Maps (42 page)

“What?” asked Uncle Hilaal/

Salaado was up on her feet and saying, “Well go to the police station.”

“And report Misra”s disappearance?”

Salaado very determinedly said, “Why not!”

“Too early. The police will say it is too early, that well have to wait for a couple of days or more. You can't report someone as missing until after a reasonable period of time,” Uncle Hilaal said, his voice sounding emaciated.

Salaado wouldn't be persuaded. The woman, she argued, didn't know anybody else in Mogadiscio and was our guest. She was not well and couldn”t be said to have decided to go out for a walk or for a rendezvous with someone, she was in no position to do either. Three men, unknown to her, forced their way to her private ward, for which we were paying, and they frog-marched her out of the hospital.

“Two things,” said Uncle Hilaal, raising his fingers in a V-shape.

Salaado said, “One?”

“You don't know whether she knew the three men, nor whether they frog-marched her out of the hospital. You haven't enough information to go by,” he said, and waited for her to indicate that she was ready for the second point.

She said, “Two?”

“Will you tell the police the whole story? Will you tell them about her background? Will you talk about the suspicions, however unfounded, that she led the Ethiopian security forces to the WSLF warriors” hiding-place in Kallafo? Will you tell them this and more?” he challenged.

I didn't know why then, but I found it odd that they both looked at me as if taking note of my presence for the first time. I acknowledged their stare by becoming more self-conscious than ever.

Salaado said, “He'll be the principal witness, won't he?”

Uncle Hilaal nodded.

She sighed sadly and said, “I wish there was something we could do, short of pointing suspicious fingers at Askar or making life difficult for everyone. I wish she would just turn up, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “l like her very much. She is a strong woman and Fm sure shell survive this and many more difficulties. Something tells me she will”

“Yes, she was a likeable, strong woman,” said Uncle Hilaal.

The taste of blood in my mouth dominated my mind and I cut myself a slice of bread and chewed it. I took a sip of water to chase it down my dry throat. My thoughts led me to a familiar territory—I was younger again, I was with Misra, and she was my universe, she was the one who determined the circumferences of my cosmos, her body was an extension of mine, my body her third leg as we slept and snored away time, my head her third breast as she rolled away from the sheet which had covered her earlier on. I wished I could find answers to the meaning of the taste of blood in my mouth; I wished I knew what her disappearance meant.

“Do you think the Western Somali Liberation Front has something to do with her disappearance?” I asked, naturally worried about what I might do if it had.

In unison, they both said, “Oh no, no, no.”

For four solid days, we waited to hear news of Misra.

I

T
wo days later

The eclipse was total—there was nearly eight minutes of primeval darkness. During this brief period, people sought one another's company or tried to find refuge in the spacious word of the Almighty a word inside whose letters some discovered a shelter, a word in whose womb others obtained the required warmth, blood and love. The mosques began to fill with worshippers; the wealthy among the community of Muslims opened their gates to beggars whom they fed generously; those who were in love but had not yet decided when to marry proposed matrimony immediately their frightened souls were no longer depressed by the hour of trial, the hour of darkness; those who had planned to commit wicked perfidies undid the knots of their conspiracies, repenting the regretful time spent away from their Creator. In short, the streets of Mogadiscio were empty of strollers, the markets of buyers or sellers, and the mosques filled with men, the homes with women. And dogs barked unceasingly, afraid for their canine souls, donkeys brayed in fright whilst horses were seen running, as though mad, in the streets of the virtually empty centre of the city. “The apocalypse, now as always,” said Hilaal, himself falling into a dark of depression, “sooner or later, sex!”

And Askar looked up at the heavens and saw the moon's shadow obscuring the sun's light. It was a most unique experience—a darkness gathering like dust, a rim of faint light, the sky dark as the eclipsed pathway, the moon moving, its shadow racing across the earth from one horizon to the other. He was indeed fascinated by all this, which he thought he would never forget, like one doesn't forget a most distinct personality one has encountered only once. Askar would preserve the memory of this moment, forever, in his head, a thought treasured among his most memorable thoughts, an event amongst the events to be remembered forever and after, like the stare Misra held “preserved” in her vision of him the day she found him, the “stare” which focussed on the centre of her guilt and made her “come” in blood. “Sex, sooner or later.”

However, it pained him immensely to see Uncle Hilaal looking so unwell, silent and depressed. (Salaado had gone out to do the week's shopping and hadn't returned as yet.) It seemed as though Hilaal had suddenly aged. He walked about as old people do, looking straight ahead of himself, attentive, as seniles are, to the space surrounding his body, his feet firmly on the ground, his back a little too stooped, his gait shufflingly slow and predictable, his gaze absent-mindedly dwelling on the items of furniture in his peripheral vision. “I am depressed, like a woman in season,” he said. “It's the eclipse, I'm afraid.”

Depressed, Hilaal's voice had undergone substantial changes. For one thing, it lost its charm; for another, it had thinned. But why should an eclipse have such an effect on Hilaal's psychology? Why should it play havoc on his bodily constitution? Why should his migraine be so acute as to create an imbalance in him, upsetting his view of the universe, impairing his sight, imposing a vertiginous viewpoint on every thought he had, distorting his perception of realities, why? He found no analogous cases in his annals with which to compare Hilaal's state, save his memory of Misra in season. Her body ached, her hands pressed the kernels of her breasts, she sat for one second, only to rise a second later, remaining restless all the time, losing her temper often. Hilaal dropped into a black hole, deep as Misra's depressions—Hilaal, whom he had never known to be unwell.

Presently, Hilaal walked fast past Askar without acknowledging his presence. A moment later, he walked past him a second time, but slowly, like somebody carrying a wobbly weight whose body leans forward on account of the burden. But he didn't speak to Askar. And when he did, which was later, he pointed at things, he stared blankly at items as though he had forgotten what they were called. For instance, he touched his stomach, then made motions suggesting it was running. A little later, he tapped on his forehead and Askar wasn't sure if he meant to say his head ached or that he had gone mad.

Askar was not affected by vertigo nor did his stomach run nor did his head ache. He retained his water intake, his body repelled nothing, his bladder expelled no liquid of any colour, unnecessarily. He went back and forth, making himself useful, offering assistance when he could, now a towel, now a glass of water, now a word of consolation, of assurance, now moral support and now physical support as Hilaal walked back from the toilet for the nth time. Askar thought he was as efficient as Karin, remembering how she plied the road between a woman in season and an old husband who lay on his back, disabled, invalid.

When it seemed Hilaal was feeling a little better, towards early afternoon (roughly siesta-time), Askar asked him how he was. Hilaal confirmed he was feeling better. Then, “I wonder how she is,” said Askar, without identifying the person to whom he was referring.

“Who?” said Hilaal, saying the word so fast he spat it out, as though it were hot and bitter at the same time.

Askar (was it deliberate or no, no one could tell) disregarded the question and went on, “And if she is well.”

“Who?” repeated Hilaal forcefully, his voice hoarse, his dry throat making a grating sound—something between a cough and the clearing of a throat. Askar wondered if, together with his intellectual sobriety, Hilaal had misplaced or been deprived of his memory too. Just at the moment Askar was remembering Misra's depressive seasonals, Hilaal started. It was as if (Askar thought) Hilaal were a woman whose advanced pregnancy had given her a kick in the ribs. No, no, thought Askar. It was as if he was one of those robots which, before speaking, made hiccupping sounds, alerting their audience so they kept themselves ready for their messages. Hilaal said, “Do you mean Salaado?”

For a long time, Askar had been wanting to pass water but he hadn't the will to. Also, he thought Hilaal might need him for something or other. So instead of saying, “No”, because he was referring to Misra and not to Salaado, he said, “Yes”.

Hilaal was disappointed. Would mentioning code-name “Misra” have lifted Hilaal momentarily out of his depression? Where was Misra anyway? Or how was she? If she were here, who knows, she might have suggested that blood-letting would do Hilaal a lot of good. Askar said, “I hope Misra, too, is all right.”

At the mention of Misra's name, Hilaal stirred involuntarily. Then, “Yes, where the hell is she?” said Hilaal

Askar rushed to the toilet before he wet himself.

II

He was in a garden which was lush with foliage and plants with memories of their own. And he recognized the tree that had the same birthday as himself, he sat in its shade which was sweet, ate what he could of its ripe fruits. Then, in a revelatory moment such as that which accompanies the unexpected recall of a forgotten name belonging to somebody who had once been one's most intimate friend, Askar remembered who had planted the tree—Misra. His tongue lay in a mess of blood; his head began to whirl about, giddy, his eyes red like dried blood, a mouthful of which had already turned his mouth bitter—as bitter as guilt! What began as a reunion of rejoicing with a recalled Misra, ended in anomalous bodily behaviour. Where did the mess of blood in his mouth originate? Why this giddiness? Or the cakes of blood which he tasted in his guilt?

Then the scene changed. He was standing at the centre of the garden's clearing and was giving the appropriate names to the trees and plants just as Adam might have done on the first day of creation. There was no tension in him. No memory of Misra. No bitterness, no taste of blood or guilt in his mouth. If anything, he was happy, He was wrapped in the skin of a goat whose meat he was sure he had eaten. He could not remember the names of the two women who had fed him the goat's meat. But the skin was mapped with routes which led him back to his past, a map which took him back to his own beginnings, a map showing earth roads, the rivers which rise in the region, a map whose scales followed a logic known only to himself.

And he was being entertained. There was a vulture, gamey, playful, with a vicious look when it displayed its anger, indicating that it wasn't happy with the fresh alterations in the rules of play, There was a she-dog, one Askar remembered as belonging to a jealous neighbour, and named Bruder. The game consisted of a piece of meat being dropped from a given height. The vulture and the dog would start from the same point, marked on the earth with red chalk; obviously the dog on the ground, the vulture above it. A shot would sound (Askar couldn't tell where the shot was coming from or who was firing it), the piece of meat would emanate from on high like birds in flight, dropping faeces of fright. Six out of ten, the dog got the meat. The crowd applauded loudly. But what did it all mean? he asked himself.

As if to answer, the Adenese and Uncle Qorrax came into view. The Adenese had a shoe in his mouth and he was biting it hard. There was a heavy man riding his back, and this man gave him a kick in the ribs every time he sensed he was about to let the shoe drop. Walking behind them, as though on a promenade, Uncle Qorrax, who was barefoot. And the sand was hot and it pained him to walk without shoes. Which was why he couldn't catch up with the Adenese who had a shoe in his mouth. In all probability, he wouldVe accepted the offer of a single shoe if he were given it. After all, his feet were sore and the earth had begun to enter and fill the cuts in his bleeding soles.