This is when Cambara realizes it is incumbent upon her to speak first, as it is her room and world in which they are meeting. Besides, she has more information about Qaali than the other way round. True, they have never met before, but Cambara feels that she knows enough about the woman through the tragedy of her story, and to a lesser degree through Gacal, to give her a hug and a kiss too. Then she decides to speed matters up, and speaks as if they are late for a bus or a plane.
She says, closing the door behind her, and going past the petite woman, “If it is hard for me to know where to start, I can imagine how much more difficult it is for you to begin.”
“My name is Qaali,” the woman introduces herself.
“I know. Mine is Cambara.”
“Not Raaxo Abduraxman?”
“No.”
Qaali is the calmer of the two, considering — a woman who has known storms, dreams of hope turned to daily nightmares. Cambara is nervous, shaking, behaving in a manner that gives the wrong impression to Qaali, something she must put right immediately.
Her voice level, Qaali says, “Maybe you’ll explain who you are and who Raaxo is and whether any of this has to do with my husband’s death, or my son’s life and his whereabouts. Please tell me why I am here.”
Calmness becomes Cambara. “The news is good.”
“What news? What are we talking about?”
Cambara sits down, motions to Qaali to do likewise.
Qaali says, “You have the advantage of knowing who I am, but I am at a disadvantage, because I don’t know who you are. I know I’ve come in answer to the announcement, and that I bear grief and hope in equal measure.”
Overwhelmed and yet able to speak, Cambara says, “Maybe you can tell me what went through your mind when you heard your name announced on the BBC ‘Missing Persons’ program.”
As Cambara waits for Qaali to speak, her first thought is to look for a family resemblance between Gacal and this woman, Qaali. When Qaali begins to talk, her features grow more pleasant to the eye, even if gaunt; her voice is a delight to listen to, unrestrainedly rich, like the kind of yogurt to which a good chef might put any number of uses, fluid, malleable, and cultured.
Qaali says, “To a thirsty person, a mirage contains more water than whatever moisture there is under one’s feet. It is very difficult to summarize the conflicting thoughts that went through my mind when I heard about the program. In fact, it wasn’t I who heard it, but a neighbour whose children I coach in English; they are, as a family, waiting to join their family breadwinner, who lives in the U.S. One minute I saw my son and imagined holding him in my arms; the next minute, I told myself that I was to be the recipient of sad news, only this didn’t make sense. Why would a woman ask me to look her up when all she has to dispense is the news of my son’s death?”
“Let’s talk of life, Qaali.” The wells of her eyes flooded, her ears ringing with pent-up emotion, Cambara takes one decisive step toward Qaali. She picks her up and, throwing her arms around the small woman whom she must take care not to crush, says, “Your son is alive.”
Qaali goes rigor-mortis rigid in Cambara’s arms. She frees her bird-small body and raises one hand, palm facing Cambara. Qaali backs away, stiff and tense, not believing her joy, if there is any in her; as yet it is inexpressible. Her withering appearance belying her sense of optimism, she asks, “Where is my son?”
“Downstairs.”
Qaali sits down with her hand under her chin, contemplative, then begins rubbing her eyes sore, as if trying to squeeze out at least one teardrop, given that Cambara’s are runny with buckets of it, her nose sniveling. It appears that Qaali has done all her wailing, howling, cussing; there is no more weeping.
Her voice cold, she asks Cambara, “Who are you?”
Cambara pulls herself up, stops sniffing, and looks at Qaali, convinced that it is untimely to wipe her tears away, lest Qaali think of her as a paid mourner who weeps and wails at funerals. There is aggression, anger in Qaali’s question; there is suspicion and pain in it as well.
“Who are you? Angel or devil?” Qaali says.
Cambara takes a long pause, breathing nervously, deeply at first then shallowly, until she can collect herself and gather her thoughts, thoughts she wears like a body tent. She emerges, wrapped in self-confidence, and tells Qaali her own story of loss, and then of her chance meeting with Gacal. She talks, and the longer she speaks, the more she feels the sine qua non to explain how it has all come out the way it has; what Gacal told her about his arrival with his father in Mogadiscio; how the taxi driver laid a trap, and how the attempt to rob them led to his father’s death. Then Cambara relates her conversation with Raxma — also known as Raaxo, where the first part of the pseudonym comes from — and how her friend delved further into it; how the headmaster of Gacal’s school in Duluth confirmed a significant part of the story. Cambara speaks on and on and continues talking until she sees the first teardrop, hears the first sniff, then Qaali’s weeping, her eyes streaming so suddenly with so much liquid output that Cambara, who has now regained total control of her emotions, thinks of a tropical downpour.
She sounds weak as she asks, “Can I see my son?”
“Yes, of course.” Cambara makes as if to leave.
“Wait,” Qaali says.
Cambara does as told.
“Why did you do this?”
Cambara takes a few minutes to come up with an adequate answer to a question she hasn’t asked herself up to this moment. She says, “I am neither an angel nor a devil. I am a mother, mourning. Like you. That’s why I’ve felt for you from the instant I saw Gacal, why I’ve made it my business to pursue the course I have.”
Meekly, Qaali says, “Thank you.”
As Cambara is leaving, Qaali says, “Is it possible for you not to send him up right away? Give me a few minutes to get ready?” Cambara thinks of a lover preparing herself for her paramour. “You’re a woman yourself and know what I am talking about, I am sure.”
“Of course.”
“And can I see him alone?”
“But of course.”
THIRTY-TWO
In the rehearsal hall, which Cambara has revamped with help from Seamus, tirelessly loyal and more than willing to comply with almost all her refurbishing demands, there are the usual faces that have been a permanent feature of the scene.
Because of the large number of uninvited persons milling about, at times standing in her way and interrupting the easy flow of the rehearsal on account of their on and off susurrations, Cambara has asked herself if word has gone out that one can have fun sticking around here. She wonders who has spread the good tidings: that the property is an open house and that no unarmed person will be turned away as long as they are prepared not to make a nuisance of themselves. Rather than take heart from the interest others have shown in her efforts, Cambara tells herself that this is no cakewalk and that there is a lot to go through before she is satisfied with what she has achieved.