Nuruddin Farah - Crossbones

“After I got into trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“My instructor History, you see, had me teach English to his daughter — but only orally, as I couldn’t read to her, given I had no spectacles. Then she became pregnant.”

“You mean you made her pregnant?”

“I did no such thing, Dad.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then History had me ‘marry’ her.”

Ahl is furious. “He forced you to marry his daughter, even though the baby wasn’t yours?”

“That’s right, Dad.”

Wait until Yusur hears this part, Ahl thinks. “And then what?”

“Then he had me transferred to the fighting corps.”

“Do you think he wanted you out of the way, dead?”

Taxliil stares at Ahl without answering.

“What was his motive if he didn’t want you killed?”

“That’s what one of my friends thought.”

“What did you think?”

“I was too afraid to think.”

There is a pause. Then Taxliil says, “Dad I’m too tired to answer any more questions today.”

“Just a couple more and then we’re done.”

Somewhere close by, a muezzin is calling the faithful to prayer. Taxliil seems agitated, as if debating whether to get up and answer the call or to stay seated and answer the remaining questions.

Ahl asks, “Do you remember the name of the travel agency that booked your flights?”

“I do not know the name of the travel agency that arranged our flights, or who paid for the tickets,” Taxliil replies.

“Did you collect the tickets yourselves?”

“We picked them up at different airports, when we presented ourselves with our passports,” Taxliil says. “They were e-tickets, every single one of them, from our starting points in the States all the way to our final destination. We did not all meet until Lamu, and then traveled together by boat.”

Ahl is about to resume his questioning when he observes that Taxliil has once again retreated into the private world of which he is king.

They take a break, and Ahl tries to reach Malik to apprise him of the fresh developments. But he can only reach Malik’s voice mail and doesn’t bother to leave a message.

When they resume, Ahl explains that they’ll be leaving for Djibouti the next day.

“When do we go home, to Minneapolis?”

“That we don’t know,” replies Ahl. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Ahl is certain that Taxliil’s name will be among the names the FBI have on file. The U.S. embassy will insist on debriefing Taxliil, and may even fly out an agent to talk to him in Djibouti. He is unsure if Taxliil is the first of the twenty or so Somalis to return. After debriefing, he will most likely be flown to Stuttgart, in handcuffs, on a special military flight. But he spares Taxliil the details for now. It is one thing to prepare him for what to expect, another to frighten him unnecessarily.

“Do you think I’ll be treated as a security risk?”

“Why do you ask?”

Taxliil says, “Because Saifullah said that he preferred dying in dignity to being arrested and handcuffed by the Americans and treated with suspicion for the rest of his days.”

“There is the possibility you may be considered a security risk,” Ahl says. “But because you are still underage, they may go easy on you.”

Taxliil says, “Are you trying to frighten me, Dad?”

“No, my son,” Ahl says.

“I am starting to regret I didn’t go on with it.”

“I am glad you didn’t go on with it,” Ahl says.

He thinks there is no despair as profound as that of a teenager whose innocence has led him to place his trust unwisely.

Xalan returns home with the air tickets and the passport of a boy of similar age to Taxliil. Although it was issued months earlier, no one has picked it up, and her friend in the passports division is prepared to take the risk of lending it to her. He’ll deny knowing anything about it if the theft is discovered. At best, if the deceit is not discovered, the passport is good only into Djibouti, which a Somali doesn’t need a visa to enter. To enter the United States, Taxliil needs to apply for a U.S. visa, which is difficult to obtain at the best of times.

There is a more immediate problem: Taxliil is refusing to come down from his room; he wants to be alone, and won’t entertain the thought of trying on the clothes Xalan has bought for him. She and Ahl try to cajole him out of his downbeat mood.

“How did your meeting go before he went up?” Xalan asks Ahl.

Ahl tells her everything.

“Maybe you scared him,” says Xalan.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Maybe he thinks he’ll be flown to Guantánamo.”

“I said nothing of the sort. I was just preparing him for what might happen.”

They are silent for a long time.

Ahl telephones Malik to tell him that he and Taxliil are leaving for Djibouti the next day. He asks Malik how much longer he intends to stay on, and Malik, not for the first time, decides against telling him how deeply worried he is at present about his safety. He says only that he intends to do a few more interviews and then leave. When Ahl shares with him his good news about the tickets and the passport, Malik expresses delight and says, “Maybe I’ll see you sooner than you think.”

Ahl then rings Jeebleh and fills him in on the progress they have made so far. Just before they disconnect, he mentions how he inveigled Malik into agreeing to interview Fidno and one of Fidno’s associates.

Jeebleh is furious with both brothers and says so. “Why do you endanger his life, cajoling him to interview two criminals at once in the same room in a hotel? This is far too risky. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I am indebted to Fidno,” Ahl says.

“One is never indebted to a criminal,” Jeebleh says.

“Well, I am,” Ahl retorts. “His intervention has, after all, brought Taxliil home.”

“What’s got into you?”

Ahl says, “I love my son.”

“How can you behave as carelessly as you’ve done towards Malik?” Jeebleh says.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to think of what you’ve done, the danger caused to your brother.”

“The matter is out of our hands,” Ahl says.

Jeebleh disconnects the line in fury.

MALIK IS IN THE KITCHEN OF THE MAIN HOUSE, PREPARING BREAKFAST.He has been up almost all night — he couldn’t bring himself to sleep after his exchange with Jeebleh. He won’t consider calling off the interview with Fidno and Isha. It would be a cowardly thing to do, especially as he wishes to live up to the memory of those killed while performing their jobs — journalists, the Dajaals, and the large number of innocent civilians terrorized into submission by the barbarism of Ethiopians, Shabaab, and half a dozen other fifth columnists. He will do as he has agreed: conduct this one interview and then leave on the flight to Nairobi on the morrow.

The breakfast comprises greens, cheese, toast, peeled and sliced oranges, and leftovers from the night before, including lentils. Cambara is partial to caffelatte in a mug; Bile loves his with half a spoon of sugar; she likes her liver cooked rare; Bile likes his well done.

Cambara comes to the table in a tropical cotton dress and no bra, as if playing at Shabaab’s recent edict that Somali woman should not wear such American-inspired, un-Islamic breast contraptions. Does she know she makes Malik pine for the company of women, especially when, as they kiss each other on the cheek, she presses her full chest against him, too?