Hiding in Plain Sight

by Nuruddin Farah

  She notices that someone has been in the kitchen since she was last downstairs because there is a sealed packet of bacon on the windowsill. She thinks that Salif, who is so partial to bacon, has possibly been here. Bella likes to breakfast on Spanish omelets or muesli with berries, plums, raisins, or other dried fruits, with a few dry sliced bananas thrown in. She likes to have tea first, very dark with milk, and coffee afterward, the stronger and darker the better.

  She finds eggs in the refrigerator, but they are long past their eat-by date. But there are all kinds of teas, including a number of Kenyan ones and a couple of brands imported from South Africa, and she boils water to make a pot. She finds a packet of muesli and, checking the date, is delighted that it is edible. In the refrigerator is also an open carton of UHT milk, which she puts to her nose. It smells all right, but she has no idea when it was opened or by whom. Just to be on the safe side, she looks in the cupboard and finds another container of milk from Germany that is unopened. A country with so much milk potential importing milk from Europe—that’s Africa for you.

  But what can she offer Valerie and Padmini for breakfast? The truth is that she doesn’t quite think of them as her guests. It’s not her fault they missed the meal they were invited for, and she didn’t prepare for overnight guests. Searching in the pantry, she discovers cans of tuna, tomato, and onion. She rummages in the freezer and finds frozen peas and chips of every variety. Relieved that she will be able to feed her guests—or, rather, Salif and Dahaba’s guests—she turns to her own breakfast, enjoying her crunchy muesli and mouthfuls of her dark, dark tea. When she has finished, she brews a pot of Kenyan coffee, which is among the best in the world.

  Salif is the first to dawdle in, wrapped in a colorful robe with a pair of pajamas under it. Barefoot, he has on a big grin of the sort that prompts you to ask a leading question, and next to it there is a smudge of toothpaste. He kisses Bella good morning and says, “What a night!” Bella can tell that he wants her to ask him to explain himself, but she pretends not to notice.

  “Breakfast,” she says, as if it’s his name, while she roots in the cupboards.

  He points at the bacon on the windowsill.

  She asks, “What will you have with it?”

  He opens the freezer and takes out a loaf of sliced English-style bread, hard as rock, the type she can’t stand after her years in Italy. But she tells herself that it’s good for Salif to learn to look after himself. He finds a pan for the bacon and puts it on to fry.

  Padmini walks in and greets them both.

  Bella asks, “Have you slept well?”

  “Yeah, I did,” she says. “And you?”

  Again Salif says, “What a night!”

  And before they can say anything more, Valerie ambles in. “What’s for breakfast?” she says. And then Dahaba arrives, making a beeline for the fridge before she greets anyone. “For my breakfast,” she says, “I am having the leftovers from last night, and I won’t share it with any of you. I am starving.”

  She gets out the rest of the hamburger and puts it in the microwave then turns to the others. She greets her mum and Padmini, rubbing cheeks with both. To Bella she says, “You’re up and dressed early. Where are you going?”

  The whole scene reminds Bella of the movie The Dirty Dozen, where the twelve characters straggle in one at time, each speaking his piece.

  Valerie says, “Yes, Bella, where are you off to?”

  Bella tells her and Padmini what there is for breakfast, but Valerie refuses to be diverted. “Is it something to do with Aar?” she asks. “I’ve a feeling I must tag along.”

  Dahaba, lapsing into Somali, asks Bella if there is any truth to that. Bella tells her patiently that politeness demands she speak a language intelligible to the whole group. Dahaba apologizes to her mother and Padmini, and repeats her question in English.

  Valerie is not one for politeness, however. “Why are you shoving me to the side like useless furniture?” she demands of Bella.

  “How am I doing that?” says Bella.

  “You are trying to keep me from being involved,” she cries, “that is how!”

  Salif says, “Mum, you made the choice to disengage yourself from Dad and us many years ago. You can’t now accuse anyone else of denying you the right to get involved.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Valerie says, and stands up.

  But Salif isn’t finished. “And let me add this, for what it’s worth, Mum. You haven’t asked us anything about Dad, what he was like as a father to us after you left. All you have done is create confusion in my head about the circumstances of his burial, urging me to act without even bothering to ascertain the legal and logistical implications.”

  Valerie is at a loss for words. She stands there, looking too shocked to sit, too weak to remain standing. Padmini says, “What’s all this about?” Finally, Valerie, her face pale, pulls out a chair and sits. Dahaba takes her hands. “Salif doesn’t mean to make a monkey out of you, Mum,” she says in an attempt to placate her mother. “He is just like that sometimes. You know he loves you more than he can say.”

  Bella plates the omelets and waits for the kerfuffle to die down. Placing a plate in front of Padmini and another in front of Valerie, she says, “Please. Here. Eat.”

  Valerie hesitates, but Padmini starts to eat heartily. Bella slips out of the kitchen at last and goes upstairs, patting Valerie on the shoulder as she passes. She comes back downstairs with her bag and the keys.

  “What’s in the bag, Auntie Bella?” says sharp-eyed Dahaba.

  “Not much,” Bella says. She lets Dahaba lift the bag to see how light it is.

  “Are you going shopping, Auntie?” Salif asks.

  Bella looks at Valerie and Padmini. “I’d offer you a ride,” she says, “but I have to get going now.”

  “For your appointment, right?” Dahaba asks.

  Bella says to Padmini and Valerie, “Please allow me to treat you to a taxi back, as your host.” She opens her wallet and puts several bills on the table in front of Padmini.

  Valerie’s nose twitches, and she hesitates. But Padmini takes the money, thanking Bella effusively for her offer and her hospitality in general. She apologizes for all the inconvenience they have caused.

  Bella says, “Don’t worry yourself. I am glad that you came in the end. I’ll let Dahaba and Salif speak for themselves, but I can tell you that I enjoyed the visit.”

  “But we haven’t even had a chance to talk about Aar,” protests Valerie. “I have so many questions.”

  Bella thinks, why won’t this madwoman let go? But she only says reassuringly, “It’s still early days, and there are many things I am only just beginning to understand. I shall share what I know as I know it.”

  Of course, she thinks, she won’t share everything. She will tell each of them what they need to know, what is appropriate for them to know.

  More quietly, Valerie says, “You won’t even tell us where you are headed and whom you are meeting dressed up like that?”

  Salif, looking mischievous, says, “You’re out of line, Mum. What if she is meeting a lover?”

  “Darling, don’t be daft,” says Valerie.

  “What’s daft about meeting a lover?”

  “It’s not the right time of day!” Valerie exclaims.

  “There’s a right and wrong time of day?” says Salif.

  Even Dahaba has had enough. “For the love of heaven, Mum, who are you to demand total transparency? How about telling us what you and Padmini were up to last night?”

  Valerie’s eyes narrow into slits. “What are you on about, silly girl?”

  But Dahaba sails out of the kitchen in a fit of pique, leaving them all on tenterhooks. “Ask Salif,” she says in parting. “He knows.” Then she runs up the stairs, and they hear the door to her bedroom slam shut.

  Valerie turns to Sali
f. “What is Dahaba on about?”

  “I don’t wish to get involved,” he says in Somali.

  Bella shakes her head in disapproval, reminding him to repeat in English what he has just said in Somali to his mother and Padmini. When he does, Valerie’s eyes widen in shock.

  Bella, looking away from Valerie, reprimands him for not remembering what his father taught him: to be forever polite and remain considerate toward adults—“More so now to your mother,” she stresses.

  Like the good boy he is, he apologizes to his mother.

  It is obvious to everyone that things have got off to a bad start between Valerie and the children, and that it is time she made amends and spent quality time with Dahaba and Salif to set matters on a safer course. Bella asks Valerie, “What are your plans for the day? Maybe you would like to spend more time with Salif and Dahaba.” And then before Valerie has reacted, Bella says to the children, “What about you? Wouldn’t you wish to see your mum and Auntie Padmini for a longer time? They live in a continent you’ve never been to. Wouldn’t you want to know more about their lives in India, what young people of your age are up to in the subcontinent, maybe even plan to visit one day?”

  “Yes, I would, Auntie.”

  Bella say to Salif, “On a topic of housekeeping.”

  “Yes, Auntie?”

  “Please remember to get in touch with the maid and ask her to come as soon as she can. This house needs serious cleaning.”

  “Yes, Auntie. I will do so.”

  “And one more thing.”

  “Yes, Auntie?”

  “Please look after your mum and Auntie Padmini while they are here. Don’t forget they are our guests. One honors one’s guests always.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now here is cash for a taxi to wherever you are going and back again,” she says, handing him a wad of cash, which she knows to be far more than they will ever need for a taxi and a meal at a decent restaurant for four persons.

  “What about Dahaba?”

  “Let her come with you. That way both of you will get to spend time with your mum and Auntie Padmini,” Bella says.

  On second thought, she fumbles in her shoulder bag and brings out a credit card. “Call me if there is a problem, any problem.”

  She turns to Valerie and Padmini and speedily walks the short distance separating them, and she hugs now one, now the other, and then says to both, “You are welcome here. Please come visit again.”

  Valerie says, “Thanks. That is kind of you.”

  “You have both my numbers?” she says to Salif.

  “You mean your Kenyan and the Italian? Yes.”

  “Call me if there is need,” she says, and turns to go, then stops. “Remember to be here when I return,” she says to Salif. “There is only the one set of keys.”

  And off she goes to meet Gunilla.

  11.

  Within a few minutes, Bella finds herself in heavy morning traffic, the GPS notwithstanding. Above all, she does not know the shortcuts to avoid getting rush-hour madness, as local taxis might; nor does she know how to predict Nairobi traffic, where five minutes this way might make a great difference if you know the mood of the place. The traffic is utterly unpredictable though and very untidy, and this would tax anyone’s nerves, but it is also, she knows from Aar, a drag on the local economy in both obvious and hidden ways. She remembers that he told her that the city authorities were at long last waking up to the challenge, and a couple of Chinese and Japanese firms have been enlisted to find a solution to the problem, but their efforts plainly have yet to bear fruit. The problem, Aar liked to say, wasn’t only the large number of vehicles plying too few roads. It was the obstreperous drivers, each of them thinking themselves smarter than the others and behaving in the most undisciplined way with no fear of penalty. And Nairobi traffic is such a chronic condition that people have grown accustomed to it and in a sense rely on it. You can blame it for your lateness; you can catch up on your phone calls and texts; you can do your shopping from the peddlers making their way between the slow-moving cars. Incidents of road rage are rare because, while everyone is impatient, the opposite is equally true: Everyone is at the same time tolerant of everyone else’s wayward ways.

  Bella is annoyed but not anxious. She has left ample time to get to her appointment, and if by some miracle she is early, she has brought along the Kerr novel to read, which she is certain to prefer to the journals or glossy magazines that likely await her.

  She dashes into an opening in the traffic, making a quarter of a kilometer gain before she has to brake suddenly behind a truck emitting black smoke that has created another jam. As she inches forward, she thinks about the evening and the morning, and how encouraged she feels by Salif, who has been so steadfast with her. Even Dahaba did not abandon her, divided as her feelings obviously are.

  The down side of it is that they seem to have it in for their mother now, to the point of being cruel. Yes, Valerie is irresponsible and insensitive, but the world was not as kind to her in her own tender years as it was to Bella. She knows that Valerie’s father, an actor, was often out of work, and the family mostly survived on Wendy’s paycheck. Worse, Valerie’s father was a drunk who sexually abused his daughter from the age of sixteen. When at long last he began to find steady work in Hollywood, he would often fly Valerie over to join him. That came to an end when a paparazzo took a picture of the two of them in a compromising position and this made it into one of the tabloids. Wendy brought all her wrath down upon his head, demanding an end to the matter on strict terms: Valerie must go to boarding school, and he must pay all the fees. Even that wasn’t the end of the liaison, which continued in secret until Valerie met Padmini at school.

  Aar knew none of this until Valerie was pregnant with Salif, and he revealed none of it to Bella until Valerie left for India with Padmini. Perhaps, Bella thinks, this is why nothing Valerie does ever shocks her and why in some sense she cannot forsake her, much as she dislikes her. It is something she learned from Aar: Only those to whom the world is kind are truly able to be kind to the world. This history is not something she can explain to Salif and Dahaba, not yet, at any rate. But she resolves to teach Salif to be fair in his judgments and to encourage Dahaba to be moderate in her efforts to assert herself. And she resolves to make every effort to amicably work out the legal matters that await them without bringing in a scavenging herd of lawyers alien to the cause, whose primary aim will be lining their own pockets.

  The traffic is once again at a complete standstill, and the driver of the vehicle in front of her gets out of his car and comes to her window, apparently wanting to speak to her. Visitors to Nairobi are often advised to beware of potential violence, which can strike at any hour of the day or night. Bella looks in her rear mirror to be sure that others are watching and checks that her door is locked before she lowers her window a few inches.

  “Eh?” she says.

  “I’ve run out of fuel,” he says.

  She shrugs her shoulders, acting the part of the Italian, making exaggerated gestures with her hands like a terrible actor in a B movie. “Ma non capisco!” she says.

  But the man does not move, and Bella, taking pity on him, lowers her window a little farther so she can lean out far enough to see what sort of shoes he is wearing. Bella is certainly enough of an Italian to be superstitious about footwear. If you are good at heart, she thinks, you tend to have shoes of good quality, or at least ones that are polished and looked after. This man has on an excellent pair of shoes. In fact, they look unquestionably Italian.

  “What would you like me to do about it?” Bella says.

  “Do you have an empty jerry can in your trunk?” he asks.

  Bella says, “I doubt it,” but she pushes the button to open it so he can make sure. They all wait while he pushes his car off the road, then he pockets the keys and sets off, presumably in search of a
petrol station.

  She calls after him. “Come. Get in.”

  He tells her there is a gas station less than a mile away, and he knows how to get there. He tells her his name and offers her his card.

  “What about you?” he says. “Where are you from?”

  “I have no card to give you,” she tells him.

  “But you do have a name?” he teases.

  She gives him the absolute minimum, her first name.

  “How did you come by an Italian name?” he asks, and despite herself, she volunteers a little more.

  “My father is Italian, my mother Somali,” she tells him.

  At the gas station, she waits while he borrows a jerry can and pays for fuel to fill it. She brings him back to where his car is parked and waits until he has it running. Once again, he comes to her window. He thanks her and says, “You realize you haven’t given me your number.”

  She says, “Maybe I’ve none to give.”

  “Or an e-mail address to write to?” he says.

  “Maybe I don’t wish to.”

  “As you like,” he says. “You have already done so much for me.”

  “Maybe you can do me a good turn,” she says.

  “Anything,” he says, enthralled.

  She gives him the address of the UN offices in Gigiri. Does he know a shorter way to get there? she asks. She explains that she has an important appointment for which she cannot afford to be late.

  The Kenyan gentleman with the shoes to die for tells her she has been needlessly sitting in traffic—Cawrala, the GPS woman, has sent her on a most indirect route. He gives her a quicker way, carefully writing out the directions on a pad she gives him while he talks her through it. As a result, she arrives at the UN offices with half an hour to spare.