It was just as well the lights were off the night before. Would she have stayed, made love and slept here if she had seen all this ugliness? Not likely, although she might have suggested they go to the city flat. Looking up now, she saw a spider spinning the fibre of its own fable. She remembered the warmth of Bosaaso’s body, exuding heat much like a radiator.
He slept on his back, right hand placed on his left, both hands resting on his breast, as if performing devout prayers. A smile embellished his lips, his breathing inaudible, his whole body straight, not a bend anywhere. In the body-politic of sleep, he was a handsome man to watch.
Taariq, Duniya reminded herself, used to take up more than his fair share of the bed, and Zubair fell asleep in a tortured posture, like a child whom drowsiness called on in the middle of a convulsive cry. Mataan slept with his mouth half open; wickedly Nasiiba had once splashed a couple of drops of water into it. Could the poor girl have known that in some areas of the Middle East one poured cold water into people’s mouths when they died in the belief that this would facilitate their passage to heaven? On the other hand, asleep, Nasiiba’s right hand remained half closed in the attitude of someone awaiting something to hold, whereas the fingers of her left hand would be doubled into a fist as if clutching a childhood treasure, a fist compact as a clove of garlic. Yarey would shed all her clothing when asleep, her legs open in a posture Nasiiba would describe as rebellious, not obscene.
She heard quiet footsteps on the stone stairs. Then Bosaaso’s head appeared through the door.
“Good morning,” he said, his face expanding with a new smile.
“Good morning.”
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, his hands resting on her belly as his whole body prostrated with the pleasure of giving her a kiss. “And did you dream sweet dreams?”
“I was too exhausted,” she lied.
He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “I’ve made an assortment of breakfasts, not knowing what you might like. I realized that it’s our first morning together.”
“It is,” she said.
His words were like fresh-cut flowers. He had showered and shaved. His teeth looked whiter than ever as he said, “Would you like me to bring your breakfast up here or would you prefer to come down and have it with me?”
“What’s the time?” she said.
“It’s almost eight.”
The world of sleep engulfed her like a fog. “I’d like to shower first,” she said.
He got up to bring her a towel, opening the cupboard near the window. Then she saw the contrast between his plainness and humble cast of mind and the plastic discomfiture of the furnishings of the room. It was a comfort to let her gaze dwell on him. He was wearing locally-made khaki trousers, a collarless shirt of maraykaan-cotton and sandals. He walked back to her with the deference of a waiter.
“If you like, I can go out while you’re in the shower, call at the flat in the city centre, collect the key from the cleaning women, pay them off, run other errands like telegraphing New York, if it’s possible, and then come back?” he said.
All the other errands struck her as very pedestrian, and it didn’t matter to her whether they were done by him or someone else. “Why telegraph New York?” She actually wanted to ask, “Telegraph whom in New York?” and suspected she knew the answer.
He was not good at lying, “I’ve just remembered it’s a friend’s birthday,” he said, but his eyes were shifty evasive.
“Why not postpone going out until we’ve had breakfast?” she said.
“Very well.”
With the towel dragging behind her, and not a stitch on, she walked past him on her way to the shower. Was she being provocative or just deliberately breaking the Islamic concept of cawra, whose primary function is to regulate female-induced chaos, imposing a taboo of ethics on the woman’s body? “See you downstairs,” she said.
Half an hour later, she joined him downstairs.
“Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?” he asked.
“Tea, please.”
He poured her tea into a china cup.
“How much sugar?”
“Two and a half spoons, please.”
Duniya now sensed Yussur’s presence more, given that she had died a tragic death. She wondered if the woman’s comb lent to her by Bosaaso had been Yussur’s and whether she had been disrespectful to Yussur’s memory by refusing to be shown round, shown the balcony from which her predecessor fell to her death. But he was selling the house, anyway, wasn’t he? People would suspect it was she who had encouraged him to sell it in an effort to start their life afresh, with no sad memories linking them to Yussur.
“How’s your omelette?” he asked.
He was a worrier, she decided.
“I can give you something else if you don’t like it.”
“It’s excellent, thanks,” she said.
He felt she wasn’t in a mood to talk.
“Could I have a little more sugar, please? For some reason I have a terribly sweet tooth today.”
“You don’t mind talking at breakfast, do you? Or do you prefer silence?”
She smiled. “I don’t mind either way, really. I’m just thinking.”
She looked about as they ate, asking herself if the kitchen they were in was wider than the main bedroom in which they had slept. To her the kitchen felt more spacious, and handsomely done up, with tiled walls, two ovens, one run on gas, the other on electricity, two refrigerators and a deep-freeze. Duniya guessed that the sun came in during the day crouching at one’s feet, which it tickled, like a favourite pet. At night, the moon shone in, preceded by particles of light, bright and shiny as gold. When the city power returned, the kitchen was the place in which light first came back. Such was the esteemed position a kitchen held in Bosaaso’s thoughts. It seemed to her that he had chosen its decor, leaving Yussur to do what she pleased with the rest of the house. Hence the ugly colours! Bedroom, curtains and all.
“May I share your worries, Duniya?” he said.
It occurred to her she was no longer comfortable with the names each had for the other. She wasn’t happy calling him Bosaaso, and Maxmoud lay heavy on her tongue, like yoghurt that has gone bad. She preferred that he choose his own abbreviation of her name. She thought all this as she chewed and then swallowed what she had in her mouth. “No worries to share, thank you,” she replied.
“What then?”
“I was just thinking about space and kitchens.” He appeared interested; she a little startled, because she didn’t know how Taariq’s favourite concept “space” slipped in. Cautious, she said, “About kitchens, let’s say.”
“I’ve chosen and seen to everything here, including the decor,” he said with pride.
“Why?”
He placed his knife and fork in the shape of a cross, making her think of the two pieces of straw Somalis lay across a milk-vessel, hoping this would discourage jinns from consuming it, or poisoning it for human consumption. He said, “In my mind kitchens are associated with my mother, not in any pejorative sense, but because in a world in which derogatory terms like Nigger, Woman and Native have become badges of honour, I believe that a woman like my mother afforded me the opportunity to take an appreciative look at the world. On returning home I thought, what better way to commemorate her than build a mausoleum of a kitchen in tribute to her? It was also with this in mind that I paid another tribute to my mother’s side of the family — Axmad, the taxi driver and the other cousins in the commune belong to my spindle side of the family, not my father’s. But this is neither here, nor there.”