The jolt resulting from the sudden stopping of the vehicle reminds her of her current situation. Hudhudle gets out of the truck and instructs everyone, save Cambara, Irrid, the deputy manager of the hotel, Gacal, and SilkHair to alight and to encircle the vehicle, and to wait for instructions from him. Not to be left out, however, Gacal and SilkHair elect to dismount, and they resume their teasing and fooling around, putting Cambara in mind of Roberto Benigni’s film Life Is Beautiful. Hudhudle tells everyone that he will stay a few steps behind and that he will join them outside the family property. Then he dials a number, presumably to bring Dajaal up to speed about their present location and to tell him that they are doing as he has suggested.
Hudhudle says to her, “It might all seem dramatic to you, but you need not worry; there is nothing to fear. Dajaal and I view this only as a precautionary measure, a way of avoiding possible fire from wounded or laid-up snipers. You, Cambara, are to make yourself invisible. Lie on the floor, if you will. Please.”
“Why do I make myself invisible?”
Hudhudle replies, “We’re driving through yesterday’s battle zone. We do not want any sniper to know that you are in the vehicle.”
She thinks that ducking death is different from making oneself invisible. She wishes she had what it takes to daub herself with herbs and other juju smears that, as some folktales have it, render one invisible. Better still, she wishes she had been born into the clan family said to have the power of making themselves unseen, which they are said to do whenever they are warring against mightier foes.
It is when she hears his words, “Fear not, worry not, ultimately the victory is yours,” that her heart goes pit-a-pat.
The vehicle still not moving, the engine still on, Hudhudle keeps the door open to make sure that she hauls herself down to the floor. What a discomfort it is as she jams herself, knocking her head then her knees against the protrusions of the vehicle, wincing and cursing at the inconvenience of it all. Then the deputy manager of the hotel, Irrid — so named because he had no front upper teeth, hence irrid, a door, in his mouth — follows suit; he lowers himself to the floor in the last row of the vehicle. Before shutting the vehicle door on them, Hudhudle says, “Good luck, everyone.”
Then he walks the length of the vehicle backward, his weapon drawn and ready to fire. The driver changes into gear, going slowly and suppressing a chortle, amused to see that the sweetness of life can make a fool of the best of us. “What dramatic goings-on,” says he. Even though silent, Cambara agrees with him.
The armed youths, meanwhile, fan themselves out into two groups and keep very close to the truck, giving it regal cover, with two of them ahead of it, guns raised and fingers on triggers, and some more on either side of it, having a good look around. SilkHair doesn’t know what to do about his empty hands, he who has held guns, shot, and killed; Gacal, however, is crawling on the dusty ground, as he has seen in films, and smothering a laugh. The second lot of armed youths, who are trailing behind the vehicle, face the other way, skulking stealthily, as though on a prowl. Cambara compares this charade to the travesty of a one-vehicle motorcade in which a pontiff, a king, or a president is traveling, so many bodyguards gathered around one VIP, their drawn guns likely to cause mayhem if they go off accidentally, God forbid.
Irrid is breathing heavily. He says, “I wish I had gone directly to the Bakhaaraha market in the saloon car. Then I would have needed only a discreetly armed escort. As it is, I have a bad heart, and it feels as if death is closing in on it.”
She says, “I had no idea.”
Good breeding forbids her to speak of how she is penned up in a vehicle with such a heavy breather, with a bad heart. Not to pass out, she listens to the pitter-patter of her own heart, tapping to its rhythm, while having an earful of Irrid’s sniffling. From the little she can see of the heavens when she looks up and through her side of the window, there are no clouds, only a large expanse of desolation.
The driver, his voice a little shaky, is saying, “I bet you had no idea what you were getting yourself into, dislodging a warlord from a property in which he has been raising a family.”
She restrains herself from the temptation to disabuse him of the impression that she is afraid; she isn’t, she might insist, not for herself. She overcame what she might describe as everyday fear when she buried it with her son, Dalmar. She doesn’t know if it will make sense to him, though, that she feels guilty that they might come to harm. She senses a grave private unease and says nothing. It crosses her mind to lay all blame at her own door. Again, she doesn’t speak, thinking, What’s the point?
The driver laments, “Let’s face it, and let’s say things as they are. What will you do when Gudcur’s men come for you, their guns blazing, and their ‘technicals’ firing bazookas? I hope we come to no harm ourselves today, just because we are caged in the same car with you.”
Irrid says, “Don’t say that.”
Then they hear some banging on the vehicle, Hudhudle shouting, saying to the driver to stop. When the vehicle has come to a halt, and just before Hudhudle has pulled the door open, Irrid has a convulsive fit: “Please, please. Gudcur, I have nothing to do with any of this.”
Hudhudle makes no heavy weather of Irrid’s outpouring. He says, “Sit up, calm down, and hush, Irrid. Why are you behaving as if you’ve never smelled gunpowder? It is me, Hudhudle.”
Cambara clambers up to her seat, embarrassed, as if she has been the one who has had the mild spasm. But she is relieved; her face says so. Then she spots Dajaal, who is carrying on like a military officer conducting a campaign with the help of a ragtag bunch of armed youths, telling them where to position themselves in the event of an ambush. He waves to the driver that there is no need to stop. Dajaal raises the boom himself, letting the vehicle pass. When the car comes level with him and the driver presses the button to wind down the window, Dajaal says to Cambara, without any preamble or word of welcome, “Bile is on his way here.” Then he turns his gaze away, clearly indicating that he has nothing more to say to her.
She thinks, What else is there to say? What else is there to do? As she takes a surreptitious glance in the direction of Irrid, she remarks his residual sense of abashment, which lingers on longer than she thinks is good for the poor sod. Cambara derives comfort from reliving the scene in which she bore witness to Bile’s soiled state, about which she will never speak. If only we’d admit to being weaker than we think. Weak we are born; weak we’ll die.
Her sunken heart is heavier to carry than a foot that has gone to sleep, she tells herself, as she advances gradually into the house and then eventually into the hall, where she means, eventually, to conduct her blocking and rehearsals. Most likely not today.
Everybody helps in bringing into the house the two suitcases, and the small tote bag in which she had her toiletries, a packet of dried and sliced prunes, some raisins, and a few clothes; the suitcases are heavier and fuller, containing books, notepads, sketch pads, and only two of the miniature masks. SilkHair and Gacal supervising, she indicates that the tote is to go to her en-suite, never mind that there is no bed to speak of, only a mattress on the floor, soiled brown and full of tears. She prays that Irrid will return with the purchases before the end of the day. She has no idea where Dajaal is and does not recall seeing Qasiir when she was coming in the truck, maybe because she was on the floor and wasn’t in a position to see anyone.