When his phone rings again, he moves away from it, shaking his head, so Xalan answers it, and this is how she learns what has made Ahl suffer a momentary disintegration. She takes him in her arms and the two of them rock together, as though she is helping a colicky baby to fall asleep. And as they rock, she repeats in alternation the two maledictions, “What a dastardly city!” and “What an accursed country!”
At last his features harden. He balls his fingers into a fist and remains standing, motionless, even after Taxliil joins them. Xalan doesn’t tell Taxliil about what has happened to his uncle. She doesn’t dare. One never knows with the young; they might say or do anything.
Of course, in the absence of an explanation, Taxliil misinterprets. Assuming that Ahl is finally showing his anger toward him, he locks himself in his room again and refuses to open the door and talk to Xalan, even after she has told him Malik’s sad news. He stays on in the darkened room, feeling sorry for himself one minute as the surrogate sufferer of other people’s pains, and in the next weighed down with guilt. He says loudly and repeatedly that he wishes he had finished the job in a courageous manner, as Saifullah had done, instead of chickening out at the last instant. He is in a rage, and nothing Xalan says can calm him down.
Warsame is on the phone. He has been in Garowe, the capital of Puntland, and has had a long chat with the deputy president of the region, a former classmate of Xalan’s. The president’s chief of staff has given assurances that the investigation into the explosion in which Saifullah died is still ongoing. Meanwhile, however, the minister of the interior has hinted to Warsame that he and Xalan may at some point be called in to answer questions. Xalan asks if Warsame has spoken to the minister about “the other matter, our young you-know-who.” Yes, says Warsame. “He suggested that we clean up our house fast and make sure we remove all the dirt ensconced in the corners.”
She assures her husband that she is hard at work to get Ahl and Taxliil out of Bosaso, not because they are dirty, but because their own safety depends on it; the longer they wait, the greater the chance that Shabaab will discover where they are.
Then she tells him what she knows about Malik, and everything else that entails.
She points out to him that, unfortunate as the events have been, Malik has been lucky on a number of counts: lucky that the explosion occurred close to Cambara and Bile’s place; lucky that their housekeeper happened to have been on her way home as the device exploded, so that she saw the crowd gathering around the vehicle and abandoned herself to curiosity, not knowing who the victims might be until she got close enough to recognize Malik and Qasiir.
Most fortunate of alclass="underline" they found a Cessna Sovereign with no cargo or passenger for its return to Nairobi. Not that this made the flight any cheaper for them, but Cambara scraped enough cash together, adding to what Malik had in his bag. With help from some of the onlookers, she eased Malik out of the vehicle, and with Bile’s help, rushed Malik to a ten-bed private hospital after the housekeeper, with the help of bystanders, agreed to carry Qasiir’s corpse to the annex.
Ahl rings Bile for a further update.
Bile says, “I haven’t heard from her yet.”
“I hope everything is well,” Ahl says.
Bile asks, “When do you leave for the airport?”
Ahl doesn’t tell him about Taxliil’s behavior. He says only that the flight is delayed by at least an hour.
“I’ll call you if I hear anything,” Bile says.
“I would appreciate it very much.”
Bile then asks, “How’re things with Taxliil?”
“We are all jittery,” Ahl says.
Ahl sits alone, drinking his third cup of coffee and feeling a sickness for which there is no instant cure. He is in a dilemma. He looks up when Xalan suggests that they look at the passport Taxliil will use to get him to Djibouti, but he shakes his head, resigned to the failure of his schemes. She pours more coffee into his cup.
His phone rings and he answers it. He listens for a minute or two and then puts it on speakerphone, so that Xalan can hear the barrage of accusations Yusur is leveling against him.
“Taxliil says you are scaring him,” she says, “telling him that he may be flown from Djibouti straight to Guantánamo.”
“I’ve said nothing of the sort,” Ahl says.
“I can imagine you doing it,” Yusur says.
“Well, I didn’t.”
“I am his mother and I want him back.”
“But he is my son and I love him,” Ahl says.
She says, “Cut the crap. You know he is not your son, and you’ve never loved him as a father might love a son. And I believe him. I know what you are trying to do. Scare the hell out of him.”
“But Yusur, darling…!”
“Don’t you darling me!”
He doesn’t know what to do or say.
She asks, “Is Xalan anywhere near you?”
“She is.”
“Can I have a word with her?”
Xalan says, “I don’t wish to talk out of line, but let me tell you that you are making a grave mistake accusing Ahl of any wrongdoing. He deserves much more appreciation from you; he deserves gratitude from your son, who is being exceedingly difficult. I suggest that you hang up and call in an hour with an apology, because you don’t know what we are dealing with here.”
Xalan hangs up on Yusur. Then she goes upstairs and tells Taxliil that if he does not come out in half an hour and apologize, his father will take the flight to Djibouti on his own and leave him behind.
When she comes back down, she says to Ahl, “Yusur is out of line. The Yusur I heard just now is not the Yusur I’ve known and loved. When she called me, just before you boarded your flight, she described you as the most pleasant and caring husband any woman could have. So what has gotten into her?”
Ahl says, “Nothing new has gotten into her. This has always been there, a character trait that resurfaces when she is anxious or when she doesn’t have things her way. There are a number of things about Yusur you will never know until you’ve shared the same space with her daily.”
“What’s causing the outburst, though?”
“You see Yusur’s behavior replicated in Taxliil,” Ahl says. “Like mother, like son; sweet one minute, poisonously bitter the next.”
A frisson of doubt descends upon Xalan’s features, darkening her countenance. She is sorry to have born witness to Yusuf’s brazen outburst. But, knowing Yusur, Ahl is certain she will not withdraw her accusations or apologize, even if a chance presents itself. Apology is not a word his wife is familiar with.
Ahl, not liking the extended silence, asks Xalan if she is happy in her marriage.
“I am,” she says. Then, “Actually, I’ve often wondered if one needs to be happy in marriage. Happiness is such an elusive thing. I’ve been married for a good twenty-five years, but I’ve found him loyal, always loyal. Many a Somali husband would’ve walked away after what they did to me. Even my sister turned her back on me. Not my Warsame. He didn’t. That’s pure love.”
Ahl keeps his counsel and remains silent.
“Warsame is very unusual among his peers. He is the butt of their jokes, described as gutless, for not divorcing a wife dirtied by gang rape, and marrying another, younger woman. He is unique, because there are very few Somalis in whose blood loyalty runs.”