Maps (20 page)

“His head is larger than the rest of his body; his sight has begun to fail, his hearing too. And all this because a wicked ‘priest' has read the wrong passages of the Sacred Book over the body of an innocent boy.”

“That's criminal,” said Misra.

“I agree with you,” he said.

They were silent for a few minutes. “So what do we do?” she said.

His eyes lit with mischief. He pretended to be thinking. “What?” she asked. “What is it, Askar?”

“Go and call Aw-Adan,” he suggested.

“And I ask him to bring along a copy of the Koran?”

“No.”

“What then?”

And he became the great actor she had known, and his stare was illumined with the kind of satanic naughtiness his eyes brightened with when he was being mischievous. “What then?” she repeated.

“Tell him to bring along his cane. I prefer his caning me with my eyes wide open to his reading the Koran over my body astraddle a sick bed when they are closed and trusting.”

In a moment, he was up and about. He was changing into a clean pair of shorts and looking for a T-shirt to match it. He was all right, she told herself. He was
thinking
. However, she saw him rummage in a cupboard. “But what are you looking for?” she said.

“I am going to shave,” he said. “Shave my chin, grow a beard, be a man like any other.”

“Shave? What… ?”

He was gone.

II

He cut himself when shaving. He cut his chin and his lower lip bled when he held the razor the wrong way, when he didn't adjust the disposable blade properly There were shaving things lying about and he knew where to get them. His uncle was away at the war and so were many other men. Now he washed his face in the after-shave lotions, trying to see which one would stop his chin's blood running. The lotions made him smell good and so he sprayed them on his groin—determined that this would instantly remove the odour of his perspiration—and now, as there was still some of it left in the bottle, he hesitated whether to sprinkle it on his armpits, something he had seen older men do. But no. For this he chose the talcum powder, he decided that would do. He smiled. He breathed hot vapoury air and wrote his name on the mirror's mist and saw bits of himself, bits of his coagulated or running blood in the “A” or the “S” or the “K” and the “R of his name.

He could not remember which came first—the thought that if he shaved, hair would automatically grow on his chin and his lips—or that he should take note of the hourly changes in his body. He was said to have developed the habit of getting up earlier than Misra so he would see for himself, placing his head against the dot he had marked on the wall the previous day, whether he had grown an inch or two taller in the past twenty-four hours. Very often, he was disappointed that he couldn't determine if he had, but he never felt as disheartened as when he stood against the tree planted by Misra the same day he was born.

“You must eat and eat and eat if you want to grow fast,” she said, one early morning when he woke her up because he moved about noisily, “The tree lives off the earth and its water, it eats grandly, drinks huge quantities of water and breathes fresh air all the time. You must eat more so you'll become a man, a fully grown man, tall, broad-shouldered and perhaps bearded too.” And having said so, she went back to sleep.

And the anxiety to become a fully grown man, a man ready for a conscription into the liberation army, ready to die and kill for his mother country, ready to avenge his father, the anxiety made him overindulge himself in matters related to food, it made him eat to excess until he felt so unwell that he vomited a couple of times. He had appropriated Misra's food since she couldn't eat anything anyway and stuffed himself full of anything he could lay his hands on. Hardly able to breathe, he would then lift rocks, flex his muscles so as to develop them, climb up the tree for further leg and arm exercises and then swing from it. Exhausted, he would fall asleep.

What distinguished this period's dreams from any other, what set these dreams apart from the others, was the presence of a huge garden, lush with an enormous variety of tropical fruits. He ate these fruits, he made himself a long list of salad fruits, and swam in the cool stream whose water was warm and whose bed was grown with weeds which were nice to touch and feel and pull and tickle one's face with—a face which grew sterner, and upon whose chin sprouted hair, silky, smooth, young and tender. Yes, what made the experience unique was that the garden was green with paradisiacal tropicality, it was calm with heavenly quietness. And in the Edenic certitude he found himself in, he discovered he was confident, happy to be where he was, happy to be who he was. There was—almost within reach, wearing a smile, motherly—there was a woman. The woman grew on him. One night, dreaming, he “picked” her up like a fruit and studied her; she, who was small as a fruit, lay under his intense stare. He had never seen that woman before. Of this, he was most certain. And yet he knew her. Where had he met her? He didn't know. She was calling him “my son” and was talking of the pain of being separated from him—she who had borne him, she who had carried him for months inside of her, she who claimed she “lived” in him who had survived her, she who claimed to be his guide when everyone else failed him. The following morning, he awoke and was confronted with an inexplicable mystery: there was blood on the sheet he had covered himself with, blood under him too. Most specifically, there was blood on his groin. He sought Misra's response.

“You've begun to menstruate,” she said, looking at him with intent seriousness. “The question is: will you have the monthly curse as we women do or will yours be as rare as the male fowl's egg?”

He said, “But I am a man. How can I menstruate?”

Enraged, he strode away from her in a manly way. He wouldn't give her the pleasure, he shouted, of her making fun of him any more or even of washing his “womanhood” if it came to that. But what did this mean anyway? he asked himself, when he had washed. How come his own body misbehaved, how come he menstruated? Come what may, he said to himself, he wouldn't allow such thoughts to dissuade him from doing whatever it took to be a man who was ready to be conscripted into the army, a man ready to die and kill for his mother country, a man ready to avenge his father.

III

That day, he rejected the food she gave him. He tossed aside the plate she extended towards him and scolded her for what she had done when he was sleeping—smear his sheet and groin with blood. Why did she do it? She swore that she didn't go anywhere near him, that she didn't smear his body or sheet with blood.

“And so where did the blood come from?” he said.

She answered, “I don't know.”

He reminded her of a conversation they had had a few days ago, one in which he admitted that he envied women their monthly periods. “Could it be that in my dream,
I
menstruated?”

“There's a war on, there's a great deal of tension—and so everything is possible. I wouldn't know the answer, to be honest with you. I've never known of any man who menstruated. Could it be that the tension, the war… ?”

And he interrupted her. “The war, the tension—what nonsense!”

“Do you have an answer then?”

He reflected; then: “Men wet themselves occasionally?”

“When sleeping, yes.”

He sighed. “And the colour of sperm is white?”

“White as silver.”

She heard a whine and waited.

“You know Uncle Hassan, don't you?”

She nodded her head, “Yes.”

“You remember he urinated blood and was taken to see a doctor?”

She agreed that that was true.

“Perhaps that explains it all.”

She didn't like his explanation. “It means you prefer being sick to being a woman.”

“Naturally,” he said. “Who wouldn't?”

She said, “
I 
wouldn't.”

“That is easily understandable. You are, after all, a woman.”

And he left the room.

IV

“Tell me, why are there trackloads of women and infants leaving Kallafo?” Askar asked Misra when it became obvious that the Ethiopians were sending away their women and children from the war zone. “Why?”

“Where there's a war,” she began to answer, but continued mixing hot and cold water so she could give Askar a bath, “man sends ahead of himself his wife and children and stays behind to defend his people's honour, dignity and also property. Perhaps a bomb will cut the women's and children's lives short before they get home; perhaps the dozen or so armed soldiers with their primitive rifles will manage to deter a few equally primitively armed Somalis from killing them.”

There was a pause.

“And you won't go?” he said.

Her hand stopped stirring the water whose temperature she was testing. She was reduced to a stare—speechless. He said to himself, “Maybe this is what death looks like—Misra sitting, speechless and staring, with her hand stuck in a bucket fall of lukewarm water, the dust round her unstirred, the lips of her mouth forming and unforming a roguish smile—maybe this is what death looks like. And not what I saw last night—the back of a woman's head, a hand flung aside, a nail cut and then discarded.”

She was saying, “Are you sending me away, Askar?”

“Not ahead of myself, no,”

Again she smiled rather mischievously, reminding herself that Askar was not yet eight and that here he was behaving as though he were a man and she a creature of his own invention. She declined to comment on what was going on between them, she declined to go into the same ring as he, she bowed out. However disreputable, she believed she was the one who made him who he was, she was the one who brought him up. She changed the mood of the exchange, changed the subject. Searching for his hand, she said, “Come.”

He stood away, his hands hidden behind him. “Where?”

“Come,” she said, half rising to take grip of his hand. “Let me give your body a good scrubbing which is what it needs most. And then we'll go for a walk and, if you wish, watch the Ethiopian men send their women and children away to highland safety”

He was rudely noisy, shouting, “Don't you touch me.”

“Fm sorry,” she said, taken aback.

It was then that the thought that he was now a man and didn't want to be helped to wash impressed itself upon her mind. She would have to make an auspicious move, one which would make him relax until she poured the first canful of water on his head, and until the water calmed his nerves. His determined voice of defiance resounded through her body—and she had to wait for a long while before she was able to say anything. Then, “Do you want to bathe yourself?” she asked, keeping her distance.

And saw (the thought took a long time to mature) how methodically “dirtied” he had been—as if he played rough with boys of his age and wrestled and somersaulted into and out of challenging hurdles. He didn't look helplessly dirty—if anything, he was deliberately dirty. This thought descended on her like a revelation. She wondered where he had been—and with whom. She suspected he wouldn't tell her, but thinking she wouldn't lose anything anyway, she asked: “Where have you been?”