It took him a long time to identify the source of the noise: a chameleon that was making its way along the floor of his room. What business did a chameleon have with him, up in his room on the second floor? Chameleons had terrified him as a child. Had someone who knew that brought it and deposited it on his balcony, while he was sleeping? Jeebleh doubted that the reptile could have covered such a distance by itself. So who was playing a prank on him, and for what purpose?
In an instant of utter insanity bodied forth by an odd mix of fear and superstition, he got down on the floor and, supporting himself on his elbow, eyeballed his saurian visitor. He watched the reptile’s effete efforts as it headed for him, its one-step-forward, half-a-step-back movement holding Jeebleh under its spell. He sensed an inner tremor as he recalled the atavistic fears Africans had for chameleons, which were believed to have carried the message of death from the heavens. A number of African myths centered death on two oral messages, the one given to a hare and guaranteeing uninterrupted life, the other to a chameleon and presaging mortality. In the myths, the chameleon delivered the message, in obedience to an ancient dark fear. The hare, however, was distracted by its playfulness and failed to pass on the message of life.
Jeebleh took the measure of his own phobia as the reptile moved its eyes in constant gyration — first clockwise, then counterclockwise. It was probably making its presence felt, like an elephant employing theatrics to instill fear in its opponents. The eyes did not seem an ordinary part of its body, because they hung in front of its face, like two monocles, and rolled like dice dipped in Benetton colors. Its tail now curled up, its tongue out, it appeared, to Jeebleh, longer, its body grossly distended and intimidating.
But once he ceased to perspire so profusely, Jeebleh started to draw courage from the supposition that death is a direction rather than the end in the process of a life, and that the reptile is a mythical representation of an abstraction. After all, while the hare kept changing direction, the chameleon did not.
Now, for some reason, it was the reptile that was changing its course and moving toward the balcony, with the pained motion of an amputee on wobbly crutches making a U-turn. Leaving, the chameleon became a mere reptile, having no magical properties whatsoever.
And then there was a knock on the door.
A YOUTH WITH A MUDDY EXPRESSION, LIKE A FROG WITH DRIED CLAY STICKING to its forehead, was on the doorstep. Loath to allow him in, lest he should see the chameleon departing, Jeebleh held the door in a tight grip. “Yes?”
“What would you like for breakfast?”
Jeebleh couldn’t imagine eating a breakfast that had been handled by such a youth. “Nothing for me, only coffee,” he said. “Please.”
“No cooked breakfast?”
“Only coffee.”
“What kind?”
“What’s available?”
“Coffee in Yemeni style, or instant.”
With his skin prickling, and fearful that he might break into a sweat of itches at the thought of spending more time with the youth, he said, “Yemeni style, please.”
“No eggs, no bread, nothing else?” the youth urged.
“None.”
But the boy didn’t seem ready to leave. He stood there, ogling Jeebleh, who couldn’t bring himself to shut the door in his face. The soft morning sunlight separated him where he stood, with his hair on end, from the youth. He studied the teenager from close quarters, and decided that his face was much older than the rest of his body, what with the desert cracks in his dry, neglected skin. He couldn’t help thinking of the degraded state of the soil of the Sahel, with its proximity to the Sahara. The youth’s eyes were the size of black ants, his teeth appeared more rotten now that the gentle sun fell on them, and they had the hue of ginger taken from a curry pot. Hunger had gnawed at his cheeks too. Years of dictatorship, the habit of chewing qaat, and the civil war together had brought the boy’s potential and his overall health to a sad, retarded state.
“And you’ll like your coffee before you go?”
It was news to Jeebleh that he was going anywhere. At least, he couldn’t remember arranging to go anywhere, unless he had clean forgotten. “Where am I supposed to be going?”
“I was told you were going somewhere.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know.”
Jeebleh’s breath caught in his throat. He dreaded things coming to this: appointments being arranged for him when he had no idea where or with whom. Did he have any choice but to honor the request for him to go somewhere, on someone’s whim? Had he no choice in what he did, where he went and when? He was about to goad the youth into giving him the source of his information, when another youth arrived bearing two pails, presumably containing hot water and cold. The two boys greeted each other amiably, and the breakfast boy went down a couple of steps to help carry one of the pails. When they came to within half a meter of him, Jeebleh noticed something quite odd about the bath boy’s features. He was missing a nostril. Maybe an untended bullet wound had turned gangrenous, damaging his face. Jeebleh indicated that they should give him the pails and he would take them in. They did as they were told, and left, holding hands and laughing luridly.
Showered and dressed casually, Jeebleh picked up the two pails, which he meant to leave in the corridor, and was ready to pull the door open and bounce youthfully downstairs, when he heard another knock on the door. This time it was one of the bellboys to say that he had a visitor.
JEEBLEH DESCENDED THE STAIRS SLOWLY, OVERWHELMED WITH FOREBODING. In his distracted state, he almost collided with a young woman going up with a pail and a mop. He regained his balance just in time, and continued down the steps, past the reception area, where several youths lounged, and out to the courtyard, awash with bright sunlight.
Af-Laawe was there to surprise him, greeting him as one Arab greets another, with the left hand on the heart, head slightly bowed, right hand touching lips moving and emitting a salvo of blessings. Af-Laawe ended his theatrics with a sweeping gesture of his right hand, half prostrating himself. Then he spoke in an ellipsis: “A nightmare of loyalties!”
Jeebleh refused to be taken in by anyone’s antics, least of all Af-Laawe’s. With a straight face, he replied, “Would you like to join me for coffee?”
“Yes, I would.”
They sat outdoors at a plastic table with three chairs around it. The breakfast boy brought Jeebleh his Yemeni coffee in an aluminum pot, which proved difficult to hold or pour; but he managed it, then pushed the sugar bowl toward Af-Laawe, who helped himself generously.
“How was your first night back?” Af-Laawe asked.
“Thank you for arranging the lift and the hotel.”
“I hope the manager is treating you well.”
“He is, considering the circumstances.”
“The room is all right?”
“I can’t ask for more,” Jeebleh said.
And then all that the driver had said about Af-Laawe returned to Jeebleh in a flash. His lips were touched with a knowing grin, in anticipation of learning more about Af-Laawe’s link to Caloosha’s world of deceits, conspiracies, and killings. Jeebleh replaced the features of the driver with an identikit that might have been a cross between Af-Laawe and Caloosha; he superimposed this on the face of a hardened criminal wanted for a series of robberies worth millions of dollars.
“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” Af-Laawe said.
All around the courtyard, Jeebleh noticed vultures gathering. They arrived soundlessly, working to a precise timetable, one every half-minute, like airplanes landing. There were no fewer than a dozen, the largest the size of a Fiat Cinquecento, heads down, wings folded, beaks held dramatically in mid-motion. One particular bird disappeared every now and again, only to reappear a few minutes later as several more birds joined the gathering. Jeebleh found it strange to see vultures alighting in the courtyard of a four-star hotel. Where was the carrion to be had?