Nuruddin Farah - Links

“Here we are,” Shanta said, “tea and nibbles!”

“LITTLE RAASTA FELT SHE FIGURED OUT FOR HERSELF WHAT MARRIAGE IS like, when she was only four,” said Shanta — given name Shan-Karoon, meaning “better than any five girls anywhere”—her voice drenched with emotion.

She faced him with the demure posture of a woman entertaining a potential in-law. Why was she ill at ease? Her clothes weren’t a mess. In fact, she was smartly dressed. All the same, there was something about her that disturbed him. But he couldn’t say what.

She would have been much younger when he was bundled out of the country. For all he knew, a lot of terrible things about which she spoke to no one, not even Bile, might have happened to her. He was on edge, like a man daring to stand on wet soap. He asked, “How did Raasta manage that?”

“You would know if you’d met her,” she said.

“But I haven’t!” He gave her a sharp glance, and the wells of her eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t tell how she managed to contain them precisely where she liked them, brimming on her lashes. He insisted: “In what way did Raasta work out what marriage is like, at the age of four?”

Like a bird feeding, Shanta moved her lips soundlessly. He sensed then that talking to her would to be an undertaking that needed special skills. She was likely to be evasive when it came to Faahiye, and might be given to improvising or making up stories too. He wouldn’t put it past her to make unsubstantiated innuendos, as many spouses might, when, in self-justification, they talked about their partners. She had trained as a lawyer, and joined the law firm set up together with several colleagues, including Faahiye. She had practiced her profession until the country collapsed into total lawlessness.

Now she spoke when he least expected her to, and, instead of answering his question, changed the subject: “Bless the house that our mothers built. Please accept my condolences over the death of our mothers.”

“Would you know how to locate Mother’s grave?”

“I’m sure I would,” she said.

But he was not one hundred percent certain she had understood that he was referring to his mother, not hers, and was sorry that he had not been clearer. He waited for her to speak; he didn’t wish to be the one to draw attention to this lapse.

Obliging, she indicated that she had gotten his meaning. “I planted two trees at our mothers’ graves,” she said. “For the unparalleled sweetness of its fruit, I planted a mango tree of the Hinducini variety, imported from India, at your mother’s grave, and a lemon tree at my mother’s. I also placed four medium-to-large stones with your mother’s name written on them. I haven’t been to her grave — or my mother’s — for quite some time, but if I put my mind to it, I am quite sure I’ll find it, no problem at all. We can ask Dajaal to take us there, if you want me to come. He’s useful in that department, and can find anything.”

“You wouldn’t know how to find her housekeeper?”

“Why do you want to find her?”

“Because I would like to know all I can about the old woman’s last days,” he said. “It is important that I talk to her. I have a number of questions that only she might be in a position to answer.”

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea where she might be.”

It was his turn to commiserate with her over the disappearance of Raasta and her companion. And because she snuffled, he felt shut out by the new circle that she now drew around herself. He was relieved that she knew how to locate his mother’s grave if all else failed, and sorry he couldn’t share all he had been told about Raasta’s possible abductors. He intended to talk to her about his plans for his mother: to construct a noble memory for her in some way, gather a few sheikhs to speak words of blessing in remembrance of her — and of Shanta’s mother too. He knew he had to wait until it was appropriate to bring up these matters, trifles in comparison to what Shanta was going through. He hoped there was time yet for his priorities.

She spoke fast, as though she had a dog at her heels, chasing her. “One way of putting it is that I’ve lived in a dark house, with the blinds drawn, and where the air is sour, and where I am alone, even though I haven’t chosen to live by myself. I live in hope, though. I say to myself every hour that one day my daughter will be back, she who worked out for herself what marriage is like, at the age of four, and said so to me.”

Jeebleh sucked at his teeth, sensing there was no point asking the same question for the third time. He suspected she wouldn’t be goaded into giving away more than she wanted.

Now it was Shanta asking a question: “Why do you think Faahiye had a hand in my daughter’s disappearance? I understand from talking to someone that you believe this to be the case.”

“I don’t remember saying any such thing to anyone.”

“You’ve been to see Caloosha,” she said, “and you’ve talked to Af-Laawe, and you’ve also spoken at length with Bile. What are your views? What are your conclusions?”

“I haven’t come to any yet.”

“Has Faahiye kidnapped her? He would need help from one of the Strongmen. Or has he done it on his own? And if so, why?”

He noted this time that she spoke her husband’s name like a curse. Then she lapsed into a ruinous state of mind, appearing overwhelmed with the genuine emotion of a love gone sour, or hate gone seedy. Self-consciously, her hand went close to but dared not touch the well of her eyes. He remembered her as a child, remembered how she used to cry at the slightest pretext. By all accounts, hers was a life of high-flown emotions now, of days filled with incessant weeping.

“We’re under a curse, as a family,” she said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Caloosha had you and Bile, his own brothers, locked up, and is suspected of killing his stepfather. More recently, since our mother’s death, several events, one after another, have turned what I, for one, first imagined to be blessings — the birth I had looked forward to all my life, and freedom for a brother who had been in prison and whom I waited to welcome — into curses. Times being abnormal, Bile touches me where he isn’t supposed to, and does taboo things that he isn’t allowed to. There’s talk of murder, and there’s talk of robbery. My husband questions, I take sides. We quarrel, my husband and I, and he leaves. My brother is hurt, and spends more time sulking than I’ve ever known him to do, telling me in so many words that I’ve brought ruin on our heads. My daughter and her playmate vanish mysteriously. Are they kidnapped? Have they been taken hostage? And if so, who’s got them? Does their disappearance have a political angle? When I was young, not given to reflection and not in the know, I used to think there was something remarkable about our family, something unique. Now it seems we’re uniquely cursed. And things aren’t what they’ve appeared to be for much of my life.”

“Has Faahiye been in touch?” Jeebleh asked.

“The phone rings.”

He stared at her, saying nothing, puzzled.

“My phone rings, and when I pick it up, it falls silent,” she continued, snuffling. “It rings again, and again no one speaks, no one says anything. So I don’t pick it up anymore.”

“Why would the kidnappers call and then say nothing?”

“I’m sure it’s Faahiye!”

“Why would he be doing that?”

“To torture me!”

Jeebleh waited warily for her to explain further, but she ceased speaking altogether, swept away by a violent torrent of emotion. There was a feverish intensity to her behavior. He offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted and held in her hand, staring at it as if she didn’t know what use to put it to. Again snuffling, she said, “Raasta was a wonder child!”