Nuruddin Farah - Gifts

“And Mataan?”

“Bosaaso asked him to keep him company.”

He was silent, which afforded her time to take a closer look at him. He had come dressed for the occasion, in a faultlessly ironed shirt, decent trousers, with a belt — imagine Taariq wearing a belt! And he had proper shoes, with matching socks. She had known him to wear odd socks, his shirt buttons to be of different sizes, shapes and origin. And his eyes were open, and he was no longer dwelling in the mistiness of his drunken stupor.

Duniya reminded herself that he had abandoned drinking and smoking, and was writing and publishing again. God, whatever had happened to her Taariq! Waving her hands in front of her, as if removing a web her imagination had woven in front of her, Duniya asked, “Why are you here, Taariq?”

“I’ve come to visit you,” he said.

“You have always been a liar, Taariq.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Has Muraayo anything to do with this unexpected visit of yours?”

“Probably.”

“Am I right to assume that you are heralding Qaasim’s visit later today?”

“That’s right.”

All this time, her hands were caressing the kettle’s spout. She filled her cup to the brim; he extended his towards her and she poured more into his too. “So you’ve come because two women — one your former wife, the other your current sister-in-law — had what might be called a woman’s fight? You’ve come,” she raised her hand in the gesture of someone not wanting to be interrupted, “you’ve come, wise and male, because two stupid women have had a petty fight. I’m afraid you’re late. These women have done whatever damage they are capable of. Your tardy arrival as the wise male mediator of women’s irrational quarrels will not mend things either.”

He said nothing. He knew well not to interfere with the smooth flow of her talk. She had her temper and he knew this was no time to speak. He waited.

“As it happens,” she continued, “my father did the same, years ago when his two wives, one of them my mother, the other Shiriye’s, were involved in a fight of which he was the cause, and in which one of them was hurt. My father came, as wise men do, late after the event. He came to instruct the two women to shake hands in front of him and other male witnesses. Make peace, he commanded. Shake hands, he ordered. Shut your mouths, he instructed.”

Taariq remained still and silent. “I’ve learned to be suspicious of men presenting themselves as peace-makers between women,” Duniya went on, “when they, the men, are the cause of the quarrel, the initiators of the enmity and rivalry between women-folk. Tell me then, Taariq, my dear former husband and father of my youngest daughter whom I love dearly, tell me why you are here.”

“Actually, I’ve come to see the foundling, out of curiosity.”

“I don’t believe you,” Duniya challenged him.

“As if you ever have.”

Turning away, she said, “Get on with it then. See him and be off.”

“I’ve already seen him.”

“You have?”

Taariq nodded. “He’s asleep.”

“Does he look like anyone you know?” she asked.

“It’s much too early to be able to tell accurately.”

“Have you taken a good look at him?” she asked.

“Asleep, with his fists covering part of his face, as though he were defending himself against a coming blow. Yes, I took as good a look as I could, in the circumstances.”

“Why?”

“Answer my question first, Duniya.”

“Go on and ask.”

“Whom should he look like?”

“Tell me why you took a thorough look at him and I’ll tell you whom he’s said to resemble,” Duniya bargained.

“I’m a journalist and the foundling was a news item this morning, so it’s professional interest on my part,” Taariq justified himself.

She decided Taariq did not suspect that Qaasim may have fathered the foundling. Or was she herself in fact wrong in assuming that, since all Nasiiba had said was: the baby is not meant for them, meaning Muraayo and Qaasim.

He said, “Do you remember saying more than once that most men have no idea how to react to babies before the newly-born’s faces break with smiles of paternal recognition?”

“I don’t recall saying that precisely but the words carry my stamp.”

“Well, today I’ve met two men who’ve been affected by the foundling’s presence here in your house: Qaasim and Shiriye.”

“It’s Qaasim who interests me, not Shiriye. What did Qaasim have to say?”

“We were in the living-room when Muraayo returned, after your fight. You know how she is, a river of words breaking at the banks, regardless of the seasons. Well, she abandoned us in the middle of a swamp of words. I, for one, could hardly grasp what the quarrel was all about. Of course, the aspects of the fight regarding Yarey were clear enough, but nothing she said about the foundling made any sense to me. I had heard of a baby being found near a rubbish-bin, but the radio didn’t say who had given the foundling a home. Then Qaasim interrogated her about the baby in such an intimate way, he got me interested. Who had brought the baby home? Who was there at your place? Did Muraayo know any of the young girls at Duniya’s? Was there a young woman, Nasiiba’s age, who was minding the baby as well? Muraayo remembered a girl Nasiiba’s age helping with the baby Sitting up, very alert, Qaasim asked for her name. Only when Muraayo gave the girl’s name as Marilyn did he begin to relax. But by then, I was hooked, and I had to come.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing Qaasim,” Duniya said.

“Who is this Marilyn?” Taariq asked.

“She isn’t the baby’s mother, if that’s what you think.”

He shook his head. “I mean, does this Marilyn have a grandmother called Maryam and do they live in this neighbourhood? If you don’t jump the gun, but give me a straight answer, I’ll tell you a story.”

“I love stories,” Duniya said.

He decided to go in quest of her good-will and talked about the night she threw him out of the house, sodden drunk and sleepy. This was the first time he had talked about it.

“I fell asleep in the shade of a tree,” he said, “not knowing if it were day or night, when out of the silver brightness of a full moon, the figure of an old woman bearing the gift of a blanket emerged. She covered me with it, tucking me in like a motherless baby. But she didn’t leave me all that night. She sat by, on a low stool, guarding me against thieves and dogs whom she shooed away whenever they approached. You see, when I woke the next morning, I had a vague recollection of an old woman’s voice telling a young girl whom she called by the unusual name of Marilyn to go back to sleep, because there would be school on the morrow.”

“Did you ever meet the old woman?”

“For weeks afterwards, I would come in a borrowed car, park within sight of the family door, hoping to see her, thank her and return the blanket. When I had mustered enough courage, I knocked on the door and asked if there was a woman who would meet my drunken description of her or a young girl called Marilyn. The man of the house reacted negatively both to my visit and my queries, telling me to leave. You won’t believe it, but I still have the blanket, as a souvenir by which to remember the night you threw me out.” There was no bitterness in his memory of the night.

“It must be the same old woman,” Duniya said.

“How come she’s in your life too?”

“She turned up one morning, to offer us the loan of a young maid, to help us look after the foundling,” Duniya explained. “She came first, solitary like Khadr, a genuine comfort. Come to think of it, I used to see the old woman off and on. It’s such a pleasure to know them, they are such delightful company, she and Marilyn. They arrive at all sorts of odd hours, to mind the baby They get along well with everyone, the two of them, including Bosaaso, co-responsible of the foundling.”