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by Nuruddin Farah

  Jeebleh felt oddly comforted by the thought that Shanta, no longer tearful, was attentive. No outbursts of emotion, nor did she behave neurotically when they talked in general terms. He must take care not to spring a question on her, lest she drop into a state of nervous tension.

  “Why, why, why, why?” she asked.

  He disregarded her question; he should muster the strength and the wit to make her relax until Faahiye called or Bile arrived—Bile would, he thought, show up at Shanta’s sooner or later—whichever came first. Then he became aware of her fixed stare.

  “He turned our private quarrel into a public spectacle,” she accused. “He left, so the world would talk about him. And do you know why he did that? He did that to exact vengeance.” She was calm, composed as she spoke, and nothing indicated that she would go weepy on him. “By going public,” she went on, “he brought his hurt out into the open, as though he expected to receive a proper redress. Did he think how I might feel, how Bile might feel? Then Raasta and Makka disappeared.”

  Jeebleh realized that she was staring at him, in fact focusing on a dribble of saliva dangling from his lower lip. Embarrassed at his dribbling like a baby, as he was prone to do whenever he concentrated, he sucked it in with a gust of air. He remembered that he had lent her his handkerchief, so he dried his chin with the back of his hand. He was about to excuse himself, when she started to speak.

  “A wife is not likely to display her hurt in public the way a husband does. A woman doesn’t go blatantly public until after she has tried other ways of communicating with her spouse. Women keep these things under wraps for much longer than men do. It’s only when a woman can no longer deal with it that she speaks of it, first to her friends, then to her spouse. Only when no solution to the problem is in sight does she speak to others. It takes a very long time before outsiders hear of the marriage problem from a wife. By the time a woman makes it public, we can assume that the marriage is doomed.”

  He couldn’t help thinking that this sounded like the crossroads where the Somali people stood. Like Faahiye and Shanta, they were not prepared to talk directly, but only through intermediaries—in the case of Somalia, through foreign adjudicators. Interfamilial disputes had a way of becoming protracted, at times requiring an eternity for the parties in the conflict to sit face to face and talk—alone!

  They both looked toward the door, then at each other. Jeebleh wasn’t sure if he had heard a car door open and then close. The optimist in him wondered whether that might be Faahiye coming home, with Raasta? He waited for the noise to make sense, but none came. He had almost given up, when the gate outside creaked. It was then that he stood, bracing himself for an unpleasant surprise. But when he opened the door, he saw Bile at the gate, waving to Dajaal as he drove off.

  JEEBLEH, SHANTA, AND BILE SAT AND TALKED, AND BILE WAS INFORMED OF the developments relating to Faahiye. Though their hearts were not in it, they chatted about other things, not to kill the time, but because they were nervous, the three of them, for different reasons.

  “All this waiting is getting us nowhere,” Bile said, “and we have no idea why we are waiting.”

  “We’re waiting for Faahiye to ring.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Bile addressed Shanta: “While we wait, perhaps you can repeat the precise words Faahiye used, for my benefit.”

  Shanta obliged. “The mobile rang and I answered it, saying hello. I said hello several times, and then Faahiye spoke. He said that he’d called for ‘that man.’ I asked to explain whom he meant, and he said to pass his message on to Jeebleh, to whom he wants to talk. I offered to give him the number of Jeebleh’s mobile, but he said that that was not what he wanted to do. He wanted Jeebleh to come here and to wait for his call on the landline.”

  Bile turned to Jeebleh. “How long ago has it been since you got here?” He looked at his sister and waited.

  “About an hour and a quarter.”

  “Does this mean we’ll be here forever, waiting?”

  Jeebleh suggested they wait as long as they could.

  “I don’t like devious people,” Bile said.

  “To hell with it all!” Shanta exploded, and hurried from the room, breathing like someone who needed a good, hearty cry, in private.

  JEEBLEH AND BILE TALKED WHILE THEY WAITED FOR SHANTA TO RETURN, AND for the phone to ring.

  “What becomes of a nation when there is such a great disharmony that everyone is dysfunctional?” Jeebleh said.

  “The young ones will play truant,” Bile replied, “the civil servants won’t do their jobs properly, the teachers won’t teach, the police, the army, the entire civil service, nothing, and I mean no institution, will function as it should.”

  “In short, you’ll have a dysfunctional nation?”

  “It’s only when there’s harmony within the smaller unit that the larger community finds comfort in the idea of the nation. The family unit acts as a counterbalance to the idea of the nation. And in order for the nation to function as one, the smaller unit must resonate with the larger one.”

  Jeebleh, silent, pondered this.

  Bile said, “You asked if sex was the subtext of Shanta and Faahiye’s ruined relationship? Or did you ask if sex was the fault line in their marriage? I recall being embarrassed by the question, and have since thought it over. I think that one never casts aspersions on a wife, a husband, or for that matter an intimate, without self-diminishment! This is a lesson we’ve learned the hard way, from the civil war.”

  The landline rang, and Jeebleh answered.

  IT WAS AFTER NIGHTFALL WHEN JEEBLEH AND BILE LEFT SHANTA’S. THE DARK sky spread above them, the ten-day-old moon a reference point. Jeebleh was relieved that Faahiye had kept his word and called; he had promised to call again, probably the next day, to arrange a face-to-face meeting with him, alone. But he hadn’t said anything about Raasta, and he kept repeating, “We’ll meet and talk!” Bile had stood close by during the conversation, his imperious demeanor sufficient to remind Jeebleh not to do or say anything that might complicate an already complicated situation.

  But something about the call had made Jeebleh’s heart stop, though he didn’t speak about it afterward. When he had finished talking with Faahiye, Af-Laawe had come on the line. He said that he would meet Jeebleh the following morning at a crossroads south of Bile’s apartment. He told Jeebleh that he would bring his mother’s housekeeper along, and the three of them would go together to the cemetery where the old woman was buried.

  As they walked back to Bile’s apartment, Jeebleh trembled like a candle caught in a storm. He had reached at least three certainties: Af-Laawe was more involved in these nefarious activities than he had let on. And if the two of them met, and the girls were released unharmed, Jeebleh would put his own plan into motion, with help from Dajaal. And at possible risk to his own life, he would not divulge the proposed encounter with Af-Laawe to anyone, not even Bile or Seamus. Maybe to Dajaal, but he would have to think about that. As he walked, he sometimes felt he was about to collapse at the knees, or his legs were about to take a tumble; he would then straighten his back, steady his body, and stride forward. Bile would extend a helping hand, asking if he could do something for his friend. Shanta’s accusation—that he had secretly been talking to Faahiye—resounded regrettably in Jeebleh’s ears. He wished that he had spoken of the rendezvous that Af-Laawe wanted, shared it with Bile there and then, as soon as he had hung up. Now Jeebleh would have to keep the appointment secret, and honor it, at great cost to his own standing if he was discovered. He was damned either way, whether he spoke of it or not.

  When Seamus let them into the apartment, he noticed Jeebleh’s pallor. “Oh dear, dear, you’re a wreck, aren’t you?”

  And even though he wouldn’t hear of either friend’s helping him to his room, Jeebleh accepted a bowl of broth and a cup of hot chocolate, in bed, when they were offered.

  23.

  JEEBLEH WOKE UP FEELING ASHAMED AT HIS INABILITY TO MENTION HIS appointme
nt with Af-Laawe to Bile or Seamus. He got in touch with Dajaal, however, calling him on his mobile to inform him that he had arranged to meet Af-Laawe and go to the cemetery.

  Bile had now gone to work, and Jeebleh needed someone to talk to. He woke Seamus, and over a breakfast of Spanish omelette with him, Jeebleh was physically unsteady. He felt as though he had been emptied of life itself, like an egg out of which a weasel has sucked everything.

  Seamus had sensed Jeebleh’s unease from where he sat across the table. “If I were you,” he said, “I would be careful before committing myself to an action that might complicate matters for all concerned.”

  “I look nervous, do I?”

  “You look like a teenager right before his first date,” Seamus said. “Anyway, whatever you’re up to, please don’t embark on a job if you aren’t prepared to follow it through. Besides, you must steel yourself for an unexpected challenge if you’re up against a no-goodnik of the local variety. I’ll offer any assistance you require.”

  Jeebleh thanked him and pushed away the omelette, which was cold as a morgue. His innards stirred with the adrenaline of a daddy longlegs crawling out of a ditch a meter deep. Saying no more, he went to keep his appointment with Af-Laawe.

  FOLLOWING INSTRUCTIONS, JEEBLEH TURNED LEFT WHEN HE WAS OUT OF THE building, then right and right again, looking this way and that to see whether he was being tailed. He waited at the designated corner where he was to be picked up. He was like a child playing at being an adult. He did not like what he had been reduced to, a marked victim. After all, Af-Laawe and his cohorts could do away with him if they so chose.

  He had just decided to cancel the appointment, and was pulling out the mobile phone to call it off, when he heard and then saw a black stretch limousine approaching. He had been listening for the bumpy clamor of Af-Laawe’s jalopy; this was totally unexpected. Or was it? Had he not been told about a fancy car seen in the neighborhood of The Refuge on the day the girls went missing? His ears beat with the rhythm of a funeral drum.

  For a moment he thought he was mistaken, because the black Mercedes cruised past him, raising a storm of dust. But then it turned and came toward him again, as fast as a getaway car leaving the scene of a crime. The driver cut the speed, until the car was as slow as a hearse, and came to a halt. The back window opened, and there was Af-Laawe, sitting showily in the row of seats by himself. All smiles, his index finger bent and beckoning. “Get in!” he said.

  Jeebleh took his time, and had a glimpse of two toughs, one at the wheel, the other in the second row of seats.

  Af-Laawe cried, “Hold tight!” and the car was off in a rattle of gravel.

  Not wanting to show that he was frightened, Jeebleh held tight, as he had been instructed. Af-Laawe was visibly agitated, and Jeebleh wished he knew what had excited him so. He prayed to God they wouldn’t have an accident: the hospitals were barely functioning, and what if he needed a transfusion? Was the blood supply safe? If Shanta’s so-called cartel was truly in operation, his heart and kidneys might end up somewhere in the Middle East! And this pimpmobile was a clear sign, if he needed one, that Af-Laawe was not to be trusted. Disjointed words fell pell-mell from Af-Laawe’s mouth.

  “Where are you taking me?” Jeebleh asked.

  “To your mother’s housekeeper!”

  AND BEFORE JEEBLEH KNEW IT, THEY WERE THERE, AND A WOMAN WHOM Af-Laawe introduced as the housekeeper was hugging him and kissing his cheeks, then his right shoulder, then his hands one at a time. Jeebleh was overwhelmed with emotion, although he and the woman had never met. Try as he might, he couldn’t remember the name by which he had known her. He was of two minds whether she was genuine or fake, for he couldn’t be certain whether the name by which she was now introduced matched the one he had sent monthly xawaala remittances to.

  To the best of his memory, he had had no hand in hiring her, and he couldn’t recall who had. He remembered agreeing to transfer the funds through an agency based in New Jersey to an account in the woman’s name at a Mogadiscio bank. He had received a letter from his mother, written with the help of a scribe, informing him of the woman’s employment. In addition, he had been given a neighbor’s telephone number for her. His mother would not countenance a telephone in the house, for in those days, phones were a nuisance: if you were one of the few subscribers in a neighborhood, your phone would quickly become community property. He felt guilty that he hadn’t been there for his mother, yet he had done what he could, and he tried to have her join him in America. But there was a problem, something to do with her not having a passport; the authorities—read Caloosha—would not issue her one.

  Jeebleh and the woman now sat on a threadbare couch on the porch of a small house with a very low ceiling. Af-Laawe stood apart, his back to them, intently watching the road while he eavesdropped on their every word. The two muscles standing guard at the door made a dramatic impression on the woman. Whereas Jeebleh spoke to the woman in a low voice, she made a point of talking to him loudly, so everyone could hear. Although he assured her that he wasn’t hard of hearing, she continued to talk as if to a deaf person.

  This was no routine encounter for Jeebleh: he was meeting someone who claimed to have looked after his mother’s daily physical needs, nursing her through advanced age until her death. If she was genuine, he might have looked upon her as a mother to his mother. But he sensed that he was being duped, so he was not in awe of her or of what she might tell him. He had an unpleasant question about letters that had been returned to him unopened. He meant to ask why they had been sent back, not about the monthly remittances. But a drought raised its parched head inside him, and he could come up only with an innocuous question: “What were my mother’s last words?”

  “She was happy to go, when her time was up.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I remember the shine on your mother’s cheeks.”

  “Her last words?”

  “She was happy to go, when her time was up,” the woman repeated, with more care this time, and added: “But she was very sorry that you, her only beloved son, weren’t there to bid her good-bye.”

  They lived in a world of pretense, the two of them. He talked with caution, well aware that his life depended on it. She spoke to please Af-Laawe; most definitely she feared him too. But Jeebleh had to set a test for her, to see if she was for real.

  “Like many Somali children,” Jeebleh said, “I never knew my mother’s age precisely. Would you by any chance know?”

  “She was close to seventy.”

  “When she died?”

  Af-Laawe stepped in. “If we had her papers we would be able to answer your question with more precision.”

  His mother had had a strong and youthful spirit, and had been more together in mind and body than many others of her advanced age. Jeebleh knew that although she may have appeared younger, she was actually in her early eighties when a housekeeper was hired to look after her.

  The woman, contradicting an earlier statement of hers, said, “She wanted so much for you to return before her final departure, and as I said earlier, she was sad that she had to go.”

  He pictured her in his mind, a hardworking and determined woman, prepared to outlive the Dictator. She wouldn’t have been happy to go without seeing her son. In fact, on the few occasions when he had called on the neighbor’s line, she would tell him that she would preserve herself until he came home. Now that he remembered the phone calls, it struck him that this woman was not the person to whom he had spoken when he had telephoned: that woman had had a local accent, while the woman in front of him had a more pronounced accent from the north, probably from Galkacyo.

  He had seldom written to his mother, and was cautious when he did. Not only did he think there was no good to be gained from raising her expectations, but he did not want to cause her unnecessary distress. She never sounded keen on the idea of having his wife and two daughters visit. “What will I say to them?” she asked once. “I don’t speak a
foreign language, and you haven’t taught them Somali.” And when he spoke to her again, asking her to think further about it, she said, “It’ll only worry me to no end if they come. Besides, I won’t be able to sleep a wink, night or day, expecting a knock on my door, and waiting for someone from the National Security to harass us.” She was a woman with an agenda, the preservation of her son and Bile, whom she loved as though he were hers too.

  Jeebleh asked the housekeeper to tell him what his mother thought about his unannounced departure from Somalia.

  “I don’t like to hurt your feelings,” she replied.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Your mother died believing you were a traitor.”

  He knew the woman wasn’t telling the truth, and was sure she had been told to say this. He shifted his gaze away, refusing to look in her direction for a while. When he had her in his sights again, he asked, “How often did Caloosha visit her?”

  It was her turn this time to appear drained of blood, her face becoming pallid. “I don’t wish to get involved,” she said.

  “What do you mean, you don’t wish to get involved?” He pretended to be enraged. “What has my question got to do with your getting involved? Involved in what?”

  He knew and she knew where he intended to take her with his questions. And he understood why she didn’t want to go there with him, to a land of further attrition. Af-Laawe, he noticed, was agitated again. Jeebleh decided to interrogate her further. “Did my mother suffer any lapses of judgment?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I doubt that she would think of me as a traitor, unless she had suffered great lapses of judgment.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”