Nuruddin Farah - Knots

Raxma responds, “First I called Information, and got a Duluth number registered in Omar’s name. When I rang, I spoke to a woman who denied knowing who I was talking about, but she passed me on to the estate agency from which she rented the apartment, who initially couldn’t find either Omar’s or Qaali’s names as clients in their books. Then it transpired that they had her down as ‘Precious,’ not Qaali. Then I rang Information again, once I knew that she was a postgraduate student in anthropology at U of M, and I spoke to her head of department, her supervisor, and even the secretary to the department, all of whom answered my questions voluntarily. They had her first name as Qaali and her second as Precious, and used the two hyphenated. Insofar as the Americans are concerned, Qaali has disappeared in that large continent called Africa, and they have no way of knowing how to trace her. She isn’t in Mali, at least not in the Dogon village where she is supposed to be doing her fieldwork. The last phone contact from her was when she rang the head of the department, but, because he wasn’t there to talk to her, she informed the secretary that she might need an extension, because she was off to Nairobi and then Mogadiscio in search of her husband and son; she hoped to be back in a month or so. Alas, no word from her since that day. And then I spoke with the headmaster at her son’s school in Duluth — he was the last to speak with her. And finally, I spoke with our friend Maimouna, who knows everything about international law and passports and such, and she was able to help me collect many of the details. I’m afraid she became obsessed with the story — but she was very helpful.”

Cambara pauses to smile at the thought of their friend doing so much work. Then she asks Raxma for Qaali’s and Omar’s last names and other particulars, and, after giving her the hotel fax number, she asks Raxma to fax her photographs of both adults, if she can lay her hands on any. “The university can provide you with a mug shot, if there is nothing else.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to drop it?”

“While at it, give me their clan names as well.”

“To what end?”

“To identify them, of course.”

“Don’t you have better things to do, my Apple?”

“No, Comfort. Not anymore. I am decided.”

They laugh until their ribs ache.

“I prefer asking Kiin to intervene,” Raxma says. “For one thing, she has much better connections than you; for another, she can get the Women’s Network on board faster than you can. The network will be keen to give a hand. I’ll talk right away to Kiin, whom I will get onto the business of tracing Gacal’s mother,” announces Raxma. “She and I are to speak tomorrow when she is due to update me and Arda on the progress of your affairs. Why don’t you let me, since you have enough on your plate already?”

“Because Gacal is my precious little man and I adore him.”

“In all seriousness, let Kiin intervene.”

“I insist.”

“How’re things with you by the way?” asks Raxma.

“Can’t complain; can’t complain.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Everything will be working out well,” Cambara says. “Someone at the door,” although there isn’t. “Let’s talk tomorrow or the day after. About this time. Either you call me, or I’ll call you.”

“Take care, Precious Apple.”

The line disconnected, Cambara feels its dead weight and drops it. What do you know? she tells herself. Raxma and Kiin talk to each other often, and Arda is kept abreast of her daily activities. What other arrangements, of which she, Cambara, is unaware, are in progress?

After showering, Cambara orders room service. She does not have the heart to face anyone, least of all Gacal, the sight of whom will sadden her; Kiin, who is bound to ask her about her latest doings; and SilkHair, whom she meant to talk to today, but can’t be bothered now to contact, in view of her current mood.

Breakfast consumed, she tries to read Flannery O’Connor’s “Good Country People,” but is unable to concentrate, turning the pages without retaining any of what she has read. Then the phone rings, and, answering it, she is connected to a male voice with which she is unfamiliar, Bile’s.

“I’ve phoned just to let you know I am well.”

He sounds top-notch, and they chat with extraordinary ease about this and that but never touch on what transpired at his place yesterday. He does not ask her questions about it; she does not allude to it at all. He refers, however, at some point, to his talks with both Seamus and Dajaal about the masks, and reiterates that the idea of “limited release,” which has always been his, reduces the risk, as it does not rouse the enraged sentiments of the Islamists who oppose producing any play, with or without masks; and it will also not give ammunition to other injured parties who have lost out in the process of the reacquisition of her family property.

Then he asks, “When do we meet?”

“Tell me when,” she says.

“I’ll come and visit you at the property.”

“Look forward to seeing you then.”

The line off, she feels half livened up by a memory of her dream of the night before, in which she and Bile are alone, near a knocked-together shack. But they are very calm in themselves and sit in the sweet shade of a fruiting mango tree. They are eating grapes from a bowl, feeding each other in turn, their fingers touching as they do so, their lips, their eyes, their faces framed with traces of joy. Close by, two half-naked boys, in their preteens, are in the water, noisily splashing themselves and playing a catch-and-throw ball game, their contentedness apparent.

Then Cambara marks out the presence in the heavens of a medium-sized gray hawk surveying the scene from just above them for a long time before eventually alighting on a branch in another mango tree adjacent to theirs. The hawk nests quietly, and, as Cambara returns her attention to the goings-on, which are close to her heart, the hawk’s short broad wings flap now and then, as if it might take off or perhaps it is reminding her that it is there, deciding on its next move.

And before she knows it, the hawk comes down, unafraid, landing noiselessly very close to where she and Bile are still feeding one another, touching, preparatory to lovemaking. Strangely, neither Bile nor Cambara seem to mind, once it becomes obvious to them that the hawk poses them no danger and is feeding on the fruit insects proliferating in their vicinity. When the two boys arrive, disporting themselves, wrestling catch-as-catch-can, dashing about, and frolicking, the hawk does not appear to approve, and, zeroing in on them, chases them away. Scarcely has she had time to wonder why when she notices that the hawk is raking in pursuit of a large-headed snake, which it secures with its mighty talons, dismembering it instantly.

It is then that a Dajaal look-alike approaches from the left to scare off the hawk, shooing it away with the accompaniment of untoward comments. The bird is not happy about being run off or having to abandon the dead snake in its disemboweled state. Cambara looks to Bile, hoping that he might intervene and persuade Dajaal not to interfere with the hawk or its exploits.

Bile does no such thing at first. He waits to see what Dajaal’s intentions are and if he can interpret them. Dajaal gathers the snake with care, and, carrying its corpse, which is dripping with blood, away from his own body, walks over to where the two boys are romping about in the water, competing, and he throws it at them. The boys shriek with fright. They plunge into the water, staying under, only to surface at the deeper end of what looks like a lake. Gacal appeals to Cambara, “Please help.”