Nadifa Mohamed - The Orchard of Lost Souls

‘No one has wanted me.’

‘Do you know the reason why?’

‘No, why?’ Filsan smiles with surprise; she decides to be candid tonight, to not hold back for once.

‘Because you act like you don’t need anybody.’

‘I don’t need anyone, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want certain things.’

‘And those certain things are?’

‘Someone by my side, on my side, who I can share my thoughts with, I guess.’

Roble lights a cigarette, adding another pin-prick of light to the dark. ‘Thoughts about the organisational budget of our office or other thoughts?’

‘All kinds. You wouldn’t guess how far and deep my thoughts reach.’

‘ Ahh, so you are philosophising up there in your little room.’

The waiter returns with a tray piled high with rice and a lamb shoulder, and two cola bottles rough with reuse.

‘Sometimes, and other times I am just wishing something good would happen in my life.’

‘Something like me?’

Filsan raises an eyebrow ‘That is very arrogant.’

‘Accepted, but is it wrong?’

‘I don’t know yet. Why have you suddenly become so attentive?’

‘Time. We have much less time than we realise, especially as soldiers, and I don’t want to wait for anything.’

Filsan lifts the bottle to her mouth to hide her smile. ‘That is very dramatic. But our office is pretty safe, isn’t it?’

‘For now, but don’t worry, you have me to protect you.’

‘I think I would be better at protecting you.’

‘You would type them into submission, I’m sure.’

Roble walks Filsan back to the barracks. The curfew has shut the civilians inside their homes, with only faint smells of charcoal and spice and paraffin lights hinting at their existence. The street is dark and deserted, apart from the squeak and rustle of stray cats chasing mice and the soldiers at the checkpoint talking softly over the hiss of a radio. Filsan looks up; the sky stretched over them like a dome is alive with stars, thin black clouds with haloes of white and silver pass over the half moon — it is a city up there, teeming with life.

‘You know that on clear nights you can spot satellites?’

‘I’ve heard that. In Mogadishu there are too many lights to see anything like this.’ Filsan carries on staring at the heavens and stumbles over a stone.

Roble catches her by the waist and rights her; for a moment her hands rest on his and then she pushes them away.

They stroll slowly to the barracks, unafraid. Filsan remembers reading once that the night was made for lovers, each pair invisible to the rest. It was in a romance novel she had found under her bed, left behind by Rahma.

A sharp wind runs through the street, billowing out Roble’s cotton shirt and forcing Filsan to wrap her shawl tighter. They are nearly at the barracks.

‘You should stop here in case anyone sees you,’ Filsan says, turning to him and holding out her hand. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Roble chuckles at her formality but shakes her hand.

He waits for her to pass the sentry gate and enter the compound. Out of sight in the stairwell, Filsan watches him turn and walk away. She feels a pang in her chest as he strides, head bowed, into the dark; he seems so lonely, so vulnerable, prey to whatever ghosts or beasts might assail him. Filsan begins to blow a kiss at his back but feels ridiculous and just follows his white shirt as it disappears into the night, like a ship’s sail surrounded by high waves and low clouds.

Instead of the dreams she expected — tender, candlelit, sublime — Filsan sinks into a nightmare. She stands on a dark plain, just her and the elders, their backs against the wall of an intact berked. The wind howls all around them, whipping away the words that emanate from her mouth; she carries no rifle or pistol but a great serrated knife that shines in the grey light. The white pilgrim robes of the elders flick and snap against the bluster but they are silent. Filsan raises a leg and steps forward, gravity disappears, her step becomes a jump, a flight and she pedals desperately down. Floating past the tallest elder she grabs his arm and anchors herself to him. His skin is frigid and in his empty eye sockets are distant twisting whorls. Filsan touches his chest but there is no heartbeat, no exhalation or inhalation; the body is a hard shell, perfectly preserved by the sterile moon air. The berked behind is full to the brim with powdery white dust. The abyss beyond is starless, featureless, and seems to reach into eternity. Filsan sees that the only shelter to be found is inside this body. She saws at the elder’s neck with the knife, the skin clinking like metal against the blade, spitting out bright sparks. Arduously, Filsan draws the knife back and forth, raising blisters on her palms, until the metal jugular is slit open. Holding onto the elder’s robes, avoiding the void of his gaze, she lowers her arm and rotates her aching shoulder. She lifts the knife once again and turns to the incision she has made, a trickle of liquid slowly seeping out from the hollow within; pressing a finger into it, she scrutinises the stain. It is thin, bright blood. Seeing no alternative, she continues to force her way inside him, blood smearing the knife, her hands, her cheek. The head creaks back and falls to the dirt. Filsan tries to squeeze through the aperture but can fit no more than an arm inside, blood splashing through her fingers. There is nowhere to go but the abyss that pulls at her.

She starts awake in her bed and switches on the overhead light, certain that her slick, cold hands are covered in blood. She holds them near her eyes and they are clean, with the same brown lines on the palms and plump fingers as always. She rests her cheek on the pillow hoping for the dread to pass.

‘We will not be forgotten so easily,’ the elders seem to say.

‘I will outrun you,’ she replies, and throws the sheets away from her.

She leaves the barracks without visiting the bathroom or kitchen, and washes her face once she has got to the office. The sun rises through the barred windows and slowly the elders recede from her thoughts. She starts on the pile of reports she was too distracted to complete the day before. One particularly thick document contains sightings of a rebel commander, sported in Ethiopia but also within Somalia itself, inside the Oriental Hotel if the Guddi were to be believed. Filsan has noticed that the Guddi act as if false information is better than no information at all, but their constant machinations against one individual or organisation makes her job ten times more difficult.

Outside a convoy of police cars streams past, sirens screeching. Filsan leaves her chair and stands by the window. A fire is burning in the direction of the Regional Security Council headquarters in the old District Commissioner’s house; the shouts of protesters are muffled under the sirens. A column of black smoke stands in the sky like a giant jinn escaped from a bottle. She picks up the phone and rings the number for Birjeeh; a busy tone wails back at her and she returns to the window. In that column of smoke she sees weeks of work and investigations; whoever set the council building on fire has thrown a gauntlet down to the government: if they can reach such a secure site there is nowhere they can’t penetrate.

Roble enters alongside Colonel Magan, the Mobile Military Court prosecutor. Filsan thinks she can see a hint of a smile on the Colonel’s face as he sits briskly behind Roble’s desk. A failure at the Regional Security Council could be a victory for him.

‘Do any of these damn things work?’ Magan shouts as he stabs at the burtons on the telephone.

She tries to catch Roble’s eye but he is staring down at the Colonel with a furrowed brow.