Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

Then, in the silence that follows, she murmurs a few words, as if to herself, and for an instant she appears embarrassed. Too late to regret her inapt outburst, she strides off toward the kitchen, the plates clattering.

Malik blames the stresses under which Cambara and Bile have been living for her outpouring. Civil war makes excessive demands on those who suffer it, and many snap under the strain.

The silence lasts until she returns to ask if Malik or Bile wants tea or coffee. She gives her profile to Bile, indicating her annoyance.

Bile asks Malik, “Were you present at the last altercation between Dajaal and Gumaad in the apartment? Did you think that Dajaal went too far in provoking Gumaad?”

Thinking that one witness is no witness, and that in any case he can’t tell if that altercation led to Dajaal’s death, Malik asks Bile, “Does anyone have any idea who murdered him?”

Bile replies, “Qasiir claims to know.”

“Does he suspect Shabaab?”

“That’s what I gathered from talking to him.”

Malik asks, “Does he have concrete evidence?”

“His opinion is based on mere conjecture,” Bile says. “Not that that will stop him from acting on it, I fear.”

Cambara continues to seem uneasy. She shifts in her chair, then says, “Yet Shabaab and their allies claim to be jihadis, when they do not even behave like Muslims.” Then she gets to her feet, as if to leave their presence.

Bile says, “You can’t determine that. Only God has the privilege to decide if they are or aren’t Muslim.”

“Why kill in mosques or in the vicinity of mosques?” she asks, as if the answer to the question might unravel everything.

“The murders are political,” Bile says.

“Are these assassinations commissioned by fifth columnists allied to the Courts?” Malik asks.

“According to what Qasiir has told me, they are.”

“Is he implying that Dajaal set himself up for it, describing himself publicly as a secularist?” Malik says.

Bile ventures, “Shabaab knew all along where Dajaal stood. He needn’t have called himself a secularist. If anything, he was a democrat and therefore a secularist. It is a mystery they didn’t kill him sooner.”

Malik takes a furtive look at Cambara, assuming with little evidence that unless she occupies center stage, where she is appreciated, pampered, loved, and praised, she is the type who will stand apart, as she does now, listening to their banter as if it concerns someone she doesn’t know. He attempts to bring her back in.

“What’s your feeling, Cambara? The Courts are out — we know you weren’t enamored of them or their hard-line position. Now the Ethiopians are here. What would you say if I asked you what your feelings are today, as matters stand?”

“A plague on both their houses,” Cambara mutters.

Bile says, “As the Somali saying goes, ‘Drinking milk is unlikely to help you when you choke on water.’”

Cambara says, “Aren’t you saying the same thing I am saying, only with proverbs?”

“Perhaps I am saying more than that,” Bile says.

“Peace, please!” says Malik.

“I am saying that the Courts will have learned their lesson,” Bile retorts. “And if they get a second chance to rule Somalia, they won’t be as arrogant and unreasoning as they were the first time. Of course, there will be those who will insist on having an Islamic state at all costs, and there will be splinter groups, this faction against that faction and so on.”

“You can’t do much with a bad egg. That is what the Courts are, a bad egg,” Cambara says, pleased with herself.

“What are the Ethiopians, then?” Bile asks, amused.

“Pollutants farting against the wind,” she says.

There is a long silence.

Then Bile says, “The bad-egg image of the Courts is apt. But there are at least possibilities of negotiation. They are now in the political wilderness. They were wrong to assume that weapons from Eritrea would help them defeat Ethiopia here and march all the way to Addis, and take and occupy it. Easier dreamed of than done.”

Cambara stares at her fingers, thinking. She says, “You surprise me, darling. You have a soft spot for the Courts. I would never have thought that of you.”

“I so loathe the Ethiopian occupation and this interim president who engineered it, I would have the Courts back any day, in their place,” Bile says. “Still, I would choke on the water that I may have to drink.”

On another day, Malik might stay and enjoy bantering with Bile, especially as he seems to be in better health today. But he retreats into the bathroom to send Qasiir a text message asking him to come for him in a jiffy. When he rejoins Bile and Cambara, he says, “It’s past your siesta time, and I have plenty of work to get through. So I’ll thank you for the wonderful lunch and company.”

Bile says, in a tone of command not to be challenged, “I’ll ask Qasiir to bring your things from the apartment. I want you to move into the annex. It’s safer here.”

“We have everything you require,” Cambara says.

Bile adds, “Please, no back talk from you.”

“I will move in,” says Malik, “but not until tomorrow.”

“Why not right away, or tonight at least?”

“I am in the middle of something,” Malik says.

“We’ll tell the maid to set it all up.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

En route to the apartment — Qasiir at the wheel — Malik notices several missed calls, many of them dating back to last night, and one very long SMS.

In the SMS, Ahl, who says he has sent the same text in an e-mail format, shares his latest with him: that he confirms that he feels more comfortable putting up at Xalan and Warsame’s, indirectly suggesting to Malik that he move in with Cambara and Bile — but not clearly spelling it out. Ahl ends with, “Be on guard at all times.”

Malik can tell that Qasiir is excited: his eyes keep narrowing, like a shortsighted person concentrating on a faraway spot, and his lips are constantly moving. Malik asks him, “Is everything okay?”

“I’ve found Marduuf, the former pirate,” Qasiir says. “We met at a teahouse. He is a very angry man.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“I know what he does for a living, too. He sells rugs,” Qasiir says. “He told me that since he discovered there was more risk than money in piracy, he bought a small pickup truck with what money he had made and set up a rug-selling business.”

Malik asks, “When can I meet him?”

“Whenever you like, really.”

“You mean as soon as now?” Malik asks, excited.

Qasiir says, “But of course.”

“I am a bit exhausted.”

“Tell me what suits you, and it’ll be done.”

Malik thinks it over. A former pirate who has a lot of venom toward Shabaab is a good prospect. He says, “You’ll drop me and then fetch him.”

They fall silent. Then Malik ventures the question that has been on his mind. “What was your grandfather’s home situation? Is your grandmother still alive?”

Qasiir drives in silence for a while, in the attitude of someone taking the measure of a challenge. Finally, he answers, “Grandpa lived alone in a house that was in first-class shape when he bought it. Lately, however, it’s begun to fall apart, the roof leaking, the paint flaking, water gathering in puddles, the drainage not functioning. He kept saying he would deal with the structural problems and either rent it out or, if peace came, sell it and buy a one-room apartment. He didn’t want to bother fixing it piecemeal.”

“Did he have dependents?”

“Not if you’re speaking of a wife and children.”