Knots

by Nuruddin Farah

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Frisked the pockets of a corpse and stole it.”

  His answer so unsettles her that the jolt brings her back to the civil war realities. But despite that rude awakening, Cambara asks, “Were you successful in tracking down anyone?”

  “All my attempts to do so have failed.”

  Silent, he narrows his eyes, as if concentrating on an as-yet-unformed thought in the far distance. For all Cambara can tell, he is revisiting a scene from the past and perhaps thinking about how his present predicament is forcing him to bare himself before a strange woman in Mogadiscio.

  She wants to know but dares not ask why he and his father have done away with the woman who bore him, because a son his age without a mother in the wings is unheard-of, an anomaly. She fidgets in her seat, preparing to speak. She can’t imagine the woman being written off, as if redundant. She thinks that parents need to be needed, mothers above all. She starts to say, “Your mother…!” and then trails off.

  Gacal says, “We weren’t supposed to come here.”

  Cambara feels the sort of helplessness that people feel when they are confronted with a problem about which they can do nothing. When she looks in his direction, he seems impervious to her twinge. It is as if he is saying “No pitying please.”

  “Where is your mother in your story?”

  Cambara interprets what Gacal tells her in an adult language Gacal is incapable of improvising. She understands that his father came to Nairobi as a private consultant, hired to set up IT companies in East Africa and to make them profitable. The two of them being inseparable, he brought along his son, as their visit coincided with the long summer holidays. It was his mother’s idea that Gacal benefit from living in a place safer than Mogadiscio and far more citylike than any other metropolis on the Somali peninsula, so he could learn Somali. While her husband and son were gone, the mother intended to lock herself away in order to complete some requirement or other from a university in another state where she must have been registered for an advanced degree.

  “Did they quarrel often, your parents?”

  “They were too busy for that, both working and happy in their jobs,” he says. “I was their only child, and they were pleased. They said that often, to me, or to others within my hearing.”

  “Your father traveled a lot?”

  “He did, and she looked after me.”

  “Did he let her know you were coming here?”

  “I doubt that he did.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He meant us to come for four days during a long weekend,” Gacal said. “I kept pestering him, asking him what this place from which the two of them came and where they grew up and married was like, having never known it. I kept saying I wished I could come and see it and maybe live here. One day, we upped and, without booking a flight in advance, went to some out-of-the-way airport and flew in a small plane carrying qaat. The plan was for us to spend the long weekend; that is all. He was that kind of man, my dad.”

  Hard to imagine…the tragedy of it. One day, Gacal is a middle-class boy, connected to a world that treats him with protective care; the following day, the only world he knows has vanished, and he is adrift in a man-eat-dog city. Unmoored.

  “What’s your father’s full name?”

  Gacal gives it; she does not know it.

  “Your mother’s?”

  Gacal tells it; she does not know it either.

  The next logical step in traditional Somali society is to ask for other pointers, like his father’s and mother’s respective clans, to help her identify them. She is sure that someone or other either here in Mogadiscio or somewhere in North America would know. If only she can bring herself to ask him for their clan identities. Somalis with so-called progressive thinking do not instill the clan ethos in their children’s frame of mind; some do not even allow the names of these clans to pass their lips. Maybe she will assign the job of delving into this aspect of the problem to someone like the old man at the gate; he won’t mind helping her. By now, it is possible that he and everyone else knows Gacal’s clan identity. In her own case, she made sure she didn’t encourage Dalmar to bother about his own or hers. Many city-or foreign-born Somalis do not necessarily know theirs.

  There are many questions to which she would like answers, but she is finding it difficult to put them to him. How did he cope alone the first few days, months, or years after his father’s death? How did he mourn the loss? How did he spend the first few days between coming here and learning his altered circumstances?

  “Do you remember the name of the company your dad worked for in Duluth?” she asks.

  “He was self-employed.”

  “What about the name of the firm in Nairobi or any of the people with whom your father worked? Do you remember the names of any of them, because then we could call information?” she asks.

  “It is so long ago I cannot remember anything.”

  “Do you remember your mother’s friends’ names?”

  “Only by their first names.”

  “To what school did you go, in Duluth?”

  Gacal gives her a name, which she writes down. Once Gacal is gone and she is alone, she will ring up Raxma and ask her to look into it. Most probably Raxma will make direct inquiries right away, if only to ascertain the truth or otherwise. Raxma will come back with suggestions about what is and what is not possible, after seeking Maimouna’s legal advice. But when Cambara calls her mother, she won’t make any mention of Gacal, her latest infatuation.

  Cambara rises to her feet and, opening the door, smiles sweetly at Gacal, who stands to his full height and joins her, ready to exit. He grins, bows, and then says, “See you.”

  Scarcely has she closed the door when she remembers seeing Deliverance, a 1970s film of a harrowing account of a disastrous canoe trip of four men down a river in Georgia, not that the film’s and Gacal’s story lines are identical or even similar. Maybe the traumatic nature of such sudden changes in Gacal’s life has put her in mind of the distress the men go through, lives as horror-ridden as they are impossible to imagine.

  Heavyhearted, she consults her watch and, deciding that it is a decent hour to telephone America, rings the reception and requests that she be given an outside line. She dials Raxma’s number from memory. Raxma answers it on the third ring and says, “Cambo dearest, Kiin has been in touch and has been sharing with me the good news.”

  Cambara cannot decide how to respond, and she remains silent. A couple of seconds later, when Raxma asks her if she is still there, she asks, “What good news has she been sharing with you?”

  “That they are in the process of negotiating with you about your staging a play, which the Women’s Network will fund and you will mount, the first of its kind in Mogadiscio. For peace. That, to this end, they are providing you with free accommodation and lodging for as long as you want and hiring an Irishman living in Mogadiscio to carve wood masks based on your own designs and, per your instructions, some carpenters to build the stage, and, if I’m right, electricians and other technicians, all of whom are to be paid by the Women’s Network. I am so pleased for you, my sweet. I also hear that Kiin and her coterie of friends are helping you recover the property. If that is not good news, I don’t know what is, Cambo dearest.”

  This is the first Cambara has heard of any of this in such clear terms. This is also the first time that someone, most importantly a community of women, has gloried in her artistic output. Pinch, pinch. Am I dreaming? She thinks.

  “What other news? Good, I hope. Tell it quick.”

  Cambara draws a deep breath, hesitant to talk. It’s only at Raxma’s insistence—“I am off to work, my sweet, so get on with it”—that she fills Raxma in on her other doings so far without leaving out anything of importance. How ironic; what could be more pivotal than Raxma’s confirmation of what has been afoot? Anyhow, she speaks of Kiin’s invi
tation to lunch at her place and of meeting her two lovely daughters; Jiijo and where she is; SilkHair, what he is like and her involvement in his life; Seamus and his willingness to design the masks; and finally the Women’s Network, whose numbers she will soon meet at a party. Then she provides Raxma with the basic details of Gacal’s story.

  Raxma asks, “You want me to inquire into this boy’s story and to come back to you with my findings? Leave it to me. I’ll ring you up in a day or two. Okay? I must get off if I am to beat the rush hour.”

  “You are a darling.”

  Then she telephones Arda, and they talk shop for a few minutes before Cambara gives the old woman a watered-down version of her activities, no mention of Kiin’s commissioning of her play and none of Gacal’s and SilkHair’s stories. She staves off all possible contentious issues that might produce a heated debate between the two of them.

  Her telephone call to Raxma makes her restless, her adrenaline pumping faster. Although she is itching to move, at first she doesn’t know how best to utilize the energy that her enthrallment is producing until she gives it a focus. She tells herself then that it is time for her to collect the remainder of her stuff from Zaak’s, time to think seriously of relegating him to the position of a pariah, no barge poles please! Or maybe she will keep the line of communication open, but without ever activating it. You never know with civil wars; she might need him to give her a hand, so why cut him off totally.

  All the same, she can’t help thinking of him as a despicable character, a host who takes pleasure in spreading malicious gossip about his guest. It means he has no self-respect. She might attribute the measure of his small-mindedness to his being a hick from the sticks and a born loser. Never mind that Arda has always taken great pains to make him into someone other than the person he is. Having put up with him without ever speaking out, there is no knowing now with whom she should be short: her mother, herself, or the foolish man. His behavior is as unwarranted as it is undeserving of a response.

  Rather than let Zaak spurn her, she is happy that she has moved out and that without any help from him, has managed to tap her available talents in a resourceful manner. Before long, she will have drawn profitably on the benevolence of the friends she has made and benefited from this creative exercise and to hell with Zaak. Now she sits at the desk to write down the names of those she expects will offer help or she will recruit in one capacity or another for her efforts: Kiin, the jewel of her finds; Farxia, the medical doctor who spirited Jiijo away; Seamus, the anonymous, the genius; Dajaal, a tactful man who will be useful in providing the overall security; Bile, man behind the scenes, prompting Dajaal and Seamus to assist; the shopkeeper Odeywaa, and his wife, not yet the head of security at Hotel Maanta; and of course Raxma. Where would she be without Raxma? Under a separate column, she jots down the names Gacal, SilkHair, and Jiijo, underlining each of them and putting a question mark against the last.

  An overwhelming anxiety rushes in on her, inundating her with a mix of contriteness and helplessness: contrite, because she knows that she has never been truthful with Jiijo; helpless, because now that things have been set in motion, there is no further room for maneuver, none whatsoever. Nor is there anything she can do for Jiijo until Gudcur’s situation becomes clear. If he is dead and the property is entirely at her disposal, then she is not averse to having Jiijo move into the property as a caretaker of sorts. But if Gudcur is alive and constitutes a threat, then surely it will not be wise to have anything to do with her. Not that she wants to count her chickens before her eggs hatch, but she is certain that with the property back in her hands, she will delight in rehearsing the play in the ballroom. Ideally, she will want the kitchen, which will feed everyone, to be run, and who better than Jiijo, with a bit of help from Kiin’s chef, to do so.

  To achieve her daring plan and make the production of her play a success, she will need more than a ballroom and a posse of untrained but willing boys eager to accommodate her wishes. Her spirits sagging as though in mild despair, she falls prey to her worry of finding someone to furnish her with as much intellectual input as she needs. Of the people whom she has met up to now, she can name only four who might supply her with the cerebral companionship essential to her in her present situation: Kiin, Bile, Seamus, and, in his own way, Gacal. Every one of these four individuals is indispensable. Seamus will provide much needed succor, especially in matters of a technical nature such as carving the masks, not to mention some of her other requirements: carpentry, stage design, lighting. She will expect a lot of goodwill from Kiin, Bile, and Gacal, to each of whom she will assign a task. A friendship with Bile is worth cultivating. This is why she must call on him at the first opportunity.

  Cambara feels as though she has only just now come to recognize that many a watershed moment since her arrival has passed without her becoming aware of its passage and without her making full use of it. She senses, too, that her coming here and hitting it off with Kiin has been replete with turning points, each one of them as important as the milestone that has preceded it, and as significant in her doings as the benchmark that came after it. Now she is in a catching-up mood, ringing Raxma and retrieving the remainder of her stuff. She is scampering about in her haste to make up for lost time in much the same way as someone running after her future before it has become part of the present or the past.

  Her sudden worry about the time she has so far wasted and the opportunities she has missed starts to make her so restless that she behaves as though a black ant has pricked her. Stung into action, she pulls out her mobile phone and rings Bile’s number.

  Dajaal answers and then transfers her not to Bile but to Seamus, who tells her that Bile is indisposed at present and that he will give him her warm wishes when he speaks to him. He also tells her how happy he is that she has called, because in fact he has been meaning to do just that. “I have something to show you,” he says. “When and where can we meet?”

  “Meet you at yours tomorrow a.m.?” she asks.

  “At ten, if that is okay.”

  “Ten it is.”

  “Okey-dokey. See you then.”

  She says, “Remember me to Bile, please.”

  “Will do,” he says.

  She is tempted to offer to call on Bile right away, but she keeps her enthusiasm in check, fearing that Seamus might think of her as very forward. How she would like to wrap her body around Bile! She is convinced this would ease her own heartache at the same time as it would relieve Bile’s pain.

  Then she remembers the suitcases that are waiting to be picked up from Zaak’s. So she phones Kiin as part of her effort to speed things up. She stops just in time before letting it slip about her telephone conversation with Raxma because Kiin thinks it unwise to involve anyone else.

  “A favor please,” she says.

  “Ask and it’ll be done,” Kiin says.

  Can Kiin spare the four-wheel-drive truck and several of her armed youths, because she intends to retrieve the remainder of her possessions from Zaak’s place? Again, she holds out on Kiin. She does not tell her of her plans to bring SilkHair, whom Cambara wants to entice away from Zaak’s team. What use will SilkHair, a gun-toting teenager, serve? Potential playmate and companion to Gacal?

  With Gacal’s name sweetening her present assignment to retrieve her stuff and possibly running into Zaak, she hopes that she will stay the course, brave in her desire to muscle back into his house. She will not hem and haw if he provokes her; she might even take delight in rubbing it in and inform him that she is doing very well without him on all fronts, thank you very much.

  When Kiin rings to confirm that the truck is fueled and ready to go, with its armed escorts mounted and waiting by the gate, Cambara says, “Thanks. Be down in a minute.”

  As she hands her keys over to the receptionist, Cambara hears a cold diesel engine starting, and then the head of hotel security calling to the youths and instructing them to get a move on. “Quick, quick. Madam is on her way.”

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nbsp; As she arrives on the scene, she stops a meter or so from the truck when she sees the driver standing by the door, keeping it open, and bowing his head. This puts Cambara in mind of a man pleased with the manner in which he is acquitting himself.

  She mumbles her thanks as she climbs into the truck, then nods and again murmurs something when he closes the door after her. What a ritual, she thinks. You can be sure that Kiin has instructed every one of them to do Cambara’s bidding and to be very polite and accommodating to her at all times. The head of the security detail sits up front, next to the driver in the cabin from where he is admonishing the five youths, three of them heavily armed, two only lightly. The youths have been standing idly by, and he is now telling them to mount the roof of the vehicle, presto, and they do. She owes it all to Kiin for smoothing her way around all manner of difficulties so she may go about her business without any hitches.

  Cambara asks the head of security if he remembers how to get to Zaak’s place; he was with her in the same truck the first time. He nods, and she sits back, preparatory to the truck moving, ready, in her mind, for all eventualities. It is just when she is relaxed and satisfied enough with the agreeable way that things have gone that her mind is visited by the presentiment that something terrible might happen, not only to her but to Kiin’s men and truck too. She prays that Zaak’s armed bodyguards and Kiin’s will not trigger off a battle in which lives are lost and properties destroyed. How tragic it would be if a fierce gunfight were to ensue as a consequence of her desire to retrieve her belongings, among them a suitcase containing a dress for the party in the evening!

  She braces her fearlessness, her inner strength, her faith, and the rightness of her actions against the cowardly behavior of a handful of Gudcurs who have taken the entire country hostage. Nothing causes her as much worry as coming face to face with Gudcur or his kind in a time and setting of their choosing. That will no doubt have the detrimental effect of immediately endangering and compromising her life. Imagine her delight, her surprise when Kiin and her associates have taken upon themselves to facilitate handing the property over to her, despite the risk to their lives or businesses. And here she is all agitated, because she has no idea how to explain away her absence to Zaak or why she hasn’t been in touch with him or whether she will apologize to him for her failure to do so. When, if truth be told, she cannot wait to sever all relations with him forthwith.