Maps (43 page)

Before the procession ended, there appeared—sitting on a throne, majestically, rested-looking, like somebody at the end of all suffering, somebody who can only expect things to improve—Misra. She waved to Askar. He waved back. She alighted. He joined her. She was happy to see him again. They hugged. But her gaze was as distant as the nether heavens. Was she longing to return from whence she came? She was the ruler of this land of games, of maps telling one's past and future, of vultures fighting a duel against dogs. A man approached. He was an old man and was holding his back, which perhaps pained him. From the small distance separating them, Askar could tell the man was hard of hearing. The man reminded him of another to whom he put a question about time, pointing at his wrist-watch. Obviously, either the man didn't get the question or he deliberately heard it wrongly. For he began talking about a blood-pressure complaint and said to Askar, “Are you a doctor by any chance?” What did he (Askar) want?

The man spoke toothlessly, saying the same things over and over again. But what on earth was he saying? Apparently, he was Karin's husband and he recognized Misra and wanted to greet her, and, if others hadn't said so before him, he wished to thank her on behalf of the community of Kallafo for the good things she had done for young Askar.

And horses neighed in the distance. And dogs barked nervously. And dust stirred. And a horse dropped its rider. And from behind the dust emerged a young girl riding a black horse with white nostrils. And it was night. Then it was day. And ghosts came. And ghosts went. And a host of ghosts replaced one another. At times, said the young girl becoming old, I was one of these ghosts, leaving your doors open, allowing yesterday's experiences to enter and mingle with today's, and for the past and the present to encounter in your head—the dreamer. Like the sun's rays and the season's dust mixing in a room facing east. Some of the ghosts had large hips and they carried you; some fed you; some told you stories. At times, I knocked on your doors of sleep and woke you up. But now I am dead and you are alive and that's all I hope to be able to do—knock on your doors of sleep, enter into bed and be with you until your eyes open and the door of sleep is shut.

Misra said, “All that one hopes to remain of one is a memory dwelling in someone's head. In whose will I reside? Those who brought about my death, or yours?”

“But do these notions, I mean those of death and a memory of me, do these two notions come together in your head like keys come with locks in our thoughts?” he asked.

Alas, no answer. Somebody knocked on his door of sleep—Hilaal.

III

Her body was prepared for burial and Askar was not present. They buried Misra and he was not at the funeral. That night, when he was taken ill suddenly, he resisted being admitted to hospital. Indeed, it came to pass that he and Misra were in the same hospital—he in the men's ward, she in the sexless ward—the mortuary—but in the very wing he spent the night in, although she was in the basement and he in a private room on the third floor. He was alive and she dead; he, very hot, because of his high temperature, whereas she was in a freezer and therefore ice-cold. He, who had known of her lying in state in the mortuary in the basement, saw her in his dream and she was a queen, on a throne, leading a procession of sorts, an event of a kind. Did Misra see him in her dream? Do the dead dream?

Told about the burial and the funeral, he asked, “Why did you not shake me out of my fever?”

Hilaal said, “We were worried.”

“Worried?” and as he looked up he saw Salaado enter. She, always longer coming, always arrived later, because she had had to find parking-space in the hospital yard, or out of it. She kissed him lightly on the forehead and smelt of smoke, as though she was the MC at a cremation.

“How's he?” she asked Hilaal, as though he were not present or couldn't understand Somali or was hard of hearing or was deaf. The conversation, in fact, went on like this for a while.

Gently, Hilaal said, “He's asking questions.”

“Why he wasn't told of the burial?”

“And of the funeral too.”

Salaado began, “Well, he wasn't in a …” and then stopped, realizing he was there, right in front of her, propped up in bed, with a book in hand, using his index finger as a page marker,

Hilaal said, “Speak to him.”

She felt awkward, like somebody gossiping about a person—imagine that person turning up and hearing everything said about him. The lump of embarrassment in her throat didn't clear for a long time. Then, “We were worried, let's face it,” and she addressed herself to Hilaal, primarily to Hilaal, who looked away and at Askar. “The slightest tremors shake you. You're like moist earth at the centre—soft. We were worried what you might do if you saw her mutilated body and what that might do to you for the rest of your life.”

Askar looked at Hilaal. Did he want Uncle to confirm what Salaado had said? Hilaal remained silent, like a husband whose cues have been taken by his wife. “Mutilated? Her body was mutilated?”

Salaado nodded, yes.

“But you said not even sharks touched her?” he said to Salaado. Then to Hilaal, “You were there when she said that. The day of the eclipse. The day she prayed, and you fell ill, and I was well.”

Hilaal reiterated Salaado's worry. “Yes, we were worried. For example. You were taken ill during the tragic weekend when the Ethiopians, helped by their Cuban, Adenese and Soviet allies, reoccu-pied the Ogaden. The slightest earth tremor shakes you, the slightest gives you the shock of an earthquake, your temperature runs high, your blood pressure goes up, your eyes become bloodshot—and we don't know what to do.” And he hugged Salaado and when their bodies had the shape of a bracket, one of them took his right hand, the other his left and the three of them formed a circle.

As they retook their respective seats, Askar said, “Tell me how her body was mutilated? Tell me all. What was missing? Why? Tell me all. Tell me everything you know.”

They consulted discreetly. Salaado was the first to speak. Hilaal would stay directly behind her and would help, confirming her story if need be, changing it slightly if necessary “We suspect there may have been foul play of a wicked kind,” said she, her voice shaken, like someone regretting he had said more than he intended. A pause. She turned to Hilaal. It was obvious she was seeking his assistance. “Please,” she said, taking his hand.

Hilaal took over. “The heart was missing. For example,” And he unclasped his hand from Salaado's grip. “We suspect
they
performed a ritual murder on her body. Perhaps we are wrong. We haven't the evidence. But the removal of the heart took place
before
she was tossed into the ocean—already dead. That is, if we're to take our suspicions very seriously.”

Askar knew that when one of them talked, the other kept an eye on him. His expressions were under scrutiny, his movements, his gestures were being studied for clues as to what he might do. He was all right. He could prove to them that he was. He asked, “What did they say at the mortuary?”

Hilaal said, “For example. In view of the complications involved, not knowing how not to have you go through the traumatic experience of court cases, police interrogations and other related bureaucratic tortures, we decided—in view of the political trapdoors which would open, let you in but keep us locked out or vice versa—in view of all this, we decided not to raise the issue of ritual murder, or a missing heart or a mutilated corpse. But we could not deny that she existed, that she was who she was… er… to you, that she became whom… er… you had suspected her to have become and that you are to us … er… who you've been—a son. In view of this, for example, we decided, Salaado and I, that is, as though we believed we had your consent too—we decided, we would not raise these burning questions or ask for an investigation team to be appointed and a case opened—no. It pained our conscience, for instance, but we committed an unforgivable felony.”

Askar asked, “What's that?”

“We bribed the technicians at the mortuary to silence them,” he said, his tone sad, adding, “You might well ask why we did all this? We did it so that the healing wounds in your soul won't get festered again. In other words, we did this for the good of all concerned. Considering, as I said before, for example, the bureaucratic, political and other complications. And conscience too.”

Salaado agreed, “Yes,” and looked up as though she were reading the transcript of Hilaal's aforespoken statement. “We talked about it, yes. It pained our conscience, but that was the best we could do, we thought.”

“That's right,” said Hilaal, who was in a supporting role, agreeing with Salaado in turn. Askar wondered—had they rehearsed all this before they called on him?

“Do we know who
they
are?” he asked, speaking soberly.

Salaado said, “Not any more than you know.”

“I don't,” he said.

“Neither do we,” said Hilaal

And then Askar said to Salaado, following a brief pause, “I don't recall. Possibly you've told it and I've forgotten it. But how did you know that her body was at the mortuary?”

Salaado was overcome by a sense of despair, for there was a gap between what she knew to be true and what she suspected he would think she knew. In other words, she didn't think he would believe her. “I was in a shop when …” but then she shrugged her shoulders, saying, “What's the point, you won't believe a word I say.”

He said, “Why not?”

Like someone turning in his tormented sleep, Salaado uttered an indistinct sound, one between noises made by some people who talk in their sleep and others who speak to their interlocutors in their dreams.

Askar asked, “Are you hiding something from me?”

“No.”

“Well. Tell it then.”

She said, “When I told him, Hilaal didn't believe my story.”

Askar said, “Who am I? Hilaal?”

And Salaado pulled herself together at once. She appeared sufficiently apologetic and wished he hadn't pushed her thus far. They both sought Hilaal's comment—they understood he was determined to stay out of it. She then spoke, slowly, “I was in this so-called supermarket, when I overheard two women, both nurses working at the general hospital known as
Digfar
, talk about what one of them described as the corpse of a woman, black as dead shark'. At first, I took no interest, save the gentle curiosity which the description stirred in my otherwise indifferent mind, and I half-listened to what she was saying. But the more I heard the more certain I became it was Misra they were discussing. What decided it for me was the mention of a mastectomy operation, a recent one, in which one of the woman's breasts had been removed. How I gained the few paces separating me from them, I cannot tell. What words I used to talk to the nurses, I cannot remember. I rushed straight to the hospital, found a doctor I knew and went, with him, to the mortuary. It was Misra—a corpse no one claimed. She had been reduced to that.”

He said, “And you claimed her body?”

“I had her removed from the section of ‘unclaimed corpses' to one in which a daily fee is paid. There's a difference between the rich and the poor, even when dead. The poor stink,” she said, disgusted at remembering the state of filth and stench the “Unclaimed Corpses Section” had been in. She went on, “I was sick. I couldn't come home straight, I didn't want to infect you with the sickness which had come upon me. I was telling the story of my disgust and despair, the story above all of Misra's death, when the eclipse happened. I joined everyone else in prayer. I'm afraid I couldn't remember the text of the
Faatixa
, let alone any other verse of the Koran. I put this down to my mental state—but I wouldn't be able to remember any even now. Can you believe it? I, Salaado, prayed, together with everyone else. I was true to my name—Salaado, meaning prayer or devotions.”

Silence. No questions from Askar, nothing. His back straight, appearing in great discomfort, his Adam's apple moving up and down, gulping, sending down his throat the taste of blood, the saliva of his guilt. “Are you all right?” from Hilaal.

“I am,” he said.

But he was, and also seemed, very upset.

“What's wrong, Askar?” and Salaado touched him gently on the knee. A gesture of supplication? Why?

He said, “Do you remember what verse of the Koran, what chapter was read by the Sheikh who presided over the rituals of Misra's funeral?” addressing it this time to Hilaal.

“What verse, did you say?” he said, half-looking at Salaado as well, with eyes which turned on the axis of the repeated query. “Verse, did you ask, Askar?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember the verses the priest supervising over Misra's
janaaza
read over her corpse?”

“No.”