Perhaps shaken by the revelation, Bosaaso’s gaze evaded hers, dwelling on the floor ahead of him, dazed. But he didn’t appear totally abandoned in the ship-wreck of new discoveries when he looked up and their eyes locked in an embrace of acknowledged grins. He had hope, Duniya thought, he still had love for her in his look.
Encouraged by this, she said to Miski, “Do you believe that any initial interest in your relation’s city flat is even justified?”
“It has enough space for you and the twins, if that’s what you’re after,” answered Miski.
“There are four of us, plus of course Abshir visiting.”
Wincing, Miski didn’t ask why there were four of them, not three, and her hesitation left traces of a tremor on her lips. The young woman had weak knees, a meek heart that was as large as it was generous. Perhaps Fariida had been blamed wrongly for being the one who had introduced Miski’s former fiance, the son of the owner of the city flat Duniya was currently interested in, to the girl whom he had made pregnant and in that event married.
Now Miski collapsed into an armchair. This was turning into a difficult scene for anyone to handle; and as if this was the only action she was capable of undertaking, Miski grimaced. Then she said, “The city flat has two rooms, facing a large courtyard, a small garden, with a kitchen and two outside toilets, meant as part of servants’ quarters which never got built. The rooms are very big, each equipped with its separate bathroom-cum-toilet, bidet and other amenities, and they’re airy, the ceilings high. Apparently they once belonged to the Catholic Mission’s Holy See office in Mogadiscio.”
“Do you know how much the landlord is asking?”
“It’s very expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“How much can you afford?”
Duniya mentioned a sum.
Hesitation made Miski’s nose twitch. “I’ll try to get the keys from the proprietor for that amount, saying I’m moving in, or maybe I’ll tell him the truth. I hope honesty pays generous dividends.”
“Let’s pray to God I can afford it,” said Duniya.
As though on cue, Nasiiba said, “Mummy, Uncle Abshir has sent you lots of cash, three thousand US dollars.” The young girl gave herself the luxury to pause, get up and walk over to where her mother sat. Standing over her, she went on, “Here’s the money in this envelope, I’ve counted it myself. And here in the thinner envelope is a long letter containing just one important piece of news: he’s arriving the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon, on the Somali Airlines flight from Rome — not tomorrow afternoon, as Miski said.”
Duniya received the envelopes, thanked Miski for bringing them.
Whereupon Nasiiba urged her, “I suggest you go now, Mummy, taking Bosaaso with you, poor man, who’s been out of it all. Miski, after her shower, will take me to the landlord and I’ll bring the key when I come home. If the flat has been taken, so be it; we’ll have to think again, look again.”
Duniya could not ignore the wisdom of Nasiiba’s suggestions. When as a bonus she was offered a young, stronger hand to help her rise to her feet, up and out of the sagging armchair into which she had sunk, she took it gratefully.
Bosaaso appeared relieved to be leaving and as she assisted him, Nasiiba teased him (calling him “Old-bones”), adding, “You two give each other your driving lessons and leave us to deal with the flat.”
Miski looked sad.
As they said their goodbyes, Duniya’s anxiety showed all over her face. It was not going to be easy to convince Bosaaso that she had no knowledge of the foundling’s identity before this afternoon.
Duniya had had only a quarter of an hour to practise her driving, when, with the suddenness Bosaaso began associating with her, she brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt. She said she wanted to talk, explain all that had happened, including the reason why she hadn’t told him all that she suspected she knew about the foundling’s identity. It was up to him to trust her or not.
She started the story from the beginning, omitting nothing, arguing that the foundling had become and would remain for her a symbol uniting the two of them. Would their affection for each other survive such self-questioning?
Nature had supplied Bosaaso with an accommodating spirit. He listened attentively, did not speak nor move any part of his body for a long time. Then his nose twitched involuntarily, as if overcome by a musky sexual odour or something as vital, as immediate. “Will you marry me, Duniya?” he said.
The question did not surprise her; she had expected it for quite some time. Nor did its timing disturb her. Rather, it was the way he spoke it, as though it were an ordinary request, as pedestrian as “Please pass the salt.” Silent, like someone determined to set a hurt bone, Duniya reasoned that he must have worked on the question so thoroughly that he botched it.
“Will you take me home, please?” she said.
“Of course,” he replied.
They swapped places and he drove her home.
GENEVA (UPI, AFP)
Foreign donors from more than 80 governments and relief organizations have pledged 300 million dollars to cover Mozambique’s emergency needs for the next calendar year. More money is likely to be promised in the coming months to bring the total to 400 million dollars, the sum requested by the Mozambique government.
The International Donors’ Conference gave its full backing to the Maputo government’s argument that the chief cause of the country’s economic crisis was the war being waged by the Mozambican rebel movement, assisted by the USA and South Africa.
15
In which Duniya meets Caaliya, the woman with the pseudo-cyesis problem, and learns of Caaliya’s pregnancy. Later that afternoon, Duniya is given her first swimming lesson at the Centro Sportivo, where she meets Fariida.
It was clinic day for Duniya.
The beggars begged and chanted; and the poor pregnant outpatients gave what they could ill-afford in the hope of having uncomplicated deliveries. The women sat in close formation, facing in the same direction. Duniya moved to and fro, filling in forms, several other nurses helping her with the assignment.
Today there were not many patients and the nurses talked of taking a mid-morning break and maybe finishing the day’s work by noon. The doctor on duty was an obstetrician named Cawil, who had a very high opinion of himself He spoke of no one but himself, telling how many deliveries he had assisted, giving himself an extraordinary ratio of success. He didn’t like Duniya, whom he made redundant on the days he was in charge of the clinic, assigning her the most boring jobs. She had the strength of mind to overlook his meanness.
Just before the mid-morning break, the woman Caaliya came wanting to speak. There seemed to Duniya a difference in her behaviour as well as her physical posture, although the exact nature of the change was indeterminate.
“I’d like you to take a look at this,” Caaliya was saying, and she offered Duniya a piece of paper, decorated with a doctor’s illegible scrawl. Duniya received the indecipherable chit.
“That’s Dr Mire’s hand, believe it or not,” said Caaliya.
Duniya studied the coded mysteries. “What does it say?”