Dahaba directs Bella onto a new four-lane highway that the Chinese have recently constructed. Then Dahaba looks at Salif in the rearview mirror and says, “Do you remember why we ended up with the Kariukis instead of with Auntie Fatima and Uncle Mahdi?”
Salif is shifting uncomfortably, but he replies, “It was bad timing. Auntie Fatima had to go into the hospital for a procedure. Qamar and Zubair were sent to stay at their cousins’ house for a few days.”
“How come you knew about that when I didn’t?”
A deadpan expression spreads itself like melting butter over Salif’s features. He says, “I don’t trade in gossip.”
Bella thinks about this. It’s true, she knows, that Dahaba has been accused numerous times of trading on family secrets, especially with Qamar and Zubair. She tells them both plainly that she hopes that neither of them will speak to others of what happened last night. “This is a family matter,” she says, “and I don’t wish you to spread it or trade in it.”
“Padmini is no family of mine,” Dahaba says.
“She is family as long as she is your mum’s partner,” Bella says, “and you must respect her as such. Nothing that occurs in the house gets repeated outside of it. Is that understood?”
“I won’t talk,” Dahaba remonstrates.
“Are you sure?” Bella says.
The question stings, and Dahaba falls into a stubborn silence. At length, she says, “Why don’t people believe me when I promise I won’t talk?”
Salif says, “He who tells his secrets will hardly keep those of others. Somalian proverb,” he adds, looking pleased with himself.
Bella says, “We believe you, darling. Relax.” She reaches over to pat her niece’s hand, but Dahaba moves it out of range, her expression sour.
—
Bella has just finished honking to attract the attention of the day guard when Dahaba is out of the car and banging on the gate, calling to the guard on duty to let them in. Bella shakes her head, amused by Dahaba’s suddenly reclaimed assertiveness. She glances at Salif to see if he shares her amusement, but he is absorbed in his mobile phone. Salif seldom reads, she notices, except when consulting the results of the latest soccer matches. When Dahaba was younger, Bella remembers, Aar used to tussle with her about reading in the back of the car in bad light. So far, her eyesight does not seem to have suffered. It just goes to show, Bella thinks, that adults worry themselves unnecessarily about children’s health and behavior.
The gate opens, and Dahaba runs into the complex, shouting her thanks to the guard, and Bella and Salif follow in the car. Inside are twenty or so semidetached houses, each with its own small patch of garden where the residents grow vegetables or roses. Bella halts to let a child collect an errant soccer ball. His mother takes him by the hand and pulls him out of the way, apologizing to Bella and berating him. This time Bella catches Salif’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and they both smile. The boy reminds them of Salif, who lived and breathed soccer when he was that age, dribbling and bouncing his ball against the walls of the house, inside and out, every waking moment, and falling asleep each night with the ball clutched to his chest. A proverb Hurdo often quoted, usually in reference to Bella’s own behavior, returns to her: It’s not the parent who chooses to favor a child, but the child who behaves in a way that compels a parent’s love. In this shared moment, Bella feels that she and Salif are confederates, coconspirators, working in tandem to look after Dahaba.
Bella likes the community feel to this complex, she realizes, as she brakes again to let two elderly Asian women cross to the other side of the road with the help of two African women. The scene reminds her of a family of elephants on their way to a watering hole, a sequence recalled from a nature documentary. Then that image gives way to a caravan of camels being led by a Somali herdsman. Ten meters on, her eyes fall on a white woman in the doorway of one of the houses, bending down to tie the shoelaces of a dark-skinned child, who is fidgeting and raring to be off.
Dahaba has already disappeared into Fatima and Mahdi’s house, which is at the end of the complex, a stand-alone two-family structure bigger than all the others. Bella parks in front, but she does not immediately get out.
“Who told you that Auntie Fatima was having a medical procedure?” she asks Salif.
“Dad did,” he says. “In fact, he left me a message saying it was the reason he was coming back from Somalia so suddenly. He said he planned to go straight to the clinic to visit her there.”
“And what was the procedure for?” Bella asks.
“Something to do with high breast density.”
“You even know the term for it, I am impressed.”
Salif hesitates. “I did a bit of research about it on the web too.”
“Any idea about the result?”
“I understand that the results of the tests were worrying enough that she’s lined up a specialist in England, at Barts, for a second opinion. She’s going there in a few months’ time.”
“And your dad told you all this?”
Salif nods, his look humbled in memory of his father.
Bella wonders what else he knows, remembering what Gunilla told her: that Aar trusted Salif with everything, including the passwords to his computers. She gives Aar credit for his trust and foresight, which have helped to prepare his son for the unfortunate position he now finds himself in. It’s a great pity that Valerie hasn’t the character or the humility to appreciate the traits Aar instilled in Salif.
“Do I understand that you have your father’s computers’ passwords at your fingertips?” she asks Salif with care.
“Have they found his computers?”
“Please don’t answer my question with another,” she reprimands him gently.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I do.”
“Every single one of them?”
“Every single one of them.”
She looks at Salif, as if with a new pair of eyes, and sees Aar in him vividly now: astute, caring, trustworthy, levelheaded, with an unerring sense of what matters. It’s the first time she has understood the meaning of the saying, “The child is father to the man.” She prays she can aspire to achieve a fraction of what her brother achieved as a single parent.
—
Mahdi is waiting for them in the doorway. He hugs Bella warmly, his whole body trembling, his tears flowing freely. Bella hasn’t had a cry since her encounter with Gunilla, but now she gives in to the impulse again. Salif doesn’t permit himself to get carried away, however, giving Mahdi only a brief hug and muttering, “Yes, we’ll miss him terribly,” in response to Mahdi’s outpouring. “You’re a big, grown man yourself,” he concludes, sizing Salif up. “You’re your own man. But I want you to know we are here for you.” He turns to Bella. “We could have picked them up, you know.”
“I did not think to ask,” Bella says. “Besides, you have your own worries.” She wants to let him know that she has an idea about Fatima’s state of health even though this is not the right time to discuss it, and she can see that he is touched by the delicate way she has let him know. He takes Bella’s hand in his left and offers his free one to Salif, and the three of them enter the house.
“We’ve been grieving, following the loss,” Mahdi says, as if standing here where Aar so often stood has brought him back even more vividly. “He was our great friend, and no commiseration or sorrowing words spoken will replace him. Nor am I fond of the words of condolence we Somalis often invoke—that we are all headed in the same direction, toward our graves. That’s no consolation. Me, I don’t like this kind of talk.”
It is these words that at last bring tears to Salif’s eyes, and he moves to embrace Mahdi, but just at that moment, Mahdi turns and shouts up the stairs for Zubair to come join them. Zubair careens down the stairs, Dahaba with him, and the young fellow offers his formal condolence, hugging Bella and then standing apa
rt, head bowed and looking sad. But as soon as they have satisfied the demands of politeness, Zubair and Dahaba bound back up the stairs to reenter the world of the young, where sorrow is held at bay for as long as possible.
Mahdi says, “Where are my manners? Please forgive me.” Bella doesn’t quite comprehend why he says this. Not until he turns to her and asks, “What will you have?”
“Tea is fine, if that is no bother, thanks.”
They follow him into the kitchen. Bella sits as he pours water, but Salif, who has brought his camera, wants to take photos of them, and he asks them to pose for him, his first photo of two adults outside his home.
Mahdi insists on seeing the camera before posing, and after receiving it, he admires it. “Nice camera, must be expensive.” Then he asks, “Where did you get it, I never knew you had such a beautiful camera?”
“A gift from Auntie Bella,” says Salif.
“Well, well, a grand camera for a lucky boy.”
“She got one for Dahaba too.”
“But that is wonderful.”
Bella listens in silence, happily beaming.
Mahdi and Bella obligingly pose for Salif and he takes a couple of photos just to be sure, and then goes upstairs to join the others, a fresh spring in his gait and a broad, joyful smile covering his features.
The two adults are now alone in the kitchen. Mahdi brings out a tray and teacups and the ubiquitous UHT milk and sugar. Bella notices that his hands are shaking, and wonders if he is very, very sad not only about Aar’s early tortured death but also about Fatima’s cancer.
Mahdi says, “When a country like ours goes to ruin, it takes our best too.” He sighs. “We go back a long way. Your mother taught me at the law faculty, Aar was a schoolmate of Fatima’s. His name was on every girl’s lips, but he took very little notice of any of them because he was hardworking, always thinking about schoolwork, competitive, the best in everything, soccer, chess, games, you name it. Later, at the university, they went to different faculties, he to economics, she to agriculture, but they still kept in touch and we reconnected when they both graduated and he came to our wedding and then he often visited our home for the odd meal. We would tease him about women and Fatima even tried to set him up with one of her girlfriends. Not interested. Fatima would say Aar was meant for greater things, certain that he would do well at whatever he set his mind on, for he was talking of doing his PhD. Then I was in political trouble, the dictator threatening me with prison, and we left Somalia. Then came the civil war and we lost touch, but we were happy to reunite with him here. You were much too young for all this.”
“I remember Fatima,” says Bella. “Her beautiful dresses above all. I recall these bright dresses with great envy as a young thing, touching, feeling with my hands the material they were made from. She would bring me marzipans and I would follow her and Aar to the door as they left, hoping they would take me with them wherever they were going.”
“We loved him,” says Mahdi.
“My memories of those days are still with me and they remain sweet in my mouth and I feel as though I can taste their ambrosial residues,” says Bella. “I too was sweet on my brother, as were many other girls.”
“We loved him and now hold you and his children very dear.”
Even though they are standing apart, it is as though, with their reminiscences of Aar safe in their memory, Bella and Mahdi are wrapped in a single cloth woven out of their sorrows. And they fall silent, neither wanting to add to what has been said.
Then the sudden entrance of a cat startles them out of their stupor. The cat rubs against Mahdi’s legs, and then Bella’s, meowing. Then they both hear a key turning in the lock and see Qamar barging in, excitedly lugging a huge shopping bag too heavy to lift. Fatima brings up the rear, admonishing her, “Do be careful, my sweet.” Then she catches sight of Bella and, the door still open, the key still in her hand, she exclaims, “Oh my God, I had no idea.” Fatima sweeps her up in an embrace, her joy at the sight of Bella quickly giving way to fresh grief over Aar, but not before Bella takes in the headscarf that Fatima has on, the first Bella has seen her wearing, the headscarf meant to hide Fatima’s loss of hair from a combination of chemo and related treatment. Also, Fatima’s skin looks pallid, with a worrying patchiness, which Bella associates with the taking of drugs. Bella’s own sorrow grows more acute with the awareness of this new sadness, and it is doubly painful to be able to speak of the one but not the other.
Qamar is waiting patiently for them to finish their hugging before offering her own commiserations to Auntie Bella. Fatima, noticing this, gradually releases Bella from the tightness of her embrace. “My sincere condolences, Auntie,” Qamar whispers.
Bella says, “Oh, my sweetness, thank you.”
“We must stay strong,” Mahdi says.
Bella says, “Thanks for all your support.”
“What else is there to do, what else to say?” says Fatima.
There is a serious struggle all round and Bella is unable to stay on her feet, struck afresh by the reality of Fatima’s illness, and she sits down, exhausted. Mahdi, Fatima, and Qamar surround her, watching in perturbed silence until Mahdi gestures to the others to give her space.
“Tea?” Mahdi says to Fatima.
“I could do with a cup,” Fatima says.
“What about you, Qamar?” her father asks.
“Not now,” she says, and then she bolts up the stairs.
Bella longs for something a lot stronger than tea, but she is not sure there is such a drink to be had in this house, and she doesn’t want to discomfit her hosts by asking for it. She hasn’t felt the need to take strong liquor since leaving Rome—not even in the plane. She will have sufficient time to make the cultural shift and knows not to expect to be served wine or other liquor in the homes of Somalis, and she reminds herself that she hasn’t been around her fellow nationals in a long time.
Mahdi says, “How would you like your tea?”
“Black, strong, no sugar, please,” Bella says.
Mahdi and Fatima are staring intently at Bella, who finds herself unable to recall how she got from the kitchen to the couch in the living room. She realizes she has been daydreaming of happier days, when Aar was alive and the children were young and all of them looked forward to a future uncomplicated by deaths, diseases, civil wars, and other sorrows. Her eyes closed tightly, she balls her hands into fists and sits still for quite a while, conscious of Fatima and Mahdi still watching her. The instant she sees them both standing, her fists unclench, and she pats the couch on either side of her, and the two of them take the free spaces she has indicated.
Bella says, “You give me strength. Thank you.”
As they take the time to contemplate the ruins of the world around them, Dahaba, prancing down the stairway with her camera in hand, breaks their reverie. Fatima looks up, amused by the girl’s expression, as serious as if she were ready to announce an important event.
Dahaba says, “I would like you to pose for my first picture of the three of you with the first camera I’ve ever owned, a gift from Auntie Bella.”
“How would you like us to pose?” Fatima asks.
“Please stand up and smile for the camera.”
Bella thinks it is an odd request to make of them at this point in time, but she decides to let it pass because Dahaba is unfamiliar with the etiquette of taking photos at a time such as this. The three of them stand and let her arrange them until she has taken the photos to her own satisfaction.
Then Mahdi brings the tea and, spoon clinking against saucer, Bella tries to think of the best way to broach the subject of Fatima’s cancer. She gets her moment when Mahdi takes his leave with a bow, on what she is fairly certain is a pretext that he needs to complete a piece of writing. He takes his tea and sets off up the stairs in the direction of his study.
“Would you like some bisc
uits?” Fatima asks.
Bella shakes her head no, wondering if Fatima is loath to burden Bella with her illness when she is already grieving.
“I hear their mother is here,” Fatima says.
“Yes, she is.”
“And I hear you hosted her last night.”
“Yes, we did indeed.”
“And I hear she is trouble.”
“We won’t let her cause disruption in our lives.”
Fatima says, “If marriage is heaven and hell, then Aar was heaven, where he now must be residing, and his widow—if she is entitled to such an office, which I doubt—is hell, from what my children have told me.”
Bella is a little miffed that someone, most likely Dahaba, has shared family secrets with either Qamar or Zubair, who must have passed them on to Fatima, the very thing against which she has been inveighing.
Fatima can tell Bella looks put out, and she guesses the reason. So she says, “Our children are very close, and they talk their hearts out to one another, especially at moments of great sorrow.”
“I understand,” Bella says, “but don’t we Somalis say that a secret known to more than one person is no longer a secret?”
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