“Are you buying property then?” she asked.
“A pied-a-terre, to begin with, in which to house you,” he said, “and you are free to live in it until you’ve sorted out your situation. A pied-a-terre small enough for the children to stay in if they choose not to share a house with you and Bosaaso if you happen to marry. And for me to stay in if I visit.”
“Too many ifs,” she said.
“You’re a pile of ifs and maybes, if you’ll pardon me,” Abshir said.
“Of course,” she said.
Then answering a general question about Bosaaso and herself, Duniya reviewed her own story from the moment it began telling itself, omitting not a single significant detail. Soon after she had finished telling her tale, they reached her place.
He said, “There is no going back, only forward.”
“Let’s hope so,” she said.
By general consent, Mire was seated at the head of a table known to the management of the Croce del Sud as “Sette,” which in their jargon meant the table could seat seven. It had only one end, the other having been pushed against the wall. So three people occupied either side of it, and Mire its only head. Bosaaso had booked the table and arrived earlier than the others, being an anxious type, the kind of man who got to the airport half an hour before the airline people thought necessary. The waiters had set the table under his supervision. While waiting for the other guests to arrive, he had had two long drinks of a fruit concoction, and not a drop of liquor.
Then Duniya and her entourage arrived, all five of them. And before their greeting noises had died down, Mire made his entrance. They all hushed, to let Mire and Abshir greet each other, properly and in total comfort. Duniya saw Mire’s eyes burn like a curtain ablaze as she shook with passion Abshir’s hand and then hugged him.
A couple of waiters arrived to lead them to their table. People’s heads turned to watch them walk past. Duniya had been dressed by Nasiiba in a plain-cut but very attractive print dress, which her favourite seamstress had tailored for an occasion such as this. As Nasiiba had suggested, she wore her hair uncovered, in a bun, making her look almost as tall as Mire, who was a considerable height whilst standing among women. Nasiiba was in a baggy dress, fashionable at the time, and like Yarey, she had on something Abshir had brought them from Italy. The men, all four of them, had changed into something less fancy, no dinner jackets, no ties, in short, nothing quite as impressive as the women’s. Duniya’s dress didn’t feel tight either at the waist or the armpits.
They were all clearly happy to be together and to talk to one another.
Duniya and Bosaaso were the centre-pieces of the gathering, not Abshir. Everyone could see that.
The waiters wouldn’t leave until everyone, male and female, young and old, was seated. Bosaaso’s eyes turned to Duniya for guidance. Yarey was placed between Duniya and Uncle Abshir, whereas Bosaaso was made to take the chair facing Duniya with Nasiiba sitting next to him, and Mataan opposite Uncle Abshir.
Dispensing with the formality of menus, Mire asked the waiters what they had. There was no point in whetting appetites with a dish listed on the menu but which was most likely not available. They listened to the waiters give a recitation of the dishes that were to be had, providing explanations to queries coming from Yarey, Nasiiba or a gentle “What’s that, Uncle?” from Mataan. Being themselves semi-literate, the waiters were no doubt content to take the orders verbally.
Then a waiter of the older generation, who had worked in Croce del Sud when the Italians were still the master race of Mogadiscio, came, not to serve or take their order, but to pay his respects to Dr Mire who had been his wife’s doctor. The waiter was of the River People, with a broad, handsome smile, very smooth skin, growing not a single hair on his chin or upper lip. He half-bowed deferentially towards Duniya and his large eyes make a quick survey of Sette and decided he would take over. He dismissed the two younger waiters with a friendly gesture, and he went round making sure the forks and knives were in their proper places. He apologized again and again, charming Duniya, who placed herself in his experienced hands, as it were, out of which she didn’t mind eating.
When he left, the subject of conversation suggested itself to the gathering. Did the older waiter make one feel better and more comfortable because he had been trained by the Italians and had been more adept at his profession than the younger ones who had probably never received as rigorous a training as him? Was this symptomatic of the situation, a regrettable condition in which Somalis were seldom able to run a restaurant proficiently and also profitably? The ball was kicked around, now Mire scored a goal, now Bosaaso and now Abshir. Nasiiba, Yarey and Mataan listened respectfully. Duniya couldn’t help remarking to herself how silent Nasiiba had been since Abshir’s arrival.
As the others engaged in polite talk, Duniya thought to herself that little is revealed to oneself directly. Revelations are received from out of a mist of doubts, in caves, in the dark, out of a child’s mouth, or via the wise utterances of an elderly or mad person. She decided that her own epiphanic instant had occurred at a moment, on a morning, when a story chose to tell itself to her, through her, a story whose clarity was contained in the creative utterance, Let there be a man, and there was a story.
Half-attentive to her guests at the table, Duniya looked at Abshir, who had an unlit cigarette in one hand, and a light in the other. And he was saying to Mire, “Claudia sends her love, and she gave me a parcel for you and a letter. Now here is the letter,” and he gave it to him, “but the parcel is in Bosaaso’s car, but I didn’t bring it into the restaurant because it is too bulky to cart around.”
“Thank you,” Mire said, putting the letter in his pocket.
At the mention of Claudia’s name, Mire’s features seemed too reticent, too unprepared to display emotions in the presence of others. In fact, he appeared uninterested in asking Abshir questions about Claudia. Instead he asked, “When will you come to dinner at my place?”
“Give me a day or two and I’ll be able to know what my plans are,” Abshir replied.
“Take your time.”
Abshir nodded.
Mire said to Abshir: “How long are you here, by the way?”
“A maximum often days.”
Duniya’s centres shifted. The skin on her face felt too tight, like that of a woman half-way through washing off her make-up and who receives a visitor. She was thinking that beginning the story had been easy, like extracting a milk-tooth. But how was she to end it?
Here, she paused, for the waiters had come, bringing the food. Looking at the pepper-steak, she told herself that it was not she who had ordered it, but another Duniya. But where was this other Duniya?
She looked around, and everyone seemed to be pleased with what they had been given, and some of those present had started eating, and she heard bon appetit said a number of times. Garlic, pervasive as love, permeated the senses, and everyone smelt of it, even those who were not eating dishes which contained the root.
She was asking herself if she was content that her guests could get on with the telling of their respective stories without her. And the other Duniya with her tale? Then someone was mentioning her name, pairing it with Bosaaso’s, and Abshir was raising a glass in a toast. Everyone else was standing up, only Duniya remained seated. Her children were coming round to hug her, and they were saying sweet things in her ears and wishing her well Mire left his place at the head of the table, and came round to congratulate her, and Abshir responded in a toast, coupling her name with Bosaaso’s, but the speech was brief, and in it he gave an elder brother’s love and blessings to a younger sister getting married. And Nasiiba broke a glass when she had emptied it, and Mataan said that only a wedding at which something broke was considered lucky. Bosaaso and Duniya were treated as man and wife.