“Did he leave a message?”
“Not with me.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wish someone would know these things.”
“I am only a volunteer,” ScriptWoman says.
This is a new one on Cambara: a volunteer. She wonders to herself, but doesn’t ask, if the young woman belongs to some civil society of some sort, like the Women’s Network or some such, and if so to which? You need unpaid volunteers to perform many of the tasks that must be undertaken if Somali society is eventually to recover from its losses.
“You’ve come at Kiin’s suggestion?”
“I’ve come with her, in her truck.”
“How many others?”
“Half a dozen, all of us volunteers.”
“Are some of the other women volunteers too?”
“I’ve been told they are.”
Cambara looks around and observes these women’s frenetic movements. Impressed and invigorated by what she sees, she feels heartened by the commitment of the young women, though she hasn’t a precise idea what they are committed to. Maybe to peace and to the coexistence of the warring communities through collaborating on theater projects that are deemed beneficial to all.
Now she trains her intense eyes back on ScriptWoman and then, softening her gaze, smiles at her before ogling the trestle table, which Cambara assumes has taken Seamus a couple of hours to knock together, the hallmark of his benefaction. It is characteristic of every one of Cambara’s new friends that each contributes his or her fair share in the hope of making a difference in her life here in this city. But where is Seamus? She is looking around, as if trying to spot him among those sitting way in the back of the hall, when a girl in her teens in a see-through dirac robe approaches her, bearing a kettle, very hot by the feel of it, and a mug. Who is she? The young woman introduces herself as “the TeaWoman” and asks if Cambara wants some.
“I would love a cup, yes.”
TeaWoman raises the slim kettle with the long spout to a great height and then pours it, gradually bringing it down and then going up and down again in a half-moon arc, her hand steady, the curvature of her arm in a semicircle, mesmerizing.
Cambara takes a sip of it and, discovering it too sweet, winces. She says “Thank you,” but doesn’t tell TeaWoman that she takes hers without sugar. She puts it away and tries to get down to the business of imposing some order on the rehearsal schedule, seeing that Gacal is standing beside her, calmly waiting.
She motions to Gacal and SilkHair, who approach and indicate their eagerness to resume rehearsing. Bile is there too, humbly awaiting her command, his reading glasses balanced on the joint of his nose. After remarking that she has picked up the marked script and, turning the pages, murmuring to herself, receives from him a single sheet on which he has scribbled his notes.
“You’ll see some more suggestions for word changes,” he says. “You may need to think about them before we incorporate them. We can talk about them in a moment of calm.”
Taking the sheet and adding it to the pile, she says, “Thank you, my dear.”
Just as she is about to announce the resumption of the rehearsal and says which scene they will work on, she notices that neither of the boys is on the stage, where she wants them. Gacal is sitting with his mother, and SilkHair is skipping rope and showing off his athleticism to Kiin’s two daughters. She claps her hands together, and they immediately join her on the stage. It is then that Cambara calls to Qaali.
“Qaali, dear?”
Qaali, smiling, turns to face Cambara.
“Here is the text of the play,” she says. “I’ve hesitated for a long time to ask you to read the part of the wife. You’ll see that whereas the parts for the eagle and the chicken and that of the farmer, which Bile will play, are closer to my idea of working text, this part needs a lot of rewriting. Will you volunteer for the part?”
Qaali takes the proffered text with both hands, her head slightly bowing. Cambara proposes a few minutes’ break to give her a chance to read it at least twice. Then she hears a few snatches of conversation in the form of phrases that Gacal and SilkHair are exchanging as they egg each other on. It pleases her that the two boys have committed their respective parts to memory and can recite on cue when prompted. She knows that Bile has a problem controlling his ad-libbing, constantly improvising, his working script crawling with insectlike scrawls, especially SilkHair’s part, which he has squiggled with chicken scratches. But that is the least of her worries. She is in a state of some high expectation, and her ears burn. She is in no haste to resume rehearsing, because Qaali is still reading and rereading the text.
Highly strung, she is anticipating that something unusual will happen. Touch wood, Bile has not been in low spirits ever since the two started to spend a lot of time together. He has also been an asset, ably ad-libbing several parts, now sounding like a mother in distress, now a preteen boy upset because his father has opted to alter the rules of the game plan. It has been well worth her while to recruit his services in an attempt to solve a theatrical cul-de-sac of sorts. She is grateful to him for suggesting that she add a new part: that of a narrator, designed to accommodate his expansive baritone voice.
Bile and Cambara find themselves standing close to each other. You can’t tell whether it is totally by chance or through Bile’s deliberate machination that their hips frequently collide. Maybe they are both experts at stealing private moments of intimacy in a public place, as they clasp hands, both cautious in the fluidity of the contact they make, ready to pull back. He, tall, slim, and very presentable, his eyes squinting as if a little impaired; his gaze conspiratorial, as though he knows something he is not prepared to divulge, secrets upon which their future happiness might depend. As rivulets of memories swirl inside her head, a breeze of emotion teases her heart. She thinks that the slight wind blowing into the open door that is her mind is the harbinger of good tidings of which Bile is the bearer. Alas, he won’t speak of them. Is it the same reticence that she discerned in Kiin earlier in the day, which she misinterpreted in a negative way?
As Cambara runs her hand over the recently varnished trestle table, she asks, “Where is Seamus?”
“He is in the apartment, getting some much-needed rest,” Bile replies. “Apparently, he didn’t sleep a wink the whole night, busy setting things up for you. Then he came to the apartment and knocked together this table, which I see you are already using.”
Then he whispers a for-her-ears-only mischievous suggestion. He laughs like a much younger man, covers his face with his hands, and then suddenly takes them away in the playful attitude of a child about to say “Peek-a-boo.” Unbidden, he walks onstage and stands close to Qaali, in a way putting pressure on her and reminding her that they are waiting for her go-ahead.
When Cambara gives Qaali her cue, she also observes the eagerness on the part of Bile, Gacal, and SilkHair to resume rehearsing. Before a word is spoken, she restates the functions of space in the play. She stands in the forestage and for the first time requests that ScriptWoman read Bile’s lines to her, the gist of which she recapitulates. But she is not entirely there, the enormity of her sense of anticipation of some event that is to happen or some person she is about to encounter being so huge that she has no idea what to do with all her nervous excitement.
Then she spots Kiin leading Raxma by the hand into the hall, small-boned Raxma in an all-black outfit of raw linen, her strides long, her chest thrust forward, her dark shawl falling off. She continues marching forward without bothering to pick it up. Cambara thinks that if Raxma is here, can her mother be far? Many questions come to her for answers, but she shrugs them off. When did Raxma get here? She can guess who picked her up from the airport. And where is she putting up? Why has no one told her about her arrival? She looks from Kiin to Bile, and Cambara has the unsettling feeling that they have both known of Raxma’s arrival.