Crossbones

by Nuruddin Farah

  “We’re expected,” Fidno says.

  The gate opens, and Fidno drives in.

  The grounds on which the villa is built are extensive and surrounded in all directions by a high fence. The house itself, set far back, is two stories high, with French windows and a glassed-in balcony large enough for a sumptuous party. The sea is visible behind the house. An awning extends almost to the gates, providing shade as they drive in. Fidno parks, and Ahl picks up his laptop and follows him toward the pair of uniformed young men who wait in front of the awning. The entire structure looks new and well made; the railing on the upper story is shiny with fresh paint. The loud humming of a heavy-duty generator comes from the back.

  There is order here, the order of a corrupt autocrat imposed through coercion, Ahl thinks. One of the uniformed men leads them up to the house, his pace measured. He knocks on the door in a rhythmic knock, presumably a code. The door opens. Fidno and Ahl enter; the uniformed youth stays behind, bowing.

  “Welcome, AhlulKhair. I am your host.”

  The voice Ahl hears has something magisterial about it: distant, assertive. He identifies it as belonging to a little, lean man of advanced years sitting in what looks like a child’s high chair, with a full, graying beard and penetrating eyes. How very odd that such a small man, almost a midget, can produce such a commanding voice, Ahl thinks. He can’t be more than four feet tall. He reminds Ahl of pictures he has seen of Emperor Haile Selassie, and because of this, he somehow expects a Chihuahua to be imperiously perched on No-Name’s lap. Ahl wonders if No-Name is a cripple.

  “How have things been?” he says to Ahl, in a tone of surprising familiarity.

  “Everything has been good so far,” Ahl says, although this is not what he feels inside.

  “What about you, Fidno?” No-Name asks, his voice sounding a notch more authoritative, its timbre more full-bodied.

  Fidno says, “Everything is according to plan.”

  “Excellent.”

  “How have you been yourself?” Fidno asks.

  No-Name appears a little offended. He says to Fidno, “Give us a few minutes, will you? You may join the others outside. You know your way around here.”

  The caller of tunes, No-Name expects to be obeyed, and Fidno takes his leave. “Thank you for seeing my friend,” he says.

  “We’ll see you later.” Ahl notes the royal we.

  When Fidno opens the door to leave, the hall is awash in the intense brightness of the midday sun. And once again Ahl wonders if he is doing the right thing, liaising with criminals.

  As Ahl approaches, No-Name frowns, like someone used to wearing spectacles. It’s plain he’s not accustomed to anyone doing anything without his say-so. The closer Ahl gets to the high chair No-Name is sitting in, the weirder it all looks. Almost hilarious.

  No-Name says, “Please sit.”

  But there is nowhere to sit, save a lounge area at the other end of the hall, furnished with an ottoman and a plush carpet dotted with cushions propped up against the walls. Is this where No-Name chews qaat with his pals? Does an emperor have pals?

  What a day and what humiliation! Ahl crouches down, knees creaking, wondering if children have any notion what troubles one goes through for them.

  With a trace of a grin around his lips, No-Name says, “Tell me everything about your nephew.”

  “My son, actually.”

  “I am sure Fidno described him as your nephew,” No-Name says.

  “That may be so, but he is my son.”

  “That changes my perspective on things.”

  “I am not his father. His mother is my wife. But I raised him.”

  No-Name takes all this in. His right foot shakes as though it has its own mind.

  “What else did Fidno get wrong, before we move on?”

  Ahl shrugs his shoulders in a search-me gesture.

  “Tell me about your son, all that I need to know.”

  Ahl tells him.

  “Have you a photo of the runaway youth?”

  Ahl produces it.

  “What’s his date and place of birth?”

  Ahl tells him.

  “What are his mother’s and your full three names?”

  Ahl supplies him with these, wondering how No-Name can possibly remember such details without taking notes or having a secretary do so. Is he being made a fool of, or does No-Name already know where and who Taxliil is?

  “What is the name of the imam at the mosque in Minnesota who recruited him?”

  Ahl answers the question fully, with details.

  “Do you know the names of his fellow jihadis?”

  Ahl shakes his head.

  “He didn’t know the twenty other recruits from Minnesota and nearby?”

  Ahl says, “I don’t know; we don’t know.”

  “How do we reach you if we wish to do so?” No-Name asks, and Ahl provides him with a host of phone numbers.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Ahl tells him.

  “When do you leave?”

  Ahl shrugs. “It all depends on my success.”

  “Or lack of it,” No-Name says. Then, “Fidno has mentioned that Malik, a journalist, is in Mogadiscio.”

  “What about Malik?”

  “Is he likely to come here?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’d like to meet him.”

  “He hasn’t said he will come and visit here, but I will make sure to introduce you to him if he does.”

  “I look forward to that.”

  Ahl finds himself sitting uncomfortably forward, supporting his body on his knees, like a devotee at an ashram.

  He says, “If I may ask a question, please?”

  “Go ahead.”

  A current of worry goes through his body, lodging for a moment or so in his heart, then in his head. One indiscreet question from him might jeopardize everything. Nonetheless, he asks it. “Why did you agree to see me?”

  No-Name presses his forehead and winces, as if thinking of the reasons or sharing them with Ahl is causing him pain. His eyes closed, he says, “One, because I am doing Fidno, my pal, a favor.”

  “That’s very good of you.”

  “Two, because sometime in the past few days someone spoke three names in my presence—I cannot recall in what context. But Taxliil’s name was one of them, and the name stuck, as I have never known anyone else with it. So when Fidno came to me, I agreed to step in and to assist. I’ll do all I am able to help you find Taxliil.”

  As if on cue, a mobile phone rings in another room. No-Name shifts in his high chair in a manner that suggests to Ahl that their conversation is at an end. The uniformed young man enters from the back, and offers Ahl a hand to help him straighten up. Then he leads him out to where Fidno is waiting in the jalopy.

  Fidno takes off in the direction of Bosaso, driving even faster than before and appearing agitated. He wants to hear Ahl’s impression of No-Name. Ahl thinks that extortionists, like whores attempting to collect up front the fee for services not yet rendered, and then to render them speedily, are prone to presenting their bills much too fast.

  “I don’t know what answer to give,” he says.

  Fidno says, “No-Name has extensive connections among top people in Puntland and beyond—insurgents, pirates, the lot.”

  Ahl feels a little reassured by this, but he is not at all certain that he is any closer to locating Taxliil than before. Partners in crime: Fidno, No-Name, and all their associates! Then he adds, “Let’s say I am more optimistic than before.”

  “All will work out well, you’ll see.”

  Ahl senses that Fidno is now softening him for a hit; he can’t wait to hear it.

  Fidno says, “Please ring Malik and let him know.”

  “Don’t worry. I will. Later.”

  “Now, please. Ring him now.”

  “What do I tell him?”

  “Ask him if he’ll see me, when and where.”

  “I’ll call
him later.”

  Fidno’s voice takes on a threatening tone. “Please call him. Now.”

  Ahl opens his window to a blast of wind and sand. The land they are driving through is more desolate than he remembers from the journey down. The truth is, he has been hesitant to call Malik since they disagreed about the wisdom of his interviewing TheSheikh, with Ahl insisting that family trumps career. Given the choice, Ahl would prefer to make the call in the privacy of his hotel room, alone, but he feels he has no choice but to telephone Malik now.

  He dials and lets it ring. The line is busy and he disconnects, promising Fidno that he’ll try again shortly. Then he switches on the car radio, and they catch the tail end of a news bulletin. There has been fierce fighting between the Ethiopian occupying army and the insurgents, with high civilian casualties. He tries again, and this time Malik answers on the fourth ring. Ahl puts him on speakerphone so that Fidno can hear the exchange. He tells his brother about the meeting with No-Name and assures him that it has made him feel optimistic. Then he asks, “Have you thought when you might have time to meet up with Fidno? You could interview him here in Puntland. If you are unable to fly out here, he is willing to come down to Mogadiscio.”

  But Malik is in no mood at the moment. He’s just learned about the death of yet another journalist, thanks to yet another roadside bomb. “Why don’t we speak later in the evening,” he says, “and we’ll figure it out then? Looks like he’ll have to come to Mogadiscio, as I won’t be able to come to Puntland.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m delighted things are working out.”

  “But tell me about yourself, Malik,” Ahl says anxiously. “Are you hurt or anything?”

  “Just shocked, traumatized—out of sync.”

  They agree to talk more in the evening, and say good-bye.

  After he hangs up, there is silence for long enough that Ahl assumes Fidno isn’t going to speak. But just then Fidno says, “It’ll give me joy to go to Mogadiscio. Because I am so eager, maybe I’ll take the first available flight. But I won’t book it until I hear from you. And there is a small possibility I’ll want to bring along a friend to the interview.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of a friend going with you.”

  “We’ll talk, you and I,” Fidno promises. “There is time yet.”

  Ahl stares at Fidno in anger and mistrust. Of course, Malik will be upset at this development. But Malik is family, and he will do what is best for Taxliil in the end. Or, at least, Ahl hopes he will.

  At the hotel, Ahl alights, bones aching, eyes smarting from the day’s heat and exhaustion. He is about to bid Fidno farewell when a young woman, demurely dressed, head covered, face veiled, but only cursorily, comes out of the reception. She makes a beeline for Fidno, whispers to him, and stands to the side, waiting.

  Fidno says, “If you have a moment, let me introduce you to Wiila.” I believe you met her on your flight. And then you’ll remember we saw her together at the qaat stall, with Warsame.”

  Tired, but thinking it too impolite to walk away, Ahl takes the hand Wiila is holding out for him to shake. But even decked out in traditional garb, her bearing takes him back to the nightclub in Djibouti, when the prostitute tried to chat him up. Wiila has the same knowingness. And, given that she is a friend to Fidno, Ahl decides to be wary.

  Ahl says, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. As Fidno said the other day, some of us make the world smaller than it is in reality.”

  But when he makes as if to leave, Fidno grips his hand. “Come and buy us some coffee, some tea. We’re your guests. Where are your manners?”

  Aware that it won’t do the business of locating Taxliil any good to decline, yet conscious, too, that he will be courting unnecessary danger by putting too much trust in them, Ahl opts for a middle way: cooperation and vigilance.

  They sit in the gazebo. Fidno and Ahl order coffee, Wiila a soft drink. While they are waiting for their order, Wiila explains why she was tearful on the day she and Ahl met. “My younger brother had been killed by Shabaab earlier that day. I am still mourning him.”

  Ahl recalls that brief encounter and wonders why Fidno has the look of someone who has unearthed a gem to present to him.

  He asks, “What do I have to do with any of this?”

  “You don’t.”

  Fidno nods his head in Wiila’s direction, dismissing her. Ahl catches the slightest trace of a smile that makes her lips twitch and her eyes brighten slightly, like someone who has fulfilled her part of a contract and is now free. She gets to her feet, bows her head a little to both men, and with her soft drink untouched, she walks away.

  “What game are you playing?” Ahl asks Fidno when she is gone.

  Fidno says, “This is simple as home cooking, labor intensive but worth it, worth every pound in the mortar, every grain of salt.”

  Ahl presumes he is being duped the moment Fidno resorts to fancy words. But still, the man has him in a corner. So he lets himself sound only mildly annoyed when he asks, “Where are you going with all this?”

  Fidno says, “My intention isn’t to involve you. But I want to bring in Malik. Dangerous, yes, but worth the effort.”

  Ahl’s voice strains under the weight of his worry. He says, “Do you want him to talk to Wiila?”

  Fidno can’t help putting on airs, like a student straining to be more clever than his mentor. “There is her older brother, Muusa Ibraahim, a former pirate, who worked with me. I’d like Malik to interview him. Muusa comes as part of a package. Malik will have spoken to a funder of piracy, and he has agreed to speak to me—I, being all things to pirates and piracy, Muusa is the real article, and he has a lot to say about Shabaab.”

  This has been a day of emotional chaos, in which Ahl’s hope of locating Taxliil has been raised, then jeopardized unless he caters to Fidno’s extortionate greed. When will it all end?

  “I’ll talk to Malik later today,” he says.

  Then Fidno brings out his mobile phone, turns it on, and searches for a number, which Ahl presumes to be Muusa Ibraahim’s. Ahl takes down the number as Fidno dictates it.

  The day’s business done, as if he and Ahl are jolly companions deep in their cups, Fidno says, with a mischievous grin spreading down to his chin, “Wiila has told me that she won’t be averse to be of service to you, if you are in the mood to be entertained in this dreadful hotel. Say the word and I’ll send her over.”

  Ahl is at a loss for the appropriate response, but then it comes to him. He says, “I had no idea you were into pimping, too.”

  Fidno doesn’t take offense. He says, “Just checking. Just offering. These are tempting times, and I know family men who won’t say no to Wiila.”

  And then Ahl is up and off, and Fidno, for once, settles their bill.

  AS BEFORE, THE DOOR TO AHL’S ROOM IS LOCKED FROM THE INSIDE. After he knocks on it repeatedly, the TV programmer lets him in. Ahl can’t help but feel amused at this point, especially once he has reflexively checked that he still has his money belt, and felt the weight of the laptop he is carrying. Then, as if to prove a point, he pretends to check on the state of his suitcase, which has had its lock torn off. Without waiting for the TV programmer to leave, he telephones his wife’s cousin, Xalan, to ask her to please come for him as soon as she can. He doesn’t explain why, he just wants to leave. Basta!

  He moves about the room, picking up a towel, running the tap, and with the luxury of a man who has a lot of time to kill, washing his hands and his face. Seemingly unperturbed and unflustered, the TV programmer stays in the room, fiddling with the knobs and taking no notice of Ahl’s presence or his need for some privacy. Maybe the never-ending conflict in this country won’t tail off until its burglars master their art, Ahl thinks. Maybe the foolishness displayed by the nation’s politicians, its so-called intellectuals, its clan elders and imams, and its rudderless youths is contagious; everyone in the land seems somehow lacking in horse sense.

  His mobile rings
: Xalan is downstairs, waiting. Ahl awkwardly picks up his suitcase with the broken lock, not bothering to check if any of his shirts, pairs of trousers, underwear, or sandals are missing. He leaves the door to the room open, the TV man still tinkering with the set, the volume high, then low.

  Xalan is a joy to behold: she is dressed in a caftan, arms showing, her figure handsome and her smile beautiful. She meets him halfway and they both laugh when their attempt at a hug fails and they both stumble. She carries his laptop down and leaves him to struggle with the suitcase with the broken lock.

  There is no one at the reception, so they decide to put the suitcase in the trunk and wait by the vehicle, in the hope that one of the receptionists will show up and alert the manager to bring Ahl the bill. As they wait, Ahl tells Xalan all that has transpired so far.

  “It’s shocking,” she says. “He’s still in the room? In any event, I am delighted you are moving in with us.”

  Then they have a laugh about it.

  “I don’t look forward to having further altercations with the hotel staff, including the hotel manager. Most likely, he won’t believe me if I tell him: it’s my word against the TV tinkerer’s. And I suppose his coworkers will gang up against me, an alien guest, never mind that I speak Somali.”

  When the manager arrives with the bill, Xalan studies the squiggly figures, frowning; among other things, Ahl is being charged for TV repair, along with the use of sheets and towels and meals he did not order. The combined shakedown comes to a lot, but Ahl knows that you do not negotiate with extortionists, and this price is par for the course for a diaspora Somali visiting home from the “dollar countries.” If he refuses to pay and reports the rip-off to the authorities, he stands little chance of success. Later, he’ll be made to pay at gunpoint, possibly with his life. Woe betide the man who denies his bodyguard’s request for a loan, or the journalist whose newspaper refuses the ransom asked when his kidnapping happens to occur on the day he is scheduled to leave for home.