ill at ease in his presence, maybe because of the age difference between her and Bile, potentially her daughter's future partner. She strives to show a relaxed aspect of herself to Bile. It's just as well that they are all very busy, Cambara seeing to the exigencies of the play, including makeup, and acting as an assistant to Seamus when it comes to lighting and stage management. Raxma puts herself forward to take on every other task with which Cambara charges her, her last assignment being that of a prompter; Seamus, in addition to his lighting and stage-managing duties, attends to the running of the generator; Bile, Qaali, Gacal, and SilkHair all do their jobs with absolute devotion.

Bile is unfailingly present at Cambara's side for most of their waking hours, steadfast in his supportive companionship, trustworthy in his offer of a large space in which she moves around free from all constraints. On more than one occasion, after everyone else has turned in, the two have gone together, and, too exhausted, she has dropped off into a deep sleep the instant her head hit the pillow in what used to be his niece Raasta's room. It is obvious to everybody that Bile, dejected in appearance when she is absent, is mad with longing for her. Things are such that he considers every activity that keeps them apart an unacceptable interference, a meddling into the
affaire de coeur,
and he hurts.

Overcome with anxiety, Kiin, in Cambara's presence, leads a spirited existence. She prays that everything will work out well for every one of her guests: that Gudcur will stay buried, if he is dead; that none of his minions will prove to be a nuisance; that Cambara will make a success of the play to which she, Kiin, is inviting a select audience and a few loyal intimates. But Kiin avoids saying anything when someone alludes to Bile and Cambara being an item, especially with Arda present. Given that she has helped bring forth the closeness, she is under the impression that it will be long-lasting. Raxma wears feistiness for her friend's benefit whenever Bile is not around, knowing that it will cheer her up and make working with her a lot easier and less acrimonious. Nor does she want to be drawn into the relationship either.

On the opening night itself, with butterflies taking residence in her viscera, Cambara's innards become a battlefield. She tells herself that a war has been won, which is all good and inspiringly welcome, but will the battle be lost?

The generator is on, and you can hear its humming noise from half a mile away. To ensure that there are no lapses in security, which Dajaal has planned very tightly, Seamus has run the cables all the way to the checkpoints. There are several inner and outer circles and a minimum of three checkpoints, the one farthest being manned by Kaahin, a close associate of Dajaal's, the second by Qasiir, and the one just before you get to the house by no other than Dajaal himself. All manner of communication gadgets are in use: walkie-talkies, a landline telephone at the property, and several handheld mobiles. At each checkpoint, there are men with machine guns hidden from view, the second security ring having the only “technical” as part of a show of force, if it comes to that. The phone keeps ringing whenever there are doubts about the identity of a person who has presented him—or herself—and whether this person has been invited. These are checked against the master list of guests, which is with Arda. Kiin is in continuous communication with all the parties concerned, considering that she has provided the names of the guests and their details in the first place. The play is being staged under the auspices of the Women's Network, which, as host, along with Hotel Maanta, has supplied the evening's refreshments.

In spite of the tension resulting from the tight security, there is a jovial atmosphere, with the guests behaving normally once they come through the rings, after being frisked, some having been asked what they think of as impertinent questions. Once or twice, Kiin has had to go in person to Dajaal's site of operations to sort out things. In all, only two persons have been turned away, because Kiin couldn't vouch for them or didn't know them well enough to allow them through. With no panic buttons pressed, Dajaal, Kiin, and Arda give the go-ahead that it may start when all guests have been accounted for.

There are altogether about twenty-five invited guests in the hall, only three of them men: Irrid and Hudhudle from the Maanta, and Odeywaa, the shopkeeper, husband to a very active member of the Women's Network, back from the National Reconciliation Conference in Nairobi just to see the play. There is another woman, a stringer for the BBC Somali Service in Mogadiscio, a pocket-sized woman, very intense, with a shrill voice when she speaks, with eyeglasses as thick as the nether end of a tumbler. She has a firm handshake and has the habit of poring over every statement Cambara makes with a view to analyzing and perhaps commenting on it. Cambara feels discomfited by the woman's probing eyes, and she can't wait for the chance to flee from the woman soon after Kiin is done with the introductions and the woman speaks of her interest in interviewing her and Qaali and Gacal. She reminds Cambara that it is thanks to her announcement on the BBC “Missing Persons” program that mother and son have been reunited. The head of the Somali Service wants a follow-up in the form of a live interview. Now she excuses herself and runs off to attend to new guests arriving.

As the curtain is prepared to rise on the minimalist stage and as Bile dons his mask and prepares to walk onstage, Cambara, excited, is full of fidget. She anxiously turns away, looking weary and acting as if she might flee from the hall. It is only when she hears Bile's baritone voice that she reinvests afresh her confidence, trust, and gratitude in everyone who has had anything to do with the play. And she remembers Bile assuring her—he is now onstage—that there is nothing to worry about, that the two boys will be all right, and that the crowd of villagers, none with a speaking part (all of them women recruited earlier in the day, and all given cash gifts by Arda), will be fine too. The action onstage is proving him to be correct.

Arda sits way in the back, her chair in semidarkness, chewing on the nerve ends of her guts, watching the performance from that viewpoint. Cambara, however, has insisted on not being in the hall now, scared that she might suffer a crack-up. After all, she has woven nearly every thread of her private, professional, and public life into the yarn that is about to be presented, with her directing it; Bile, Qaali, Gacal, and SilkHair acting in it; Kiin and Raxma volunteering to be in it. Failure of such a many-sided project will be difficult to take; she can't bear the thought of it at all.

Then Cambara's mind, in a way, walks out on her, as though in a bizarre daydream of the type seen when one is overexhausted and tense at the same time. She loses touch with everything that matters: She has no idea who or where she is anymore, what she is supposed to do where, and when she looks at the faces of the women and men sitting in the hall and watching her play, she finds she cannot name any of them. Nor can she put a name to her mother's or Raxma's faces, which look familiar but no more than that. Hence, away with her, since she won't be able to stand the tension gnawing at her guts in the first few moments. She sneaks away and goes to her rooms to have a few moments of quiet reflection. She wants to be alone, the first time she has been so for quite a long while, and where better to be by herself than a bathroom in which she does not think of herself as a guest or one that is in as good nick as Bile's.

She returns to the site, after recovering the self that earlier went on a walkabout, before the end of the play and finds Kiin pacing back and forth in the rear of the hall, busy keeping an eye on the guests, many of the women seated and by all accounts enjoying the story unfolding. Now that she is back, Cambara also keeps a close watch on the front row, trying to work out if she can tell whether they are as attentive as she might like them to be. She assumes that an author of a book, given the chance to study the body language of someone reading it, can in all likelihood figure out when the interest in it slackens off.

At some point, relaxing in view of the fact that there is rapt attention, with no one stirring in her or his seat, she remarks a change in the front row seating, noticing the belated arrival of a woman who was not there before. From where she is, because the light is so muted, Cambara cannot make out who the people are with certainty, cannot identify even those whom she knows, except the two men, namely Seamus, because he is white, and Dajaal, because of his military bearing, and because he is the only one standing close by, with his walkie-talkie faintly chattering. It is the woman to the right of Seamus that draws her attention. Cambara then thinks that there is something unusually familiar about the bodily configuration of the woman who is wearing a headgear with the purpose of disguising her identity. The woman has wrapped herself up in a shawl in a manner meant to put doubt into Cambara, to make her question her first judgment. No sooner has she recognized who it is and prepared to call to her than the breath catches in Cambara's throat, and she chokes on it. All the same, she knows that even though the light is faint and the distance between them is great, she can tell who it is: Maimouna, Raxma's and her mutual friend and lawyer. Maybe she has come to Mogadiscio not only to watch the play but also to represent Qaali and Gacal, on account of Gacal's lost documents? Maimouna, big, black, and very beautiful, is in the first row, with Kiin to her left and Farxia to her right.