“I’m looking forward to seeing Qaasim,” Duniya said.
“Who is this Marilyn?” Taariq asked.
“She isn’t the baby’s mother, if that’s what you think.”
He shook his head. “I mean, does this Marilyn have a grandmother called Maryam and do they live in this neighbourhood? If you don’t jump the gun, but give me a straight answer, I’ll tell you a story.”
“I love stories,” Duniya said.
He decided to go in quest of her good-will and talked about the night she threw him out of the house, sodden drunk and sleepy. This was the first time he had talked about it.
“I fell asleep in the shade of a tree,” he said, “not knowing if it were day or night, when out of the silver brightness of a full moon, the figure of an old woman bearing the gift of a blanket emerged. She covered me with it, tucking me in like a motherless baby. But she didn’t leave me all that night. She sat by, on a low stool, guarding me against thieves and dogs whom she shooed away whenever they approached. You see, when I woke the next morning, I had a vague recollection of an old woman’s voice telling a young girl whom she called by the unusual name of Marilyn to go back to sleep, because there would be school on the morrow.”
“Did you ever meet the old woman?”
“For weeks afterwards, I would come in a borrowed car, park within sight of the family door, hoping to see her, thank her and return the blanket. When I had mustered enough courage, I knocked on the door and asked if there was a woman who would meet my drunken description of her or a young girl called Marilyn. The man of the house reacted negatively both to my visit and my queries, telling me to leave. You won’t believe it, but I still have the blanket, as a souvenir by which to remember the night you threw me out.” There was no bitterness in his memory of the night.
“It must be the same old woman,” Duniya said.
“How come she’s in your life too?”
“She turned up one morning, to offer us the loan of a young maid, to help us look after the foundling,” Duniya explained. “She came first, solitary like Khadr, a genuine comfort. Come to think of it, I used to see the old woman off and on. It’s such a pleasure to know them, they are such delightful company, she and Marilyn. They arrive at all sorts of odd hours, to mind the baby They get along well with everyone, the two of them, including Bosaaso, co-responsible of the foundling.”
Taariq was now jittery, unable to decide which of the many strands worked into his or Duniya’s yarn he should pursue. He had an orderly mind, in which thoughts were instantly catalogued, given a subheading, ideas were divided into paragraphs as if he were writing them down in a systematic order. Working another strand into the yarn already spun, Taariq said, “Shiriye, who was at Qaasim’s today, thinks you’re mad to want to keep the foundling.”
“What was Shiriye doing there?” Duniya said suspiciously.
“He was eager to have a private word with Qaasim,” said Taariq, giving away nothing. “Maybe he wanted to make more money on the side, selling watches or buying them at a discount from Qaasim, I don’t know.”
“What reasons did Shiriye give you when he thought I was mad to keep the baby?” Duniya asked.
“Shiriye doesn’t give reasons. He spouts opinions, crude prejudices and unlearned pontifications.”
“What’s your opinion, your refined, learned opinion?” Duniya asked.
He wore that distant smile of his, like a mirage, promising water to the thirsty, and giving the traveller hope of an oasis beyond the hill. The water of Taariq’s smile finally rose muddy and grey He said, “It’s such a difficult thing to advise people on these matters. It’s like getting married, a decision best left in the hands of the two persons involved, not third, fourth or fifth parties.”
“But what would you do if you were in my position?”
“I’d have to know a lot more than I do now before making up my mind.”
“But even if you did know, the beat of your mind and the path mine walks are so different that I doubt if we would arrive at the same conclusion.”
“I could not agree with you more,” he said.
Nagging at her mind, all this time, was the unfulfilled desire to get up and find out why the foundling had not stirred or cried for so long. But a voice whispered in her ear, assuring her that all was well with the baby, there was nothing to worry her.
“Tell me how you see it,” she said.
“I wouldn’t give him to Muraayo, for instance.”
“Why not?”
“Muraayo — and mind you I am very fond of her — has little in-depth understanding of symbols. What she does is to live on the surface of things, in the glitter of false beauties, easily contented with the superficiality of things. A baby like this foundling requires parents who will treat him as if he were of special standing, not reminded of his earthy beginnings, or God forbid, that his ancestry is unknown. Imagine if Jesus were jeered at by his peers, scornfully telling him that he did not have a father like them. The strength of the Jesus myth is that we are not told much. In the case of Moses, we first see him a floating foundling, in an ark, sucking his thumb. Then we meet him as an adult, God’s messenger. We don’t see mythical babies growing up, because it deprives them of that magical credibility that is the essence of all myths. So to remain faithful to the incredible task before him, this foundling has to grow up in an environment away from the likes of Muraayo and Qaasim, grow up in an incubated area of the world, unexposed to the day-to-day realities which surround most of us.”
“Suppose we believe that he has known parents?”
“It doesn’t mean much.”
“How is that?”
“Jesus had a known parent,” Taariq said, “his mother, so did Moses, or the African Sunjata or Mwindo — all these mythical children had known mothers. Maybe they were half-gods, half-human.”
“What if he dies young, say, even tomorrow, or ten years from now, or if something incurable kills him or if tetanus claims his life? Will all this talk about myths have been mere babble, mere words, no more?” she said.
“He’ll have assumed a different kind of motif in our story; everybody will get something different out of him.” He paused. “At worst, hell have served to make some of us think seriously.”
“What if Qaasim comes asking for him?”
It was amusing to see him hesitate, like a wary Huda afraid to stumble on the consonants of her discomfort. For this was closer to home, this was not a Judaic, Christian, Islamic or Mendink myth, this was more real, touching on fraternal realities and truths, on the relationship between elder and younger brother. And Taariq knew it, and he knew that Duniya knew it too. He was frank in his opinion.
“Qaasim doesn’t know the value of gifts. I’ve known him to give away some things even before taking possession of them himself.”
“Tell me why I should keep him.”
“Because you are most worthy of him.”
“In what way?”
He wore his far-away smile and Duniya knew what that meant. None the less, she listened to him respectfully. “I don’t wish to sound religious,” he said, “but I’m increasingly beginning to think that humankind must have faith in abstractions, and on this foundation we must reconstruct the world as we know it from the myth we have faith in, but not know, really know. There’s sustenance in myth, of an enriching kind.”
Duniya did not understand what he was talking about, but thought it unnecessary to ask him to explain. The light in his eyes dimmed, like the blue of a pilot-light of a gas-cooker going out because the gas-bottle it had been feeding on has run out. Had a sudden feeling of exhaustion descended on him? Could it be part of the withdrawal syndrome, unpleasant reactions to the absence of nicotine and alcohol at the same time? She changed the subject with considerable haste.