“Promise.”
They rehearse; she waits for Bile to come.
THIRTY
Nothing seizes the imagination as relentlessly as fear does, Cambara thinks. However, even though she is fretful, she is determined not to permit the dread that she feels — which is only natural, given the circumstances — to cloud her judgment. Then she remembers the drift of a Somali adage that says that the mother of a coward seldom mourns the death of her child from impulsiveness. No matter. She will admit that she has been as foolhardy as a brave woman who has decided to tempt fate but who has had luck on her side up to now. From now on, no more harebrained daredevilry. She must get down to serious work to counter the onslaught of the panic beating in her heart…while waiting for Bile.
Cambara calls for an unscheduled pause in the resumed rehearsal, because she is making too many slip-ups in her directorial suggestions, repeatedly having to change her mind and contradicting herself. It is as if her heart is occupied, in part with consternation, despite her resolve to abandon herself to repossessing the house, and in part by her eagerness to see Bile. She has just about whipped out her mobile phone debating whether it would be wise or not to ring him and ask when and if he is coming, when she hears the commotion of voices and then the arrival of a truck, most likely Irrid with the purchases. SilkHair and Gacal run off to join the excitement.
A couple of minutes later, Gacal reappears to report to her that he has seen the beds, unopened boxes of crockery, mattresses, a small midget fridge—“maybe for our room,” he guesses — and lots and lots of other things. She is out of it, though, dejected in appearance, mild in her enthusiasm, whenever one of the boys comes to inform her of what he has seen. Looking at her sitting there, still, her gaze distant, you can’t tell from her bearing what it is that she wants done.
There are comings and goings of the men bringing in the generator, a stove, the beds, the sheets, the mattresses, the bedspreads, boxes and boxes, creating a brouhaha. Only when decisions concerning where this item is to go and to which room that other item must be taken are to be made is she consulted, but she is indifferent. She will think about this later, she half shouts. Leave them where you like for the time being, she says, clearly annoyed with SilkHair, who is fired up and demanding that she give an answer right away. SilkHair feels put out and he walks away in silence to minister to his sulk in a corner. Just then Gacal returns, hanging out with the men bringing in the mattresses and pretending to work, and he spots SilkHair looking hurt. Asked what the matter is, SilkHair reminds his friend that they have forgotten to make the fire and the tea that they promised her. SilkHair speculates, “Maybe she is irritable, because she hasn’t had her tea, the kick that some adults need. Like qaat.”
The fire in the charcoal brazier ready for the tea, Gacal suggests they throw away the pan, all beat up and blackened by soot, in which they cooked food and boiled the water for tea the last time and open one of the boxes in which there is sure to be a new kettle. SilkHair doesn’t agree, and the two of them, arguing back and forth, each giving their reason why or why not, go to Cambara to adjudicate. She says, “Do what you like. In any case, I don’t want tea anymore.”
Neither knows what to do or say. They look like two tomcats that have just been fixed, their faces drained of stamina. They slink away, giving each other a wide berth and avoiding any bodily contact whatsoever, as if they are sore. They make the tea and return to offer her a cup and ask if she wants sugar and condensed milk. Cross, she says, “Didn’t I say I do not want tea?”
Irrid accepts a cup if it is on offer. Four spoons of sugar and some milk please. And biscuits, if there are any. He pulls a chair, clutching lots of chits in his right hand, receipts for his purchases in millions of the devalued local currency. Lacking somewhere else to spread them, he holds the one he is explaining about close to Cambara and lays out the rest on his lap. When he has gone on far too long for her liking, she says, her voice lackluster, “It doesn’t matter. Give them to me, and I’ll study them in my own time.”
Then her mobile phone squeals: It is Bile at the other end, announcing that he is less than two minutes away from the property, Dajaal driving. Such is the animated change that takes place in her features, her boisterous movements, her spirited feistiness that Irrid, preparing to flee from the scene, searches unsuccessfully for a table, some surface anywhere on which to place his unfinished teacup. No longer the morose woman whom SilkHair and Gacal have slunk from, and no longer the woman with the moody take on the purchases Irrid has made, she is now vivaciously engaging the two boys — she wants them to join her at the rehearsal hall for them to resume their blocking — and thanking Irrid, warmly shaking his hand and politely requesting that he see himself off and give a handsome tip to the youths who’ve escorted him to and from the Bakaaraha market.
In an instant, the rehearsal is in full swing.
And Bile is spellbound.
Cambara can see that whenever she turns around, for he is seated way in the back of the hall on a hard chair, his legs outstretched, his expression that of a very contented man. He has taken a long look around, seen how much has been done, with a lot of input from Seamus, who has apparently kept him informed. He has been cursorily in the bedrooms, bathrooms, and kitchen and has satisfied himself that it will be a beautiful house when completed.
To her, he doesn’t look anything like the man whom she saw yesterday: sick like a cat suffering from a bout of flu and soiled. For the life of her, she can’t recall with any precision what it is that excites her about him. The times are confusing, and it doesn’t help when you have to attend to too many life-and-death matters.
“Let’s do this scene again,” she says.
Gacal and SilkHair are at each other’s throats, each blaming the other for not paying attention to his lines. They fight like two actors getting into a confrontation that is likely to ruin the chance of her working through the part of the text she wishes to solidify. Gacal accuses SilkHair of messing it all up for everyone; neither is prepared to listen to reason; their never-ending quibbles know no limits; and they take yet another unscheduled break, which gives her a chance to join Bile.
“You are very good, considering,” he commends her efforts and stands up to greet her. They hug, and as they do so, she observes perfunctorily that all is well with him: hair combed, clothes freshly ironed, shoes polished, and fingernails scissor-trimmed, not nervously bitten off to the quick. He is having a good day.
“If only I had more time,” she says.
“Gacal is excellent,” Bile comments, his hand remaining within reach of hers but not touching or taking it, their closeness producing sufficient warmth to enliven the chemistry between them.
“He is a natural,” she agrees.
“Where did you find him?”
“A long story, which is telling itself by the day, you won’t believe it,” she says. Then she pauses, this time taking hold of his hand and kissing him on the right cheek. Then she calls to the two boys to return to the stage, which they do a little unwillingly. She says to Bile, “Half an hour and we’ll break for the day.”
The moment they are on the stage, they become who they are: two boys seeking her attention and, knowing no better, scrapping to decide which will have the upper hand in a misguided tussle. SilkHair in particular is in an unpardonably sparring mood.
Cambara takes SilkHair aside, “Cut it out.”
“I don’t like that man at all,” SilkHair says, then looks jealously over his shoulder at Bile.