The Orchard of Lost Souls (31 page)

‘Watch your feet on the glass,’ Kawsar says, her tone softening.

The girl stretches her toes, shifts her balance, but stays rooted to the same spot. Her smock is torn in places along the side.

Kawsar takes a deep breath. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘I just want to rest.’ The voice is not Hodan’s; it’s deeper and wearier.

‘Rest then.’ Kawsar waves a hand in the direction of Nurto’s mattress.

The girl treads over to the divan and tucks her legs slowly underneath her, shyly pushing her skirt down between her knees as she crosses them. She chews her bottom lip nervously like Kawsar
used to as a child.

‘What is your name?’

‘Deqo.’

‘Where have you come from?’

‘The ditch,’ she says, deciding that the old woman would prefer to hear that than Saba’ad.

‘Where is your family?’

‘It’s just me.’ The girl meets her eyes.

Kawsar feels a charge when she hears those words.

‘How do I know you are not here to steal from me?’

Deqo shrugs her shoulders, suddenly surly and tired of the questions. She picks at the dirt underneath her fingernails.

Kawsar’s eyes fall appraisingly on her, from the short toes to the dull, knotted hair on her head. She looks like one of those hardy, parasitical children born in times of famine, probably
carried over from Ethiopia when only a few weeks old and nursed on rainwater and sugar, kept alive by a will already steely and adult.

The old woman’s room is like a tomb, sour with stale air and dust-coated. Deqo watches her for sometime before leaving the safety of the kitchen. She reminds her of those
crones in Saba’ad who conduct ceremonies in their tiny
buuls;
with names like Sheikha Jinnow or Hajiya Halima, they are the ones who know how to let blood, burn sicknesses out,
diagnose and remedy the myriad ailments that constantly afflict the unhappy women of the camp. Their holiness comes from pilgrimages to saint’s tombs and the miracle of their own longevity.
Deqo assumes this old woman must be so convinced of her closeness to God that she doesn’t feel the need to flee like everyone else; she survives on prayers alone and is waiting for the dust
to slowly settle and entomb her in her own shrine. Then Deqo steps into the bedroom and immediately recognises whom she has found.

Kawsar clears her throat and adjusts the bed sheets nervously. ‘You should leave now; this isn’t the time for tea and conversation.’

Deqo’s attention is suddenly pulled up. ‘I don’t have anywhere to go.’

Kawsar thinks that even the most ragged, glue-sniffing beggar-child would go running back to their family in fear of these bombs, but maybe Deqo is unafraid because her family are nearby,
looting the neighbours’ homes alongside the soldiers.

‘So what do you expect to do when the soldiers arrive?’

‘There aren’t any nearby. We’ll be safe for a while.’

Kawsar raises her eyebrow at the presumptuous ‘we’ and feels a wave of mischief rise in her, ‘What shall
we
do until they get here then?’ she says with a smile.
‘Play
shax
? Chase a
garangar
along the street? Plait each other’s hair?’

‘Yes, would you plait my hair, please?’ Deqo replies eagerly, lifting a hand to her head as if to hide its scruffiness.

Kawsar senses a pulse of pleasure at the girl’s frankness, a kind of warmth that tending to a child’s needs has always given her, a sensation she has nearly forgotten.

‘Get the hair oil and comb from the dresser.’

Deqo hands them to her.

‘Sit beneath me,’ Kawsar orders.

The girl sits lightly on the floor, holding her weight up with her arms; she smells of fruit and sweat.

‘We should wash it, but never mind.’ Kawsar pulls apart the old plaits, sifting Deqo’s soft but dirty hair between her fingers, massaging jasmine oil into her scalp while Deqo
toys absentmindedly with the bottle top.

The words of an old song play in Kawsar’s mind:
‘Love, love isn’t fair, teardrops always chase behind.’

‘Can I stay here for a while?’ Deqo asks.

Kawsar’s heart is beating hard, her breath shallow and quiet. She wants time to end at this moment, for there to be nothing in the world beyond her nimble fingers and the girl’s hair
to spin into silk. There must be a hunchbacked, toothless sorceress somewhere who weaves all these disparate people together, thinks Kawsar, who carelessly throws this child together with me, while
families are ripped apart.

Resting a hand on the girl’s narrow, sinuous back, she can feel the heat of her soul through the oily palm of her hand, as smooth and alive as an egg. She doubts that incandescence can
just disappear. If they are killed right here, would their ghosts continue as they are, the old ghost plaiting and the young one waiting, fidgeting? She can imagine that, the silence and
peacefulness of it, a source of envy to passers-by – battling with the rage and chaos of life – who happen to glance in through the barred window.

Filsan rushes through corridors behind the orderly and the dead student, disembodied voices flying past like birds, snatches of sunlight filtering through dust-specked windows.
The orderly stops and she freezes. He enters a room and she can tell by the stench that they have reached the mortuary.

He returns empty-handed and she sneaks a peek through the closing door. There are no other hospital workers inside and she holds the door before sliding through. Bodies are heaped on the floor,
three deep in places, in various states of decomposition. Her eyes dart around for Roble’s face but she keeps returning to the young girl, her narrow body stuck on a shelf above the others.
Filsan catches sight of the metal stores on one side of the white-tiled room and opens them methodically, top left to bottom right. The faces are like molten wax models: a facsimile of an old woman
here, a wealthy civil servant there, a newborn baby squeezed beside its mother. She opens the last door despondently, hoping to find him and not find him at the same time, but there he is.

They have wrapped Roble decently in white cloth, leaving only a diamond shape around his face. He appears to have aged twenty years overnight; his cheeks are sunken, his lips wide and slack, his
eye sockets deep and dark. There is no blood, no visible injury; she touches his eyebrow and smoothes the hair, and the incredible frigidity of his skin is the only convincing proof that he is
gone. She runs a fingertip over his bottom lip and then twists her head to kiss him on the mouth, her nose grazing his chin; the first kiss of her life numbs both her flesh and spirit. She opens
her eyes to the mortuary tiles, to the grime on the fridge handles, to the prettily marbled veins on the hand of a corpse waiting on a concrete slab.

‘I’ll be with you soon.’ Filsan pushes the handle and returns Roble to his abode.

Shaking wildly, unable to withstand the stench, she strips to her bloodied underwear and shoves her uniform in a corner. She undresses a dead woman – a teacher-type with sensible,
large-rimmed glasses – taking her paisley
diric,
shawl and delicate sandals, leaving the bruises on her naked body visible like emblazoned accusations.

She clambers out of the window into the bright sun of the weed-strewn hospital yard. She adjusts the scarf to cover her nose and mouth and bends her head down low. Putting one foot cautiously in
front of the other, she knows that she will probably be killed before the day is out, either as a deserter or as a lone woman in the middle of a battlefield, but she cannot remain, whatever the
cost.

‘Just walk, just walk, just walk,’ she mutters.

Beside the wall dividing the main hospital from the psychiatric ward is a tangle of bushes and discarded strips of barbed wire, beyond which is the incinerator block. She checks around her
before slipping into a shadow to the side of the concrete cabin; she struggles to climb onto the low roof and over the perimeter wall in her light sandals. Losing her footing, she falls heavily on
her back into the road.

The street is empty, the imprint of tank tracks visible like a giant’s footsteps. Filsan dusts herself down and turns east to the neighbourhood she used to patrol with Roble. There are
more than fifty checkpoints dotted around the city – she had helped decide the location of each – and even if she manages to avoid them all, there are still mortars, cluster bombs and
strafing fighter jets to evade. She catches sight of a crowd of people a few metres ahead, crouched against the hospital wall, a pair of grey trousers visible here, a bold-coloured
diric
there. She hides and makes certain no soldiers are with them and then advances. The group is motionless and silent; Filsan imagines they are too wounded or fatigued to move any further towards the
hospital.

A few more steps and the truth sets in: thirty corpses lie dumped on top of each other, limbs entangled and frozen into grotesque shapes. Some have fresh blood on their skin while others are
already discoloured and swollen: bulging thighs, purple faces, taut, shiny skin where shirts gape open. All have multiple bullet wounds, apart from one man whose throat is cut wide open, the rigid
architecture of his neck bisected and revealed.

Filsan shields her nose against the smell and the ecstatic flies. She stares at one face for a moment and then another until she recognises the family she stopped at the checkpoint; all of them
are here now, the limping mother, the three little girls, the adolescent boy with his over-burdened handcart, and the sharp-chinned young woman leading them all. Filsan tries to remember her name.
Luul? Nura? The woman’s eyes are still open, her head thrown back in shock, her arms reaching out to her sisters. It seems from the spray of blood on the wall that they were executed here.
Filsan does not feel guilt or remorse as she gazes over the bodies, rather an insatiable curiosity and desire to know when and where her own death will come and what expression she will wear to
meet it. She has never been like other people, and the corpses confirm that she has no useful place on this earth; she is doomed to be nothing more than one of death’s handmaidens.

She checks the sky for planes and listens for tanks. All is quiet. She turns down a narrow alley littered with animal droppings and follows it through to the next alley and then the next.

‘Why did you leave me?’ Kawsar asks after staring at Deqo for a long time.

Deqo chews her upper lip, looking down guiltily; she remembers that day at the stadium in snatches, no thoughts or feelings, just momentary images of dancing, then blows, then the wind in her
hair as she ran away.

‘I don’t know, I was frightened.’

‘Didn’t I look after you well?’

Deqo nods.

‘Was there anything more I could have done?’

Deqo shakes her head.

Kawsar exhales loudly and her eyes slowly fill with tears. ‘I have missed you so much.’

Deqo pads over to her bedside and wipes the tears away ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, delighted to have made such a deep impression on the old woman.

‘You left me with nothing but an empty heart,’ Kawsar sobs. ‘It’s too late to soothe me now.’

Deqo continues stroking her cheek. ‘It’s not too late, I can help you. I will get you out of here.’

In a few hours Deqo has removed the dirty sheets from the bed, fed Kawsar a can of tuna and rubbed a wet towel over her face and arms. Caring for her has distanced the war from Deqo’s
mind.

‘It’s too late,’ Kawsar repeats over and over, crying bitterly.

Deqo leans against the bed and waits for the tears to pass, knowing that they always do. She learnt that from Nurse Doreen in Saba’ad: as rainstorms come quick and heavy before leaving a
clear sky, so do tears.

Kawsar’s sobs ebb and then stop; her reddened and contorted face seems child-like, filled with perplexing thoughts.

Deqo looks away shyly while Kawsar slowly composes herself. She sits cross-legged beneath the bed and pats the tight, stinging plaits on her head. ‘I want to take you back with me to
Saba’ad.’

Silence.

‘We will be safe there, everyone will think you’re my grandmother. Nurse Doreen will help you.’

No response.

Deqo turns her head and sees Kawsar’s eyes closed. Leaping up she puts her ear to her mouth and feels a warm stream of breath on her skin.

‘Sleep then,’ she pats the liver-sported hand.

Restless, Deqo watches out of a window that has a fine crack running diagonally from one corner to another; all it would take is a light press and the glass would snap in two. She sees the wind
stirring the strands of a
miri-miri
tree and wants to feel that breeze on her face.

Stepping out into the street she turns right, away from the direction she came. Three dead bodies spoil the peaceful scene; the
miri-miri
and bougainvillea and juniper cannot cover the
scent of their decomposition. She unties a goat that has been left tethered to a pole and the creature slumps to its knees in exhaustion, looking up at Deqo with terrified, wide eyes. She walks
away, leaving it to its own fate. The local
dukaan
has been ripped open and looted, dented cans of condensed milk and kidney beans embedded in the sand. Deqo steps in and discovers the
shopkeeper’s bloodied body behind the counter, a prayer cap on his head and a handful of worthless military chits clamped between his fingers. She picks through the goods on the ground and
gathers bags of sweets, bottled drinks and potato chips in her skirt.

Lost, parched, Filsan tilts her head against the smoke-blackened wall and pants long, ragged breaths. She staggers out into the street and into view of a checkpoint. Their guns
swivel over to her and she raises her hands in defeat. There is still about ten metres between them and Filsan thinks through what is about to unfold: one of them will recognise her and radio
through that they have caught a deserter; if she is lucky they will send her to a southern jail, if not she will be executed in Birjeeh. Rejecting either possibility, she dashes into a dark alley
and sprints as fast as she can, her pain momentarily lifted by the adrenaline pumping through her veins. The soldiers chase but don’t shoot, probably too young and still frightened of their
weapons; they are gaining on her and she turns back to see one just five metres behind. She ducks into the tiny space between two buildings and then cuts through into another alley; she races to
the rectangle of bright light at its mouth and is spat out into a familiar road. Hearing the soldier’s boots at her back, she continues as far as she can before collapsing behind the
corrugated tin wall of a
dukaan.
A face appears in a crack in the metal and a refugee girl with a collection of looted items in her arms blinks at her. Filsan turns her back and wishes her
away.