Nuruddin Farah - Knots

“Seamus.”

“How stupid of me,” Cambara says.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’ve left the phone in the room.”

“Seamus has rung me.”

“What does he say?”

“That he’ll be here shortly.”

Cambara pushes her breakfast things away and, as soon as she does, grows restless, looking from the plates to Kiin and then finally at her sketch pad, which is to the right of her, and is filled with scrawls and patterns that make a fascinating viewing, at least from where Kiin is standing.

Kiin, meanwhile, instructs the waiter to go to the kitchen and place an order of double espresso and breakfast — liver, underdone, and canjeero -pancakes — for Seamus, and to bring it to Cambara’s table.

When the waiter has gone and they are alone, Kiin says, “I would like you to join us for lunch, my daughters and me.”

“Be glad to,” Cambara says.

“Lunch at one-thirty for two.”

Cambara half rises, readying to thank Kiin for everything and at the very same moment thinking of her, rather enviously, as a woman in charge of her life.

Kiin is off, saying, “See you then.”

The first intimation, insofar as Cambara is concerned, that something unusual is taking place comes in the shape of an eerie quietness when one of the sentries switches off a radio. From that instant on, Cambara takes interest in the inexorable, if unorthodox, movements of several of the junior unarmed security guards who amuse themselves as they have a peek, one at a time, through the peephole of the pedestrian gate. Then they exchange quizzical looks as they consult one another and then debate among themselves what action to take if any, before sheepishly glancing in the direction of a man who looks as though he is dead to their world, maybe sleeping.

A perfunctory appraisal confirms her suspicions: that the man sleeping in the chair, with his arms hugging his chest, his feet forward, and whom the junior unarmed sentries at the gate have not dared to disturb is, indeed, the man who led yesterday’s afternoon prayer. He is, apparently, the head of security, and now she remembers him directing the show in the car. Kiin has told her how much she relies on him.

Eventually he wakes of his own accord, maybe because, with the radio no longer on, the uncanny soundlessness alerts him to the changes of which he takes notice. He opens his eyes with the slowness of a cock squawking an exhausted crow from the depth of its drowsiness and then stretches his arms into the full extent of a yawn before doddering to his tallness. He rubs the weariness out of his eyes, leans against the wall for support, and asks what is happening. Receiving no answer from the others, who can only stare at him, he places his eye to the spy hole. He sees an ungainly white man with the hangdog expression of someone who has no business being there, a man with a beer paunch pulling at his bearded face and nervously feeding chunks of the graying hair into his mouth, chewing at it ceaselessly.

The head of security gives what he can see of the white man a once-over and then barks instructions at one of the youths to “let the gentleman in.”

It is then that Seamus steps in, his hands fisted, his features breaking into a friendly grin, his stride even, his demeanor unafraid and unworried. However, because of the thickness of his facial hair and the distance separating her from him, Cambara cannot determine the nature of his amity or to whom he is addressing it or if it is turning into a snicker. Even so, Cambara says, “Terra firma,” to herself, as she studies him, thinking “What a great presence,” from the vantage point of seeing him and guessing who he is before he has laid his eyes on her. To welcome him, she gets to her feet, almost daring to call out to him by his first name. She takes a good hold of herself and then sits down, fussily smoothing her hair with her hands and touching them to her face in callous disregard of what anyone else watching her might think.

Seamus goes round shaking hands, taking the hand of everyone in his vicinity in his own. He starts with the head of security and then holds the hands of the other man in his for a few moments, eventually shuffling in her direction, his steps short, paunch more prominent than he likes it to be, and his right hand ahead of him, as if he might make a present of it to her. Seamus, she thinks, has the look of an exhausted beast of burden that is carrying more than twice its weight and rises to its diminished height, knees burdensomely bent and aching, gaze wary, and mouth pouting, as if annoyed. Look at him wanting to shake everyone’s hand; watch him hitching his belt up every so often and, while doing so, subtly touching his private parts as if making sure they are still there. Pray, how does he get around? What means of transport does he have, if any?

“I am Bile’s friend,” Seamus says loud enough for the benefit of all those overhearing him, this way defining a kind of kinship that he hopes will make sense to the armed and unarmed youths: a mascot for Bile, for friendship. She makes a knowing effort not to return the goggle-eyed stare of the youths, who, in her view, are merely highlighting their curiosity, it being the first time for them, perhaps, to see a Somali woman not in a veil welcoming a European man in view of so many of them. In broad daylight. Without a chaperone.

She says, “Seamus, I presume,” shaking his hand with the warmth of one who might even go as far as hugging him but stopping just short of that.

“Welcome to our city, Cambara,” he says, pronouncing faultlessly the guttural c with which her name begins. “Bile says hi and so does Dajaal, both having had the pleasure to make your acquaintance under unfavorable conditions. It seems to me I am the lucky one, in that I meet you when you look rested, relaxed, and ready to host me at your hotel.”

“The pleasure of meeting you in this friendlier situation is all mine, Seamus,” she says, mouthing his disyllabic name as if taking more of an ownership than she has meant to.

When the waiter arrives, carrying a double espresso for him, Cambara points Seamus to a chair, which he takes, his back to the youths who are presently undressing both of them with their leering. Seamus says, “Thanks,” instinctively, addressing his word neither to her nor to the waiter. He gives the waiter sufficient time to move away, shifting in his seat, then has his first long, pensive sip of the coffee but stops short of telling Cambara whether it is to his taste or not.

He pulls at the bristles on his chin, now and then rooting out a loose hair snuggling in the bend of his fat, thick fingers with the thoughtfulness of a farmer picking weeds in the underbrush. Something about the way he is sitting tells her that Seamus has grown into his Somaliness in the same way alien vegetation adapts to take root eventually in the soil in which it has been planted.

“Tell me,” Seamus says conversationally.

“Where does one begin?” she says. She sounds evidently charmed, her cheerfulness as spontaneous as a baby’s first grin.

“Begin anywhere,” he smiles encouragingly. “Anywhere will do.”

“I am sure you are familiar with John Coltrane?”

“Not as much as you are, I presume.”

“My favorite Coltrane is ‘A Love Supreme.’

“And is that where you want to begin?”

“I may equally begin it with a moment of on-the-level sadness, when one discovers one’s partner is glorying in one’s debasement, luxuriating in it?” She looks away, as though embarrassed, maybe because she is uncertain if he is following her meaning.

Her hand moves toward the upper part of her cheek — a woman who hasn’t decided whether she is wiping away tears or removing a bit of kohl with a Kleenex. She recalls not putting on eyeliner for several months now — she, who has trained as a makeup artist — not since losing her dear, darling son.