Again she was won over by the memory that their house appeared emptied of life too, the radio silenced and every single door securely locked. Duniya was glad to be moving, in anticipation of happier days. Her children, in the meantime, had gone their different ways, Yarey opting to spend the day with Marilyn, Mataan with Waris, and Nasiiba — who knows what surprises she might spring on her mother when she finally re-emerged. An empty house is a sad thing, Bosaaso had said, but a vacuous life is a sadder one.
He gained courage and began taking more and bolder decisions, speaking of filling their evenings and empty late afternoons with activities. We would do this, he would say, we would do that. We would learn to swim. We would go out to restaurants. We would leam how to drive vehicles, in the hope of becoming independent, no longer in need of being given lifts, or even pestered by terrible men. We, it turned out, was a composite person (Duniya + Bosaaso = we!), able to perform miracles, capable of filling days and nights with delightful undertakings worth an angel’s time.
When the baby had been alive neither Duniya nor Bosaaso had thought of inventing things to occupy them: he had made life take shape around them. And people came, visitors arrived in hordes, to play cards, to consume tea, to tell each other stories and to become friends. Duniya couldn’t help taking account of the fact that the foundling’s death imposed a compulsory set of grammatical alterations on their way of speaking, producing a we that had not been there before, a we of hybrid necessities, half real, half invented.
The light duty which Dr Mire had assigned to her today consisted principally of receiving the in-patients’ X-ray plates and registering their names against the spaces allotted, only that. She would stare for an endless number of minutes at the negatives of the X-rays, fascinated, dreamy-looking, her fingers absently tracing the multi-wrinkled reproductions, thinking (how weird!) of a dead foetus preserved in a jar filled with clear vinegar — my God, how very shocking, she said to herself sadly Part of her imagined the blank emptiness of the cryptographic plates to represent the baby’s death and the filled spots to stand for those occupied by Bosaaso.
And then Bosaaso came to fetch her. It was early afternoon.
On meeting him she said that she felt hungry all day and yet had not really wanted to eat, for she had no appetite. Or maybe she wasn’t expressing herself well? Bosaaso surmised that eating was an undertaking for its own sake. He cited as an example the weeks following Yussur’s and his son’s tragic deaths when he gave up smoking. He also remembered how empty he had felt as soon as he finished defending his PhD thesis. He had been so restless he could only fill the vacuity he sensed in his soul with work, more work. It was then that the idea came to him.
“We’re going out to dinner tonight,” he said.
Smiling condescendingly, she said, “Who are we, may I ask?”
“You and I, of course.”
A long instant passed before she realised that his presence had a pleasant effect, and she was not feeling all that vacuous; rather she felt as if she were filled with aspects of him. “And where are we going?” she asked.
“I know a good restaurant.”
“See you shortly,” she said.
He offered to come for her at about seven.
Duniya’s feeling of weightlessness returned directly she was alone, so that she had to lean against the outside door once she opened it. She remained where she was until her chest rose, with her breathing, her heart beating faster in anticipation of self-hatred, a notion which nauseated her. Or was it love? Whichever it was, she wished to have nothing to do with it. Surely to be affected by such a nebulous sensation of sickness is no love, or is it? Her self-questioning inspired courage in her and she was able to walk through the entrance, her gait uncertain, her whole body numbed by worry.
She unlocked the door to the room she shared with Nasiiba and brought out a chair; perhaps if she stayed still, the fog in her mind would clear. But she couldn’t remain at peace with herself; it was as though her brain carried with it seeds which suddenly broke, bringing forth a baobab tree in full bloom. She thought that the previous week’s events had planted seedlings sown to germinate, something that would happen sooner or later, but the foundling who had been the seedsman was no longer there.
Duniya’s thoughts were chaotic and in a state of upheaval until the door opened, letting in someone with steps soft as weak applause. The tense look in her eyes as she welcomed Nasiiba with a smile belied her true feelings. Contradictory emotions were disguised by the defiant grin that defined Duniya’s features as she and her daughter touched, as they kissed. As usual the young woman was full of life, bursting with the desire to make something happen. She was visibly sad that the foundling had died, but that didn’t deter her from investing her energies either in herself or her mother. “What’s happening, Mummy?” she asked.
Duniya felt very restless today and she got up, her cheeks feeling warm. She couldn’t decide what to tell Nasiiba and what not to; a great deal was happening, and not all of it was good or bad, or even easy to explain. Love was happening, for instance. Nausea was taking place, for example. She gave as reassuring a smile as she was capable of and then said “We’re going to dinner, Bosaaso and I.”
Nasiiba said, “We’re going out to a restaurant, are we?”
Duniya decided that Nasiiba’s use of the first person plural was essentially different from her own, realizing, as though for the first time, that the pronoun had such a wealthy set of associations. It was like learning a new language. Presently, Duniya was attended by the pleasant remembrance that at the mention of Bosaaso’s name all her vertiginous sensations were gone. She felt anchored, her soul cast in its intention to pursue its destiny, its happiness.
“We must dress up, mustn’t we then?” said Nasiiba.
Duniya stood in the sadness of a shock she hadn’t anticipated. The truth was she hadn’t thought of dressing up for the occasion, she hadn’t the calmness of mind to prepare herself for the changes that were taking place around her, as well as inside her. She now gripped the chair nearest her, glancing at Nasiiba’s direction, and recognizing the need to put herself in her daughter’s hands; in essence, admit that she was in love.
Her tone of voice not unlike a very young girl trying on her mother’s high-heel shoes, Duniya said, “How about if I shower first? Don’t you think that’s a good idea? In the meantime you may choose the dress you want me to try on.”
“What a wonderful idea,” said Nasiiba rather excitedly.
Sunlight glared wickedly on her eyes, and she grinned. Things were much more complicated than she imagined, and no giving was innocent. What was it Nasiiba had said? That she would help dress her? Duniya was distressed at the thought of her daughter asking her to undress, to stand naked in front of her, to pirouette before deciding how she should dress. She now stood in a posture of intense self-questioning, wondering what to do. She was wrapped in the folds of a robe, fully clothed, save for her head whose curls shone from being hastily shampooed but fully rinsed.