“Thanks so much for bringing me over, Mrs. Parker,” she said, her accent adding a mellifluous timbre to her words. “I’m so excited to be here.”
“We’re delighted to have you,” Vanessa replied, liking the girl immediately. “And, please, call me Vanessa. Mrs. Parker is Quentin’s grandmother.”
She led the way out of the terminal and down the walkway to the parking garage, listening to Quentin and Ariadne talk like they had known each other their whole lives. If the girl cared about his halting speech, she didn’t show it. She picked up the cadence naturally, modulating her own words to match his rhythm. The effect she had on him was mesmerizing. She drew him out of his shell, and he started to speak with more confidence. She was affectionate without being clingy, holding his arm loosely and resting her head on his shoulder in a way that was almost sisterly.
Maybe Yvonne was right
, Vanessa thought.
Maybe Ariadne will help him find his way into the future.
That evening after the teenagers turned in—Quentin in his bedroom upstairs and Ariadne in the guest quarters—Vanessa poured a glass of wine and took the Zanzibar chest to her favorite chair. She was exhausted from a day of surprises, but her soul felt lighter than it had since the shooting. She had no idea what Daniel had written in the folded pages, but whatever it was she could handle it. Her son was no longer dead to the world. He was coming back to life.
The chest was heavier than she remembered. The wood was a dark red-brown—somewhere between walnut and rosewood. She placed it in her lap and opened the lid, bracing herself as she unfolded the pages. She saw the familiar salutation—
Dearest V
—and the date scrawled at the top—
November 7, 2011
. Her heart clutched in her chest. He had written this on the same day he wrote her the letter about La Digue. She glanced at the second page and saw the blank space at the bottom where his signature would have gone. Her mind raced with speculations. If he stopped writing in midstream, why didn’t he discard it? There was only one reason to keep the letter—he meant to finish it.
She returned to the first page, her heart galloping in her chest.
I can do this
, she thought.
I can get through this.
She began to read.
Dearest V:
Is love like the body? Does it begin to die the day it is born? Is it like the breath of transcendence you feel when the Bissolotti is in your hands—evanescent, a chasing after the wind? Were we fools when we put on our rings, when we made our vows and pledged our lives to one another, when we spoke of a fidelity that would endure to the grave? Is every married person a fool? These are the questions that rattle around in my head when all I can see is water and sky and white sails. Maybe I have too much time to think. Perhaps the silence is driving me crazy. Or maybe not. Perhaps it’s brought me back to sanity.
Why are we such strivers, you and I? What have we gained by the endless hours of our toil? What have we been trying to prove? That we can master our own universe, control our own destinies, rise above the tide of mediocrity we see all around us? We have a beautiful house, a vacation property, advanced degrees, and enough money to live as comfortably as any family needs. Yet what good is any of it if we’re miles apart in our hearts?
I take responsibility for those miles. I didn’t have a clue who I was when I met you, or when I said “I do,” or when we welcomed Quentin into the world. I didn’t know what love would require of me. I pretended to understand it, put it in all sorts of fancy philosophical terms, but when it came down to the dirty diapers and the sleepless nights and your emotional needs, I couldn’t handle it. I followed in my father’s footsteps, working hard and providing. That was my mantra, my excuse to embrace the rat race I told you I hated. I became a slave to a necessity I had invented—a slave by choice—all because I didn’t know how to give.
Where do we go from here? I’ve been wondering that, too. Does it make any sense to talk about beginning again when so much water has passed under the bridge? What do we do with our history, with our sins? Father Minoli would say that we confess them and receive absolution. Maybe it’s that simple with God, I don’t know, but it isn’t simple with human beings. Nothing is ever really washed away. Our memories bind us to our pain, our regret, our failures, and those of everyone else who has hurt us. What does contrition really mean in a world full of scars? Is it even possible for one person to forgive another for the hurts he has caused?
If it is, I’d like to tell you that I’m sorry. For everything.
Vanessa closed her eyes and allowed the letter to fall from her hands. She breathed in the stillness, giving the grief its place, and then she stood and went to the patio door, slipping out into the night. The air was cold but not bitter, and the stars were out in force, twinkling at her across the infinite distance. She followed the path lights down to the dock. The wood planking creaked beneath her feet as she strolled to the end and sat down, dangling her legs toward the water. The lamps of the Naval Academy Bridge glittered like a necklace in the dark.
She let her mind move with the current, ignoring the chill needling her skin. She saw her past like a river behind her—the chutes and narrows of childhood, the rapids of marriage and parenting, and the cataracts of the past few years, culminating in the shooting. She pictured Quentin asleep in his bed and Ariadne in hers. She remembered the laughter they had shared, the love they couldn’t hide even if they tried. She shook her head and put her thoughts into words, speaking them out loud on the off chance that somewhere he might be listening.
“I don’t have the answers,” she said softly. “But I’m sorry, too.”
The Cost of Freedom
Enter the turbulent night, and from its depths
collect a gift beyond name.
— Jalaluddin Rumi
Megan
Mogadishu, Somalia
March 20, 2012
From a height of five thousand feet, the Somali coast looked burnt-yellow and bone-straight, its scarred hills and sandy swales spilling down into the trackless blue of the Indian Ocean. Megan watched out the window of the vintage DC-9 as the plane descended toward Mogadishu. She had put the trip together at the last minute with assistance from her journalist friend in Nairobi. She had never intended to set foot on Somali soil. It was one of the most dangerous countries in the world and no place for an American woman traveling alone. But Mahamoud had given her no choice.
It had taken her a month to reach him on the mobile number Ismail had provided. Apparently, he had been traveling, putting together the financing for a new hotel venture, and he had left his Somali phone at home. After some cajoling, he had suggested they meet in Mombasa, which was fine with her. She had always wanted to visit the seaside town. But then his plans had changed while she was still in the air, and he had returned to Mogadishu early. She had received the text message when she landed in Nairobi. It was unwelcome news, but fitting in a way. Ismail’s life was on the line in her country. It was only fair that she be willing to risk her life in his.
The ground rose up to meet the plane, and then, with a shudder, they were down. As they taxied to the terminal, Megan turned on her iPhone and tried to connect to a network. Her carrier had assured her that she would be able to roam on her American SIM card. It was strange—Somalia didn’t have a U.S. embassy, but its telecom system was compatible with her phone. Then again, she thought, in this globalizing world, technology was the new diplomacy.
When her phone didn’t connect right away, she selected a network manually. She tried to text Mahamoud, but the message didn’t go through. After three more attempts, she tried calling him, but the line didn’t connect.
So much for worldwide coverage
. She looked out the window at the tall fences and razor wire surrounding the runway. Beyond the fences were thickets of green scrub and bronze bluffs that led down to the sea. She saw a trio of white UN planes on the tarmac and a drab green African Union personnel carrier driving along a perimeter road. The airport was located on a heavily guarded military base operated by AMISOM—the African Union Mission to Somalia. It was the safest place in the country. Outside the base, all bets were off.
Suddenly, her iPhone chirped. She read the text message on the screen:
Ku soo dhowow
SOMALINET
lambarkaagu waa
25297260709. Please call 111 for assistance
. She debated with herself, then dialed the help line. A man answered. He spoke to her briefly in halting English—just long enough to ask her where she was from—and then he hung up abruptly. Seconds later, her phone rang. She took the call as the plane stopped outside the small terminal.
“Your phone is working now,” said a male voice in impeccable English. “Welcome to Somalia. You are from America, is that right?”
The question raised a red flag in her mind, but she needed her phone to work. “I have a U.S. SIM card. I was told it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Of course,” said the voice. “Where are you staying? At the airport or in town?”
“Why does that matter?” she asked with a growing sense of unease.
The man persisted. “I’m just trying to have a friendly conversation. What kind of work do you do? Are you with a private contractor or the government?”
What the hell is this?
she thought. She scratched the microphone on her jeans and said, “You’re breaking up.” Then she ended the call and turned off the phone.
She took a deep breath and tried to slow her hammering heart. She remembered an article she had read on the Internet about the security situation in Mogadishu. While the Shabaab had abandoned their bases in late 2011, they hadn’t really left the city. Instead, they had adapted into a terrorist organization specializing in assassination and kidnapping. She felt a stab of dread.
I bet the guy I just talked to was with Shabaab intelligence. Welcome to Somalia, indeed.
She wrapped a scarf over her head in keeping with the local custom and followed the line of passengers—all Somalis—down the ramp and across the tarmac to the terminal. The sky was tropical blue, the air balmy and redolent of the sea. She saw waves breaking on the shore not far away.
“Ms. Derrick,” said an African man in a loose-fitting shirt and baggy pants. “I’m Manny with SKA. Come with me.”
She nodded, grateful that the logistics company had agreed to meet her planeside. The Kenyan journalist had outlined her accommodation options in Mogadishu—three compounds within the AMISOM base and two guesthouses just outside the walls. Megan had gone with SKA because they operated the airport and offered en suite security arrangements for trips into town.
She trailed Manny into the chaotic terminal building. There seemed to be little order to the immigration process. Some passengers were milling around, talking on mobile phones. Others were sitting on benches or standing by the wall, as if waiting for something. The rest had formed haphazard queues behind a row of booths manned by officials stamping passports. Manny took Megan into a room just off the arrivals hall. A portly Somali man asked for her passport and examined it with care.
“Why are you here?” he asked, staring at her as if she were a mental patient.
“I am meeting a friend,” she answered, following the advice of the journalist to be minimalist in sharing information with anyone in Somalia.
“She is staying with you?” the man said and Manny nodded. “Please make sure she doesn’t do anything foolish.” He handed Megan’s passport back and dismissed them with a wave.
After purchasing a visa at one of the immigration booths, Megan followed Manny out of the terminal and across a parking lot thronged with vehicles and people. A number of Somali men eyed her strangely, but the women looked away. Manny directed her to a minibus and opened the sliding door.
“What did he mean by making sure I didn’t do anything foolish?” she asked, taking a seat.
“You are an American woman,” Manny replied. “That means you are a target. They don’t want an incident. It’s bad press.”
She smiled grimly and looked out the window as they pulled out of the lot. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to make a call.”
Manny handed her his mobile, and she punched in Mahamoud’s number. Ismail’s uncle answered on the first ring. “What happened to your phone?” he asked.
“It isn’t working.”
“I will get you a new one. We can meet in one hour. I will tell Manny the location.”
“Where?” she asked, feeling a shiver of apprehension.
And how do you know I’m with Manny?
She hadn’t told him she was staying at SKA.
But Mahamoud didn’t answer. He had already hung up.
In contrast to the UN compound in Dadaab, the SKA facility had no trees, no flowers, and no landscaping. It reminded Megan of military barracks without artillery and soldiers. The structures were mostly white shipping containers standing on concrete blocks, with cutout windows and doors and air-conditioning units attached to the roof. She checked in at the office and left her bag in her room—a Spartan affair with a single bed, a small bureau, a TV, and writing desk. Then she went to the gate and waited for Manny, who had promised to pick her up again after running an errand.