PART 2
O vengeance of the Lord…
I saw so many flocks of naked souls,
all weeping miserably. .
Some lay upon the ground, flat on their backs;
some huddled in a crouch, and there they sat
. . supine in punishment.
(CANTO XIV)
. . With all of Ethiopia
or all the land that borders the Red Sea—
so many, such malignant, pestilences.
Among this cruel and depressing swarm,
ran people who were naked, terrified,
with no hope of a refuge or a curse.
(CANTO XXIV)
14
JEEBLEH WAS IN SUCH DISTRESS THAT HE FELT HE COULD LIVE ONLY ONE minute at a time. He was unable to remember things in any detail; concepts like “an hour ago,” “yesterday,” “tomorrow,” “last week,” “next week” were meaningless with all that had taken place.
He was certain that staying on in Mogadiscio would not be the same — even if he had no way of knowing whether his own actions had factored into the killing of the youth in the hotel. He reviewed the events, and everything became suspect. Was the young man running away, out of the room, when the bullet struck him dead? Did he mean to kill Jeebleh, and if so, why? Was it because he had insulted the clan elders, or because he had been kind to the Alsatian in labor?
Disoriented by the urgency of his existence, and stymied by the demands on his time, Jeebleh had acquired other priorities, besides and beyond finding his mother’s grave and paying her his respects. He had lost his way in the labyrinthine politics of the place, and the labyrinth seemed to have Caloosha at its center. The man had had a wicked hand in his and Bile’s detention; another in encouraging the elders of the clan to call on him to extract the funds they needed; and yet another in having him shadowed from the instant he landed. If he had the wherewithal to have Jeebleh tailed to wherever he went, to “provide him with protection,” as he put it, it followed that he also had the means to have him killed if he so chose.
Jeebleh hoped that he wasn’t losing his marbles, becoming paranoid and joining Mogadiscio’s multitudes of borderline schizophrenics. He remembered Ali’s pleading with him, when they first met, not to judge “them” too harshly. Jeebleh was quitting the north of the city, where his clansmen formed the majority, and taking up residence in the south, where Bile’s folks reigned. He found it ironic that he felt safer outside his clansmen’s territory.
In the car, he broke the silence, saying to Dajaal, “Tell me a little about Kaahin.”
Dajaal did not answer immediately. Waiting for an answer, Jeebleh was haunted by two images: in one, Kaahin and Dajaal communicated secretly, in a way that suggested conspiracy; in the other, Caloosha and Dajaal exchanged burning looks. The silence lengthening, Jeebleh noticed that the same driver was taking the same route as before to Bile’s. Then a third image came to him: a vulture, the size of a Cinquecento, flying off into high heaven with a baby goat in its claws!
“Kaahin and I were very close at one time,” Dajaal said. “We were both army officers, we’d see each other at the mess frequently. And we were tennis partners. But we fell out just before the collapse of the state. Over a family matter.”
“You aren’t related, are you?” Jeebleh said.
“We could’ve been, but we aren’t.”
He fell silent, knowing that this wouldn’t make much sense. Embarrassed, he looked away, averting his gaze from the driver too. He rubbed his face, like a monkey reflecting. There was an eerie quiet in the vehicle now, as though all three men had taken temporary residence outside of time, and were dwelling in a nightmare of family disloyalties and dissonance. The driver nodded at Dajaal, as if encouraging him to say what was on his mind.
“We came to fierce blows, Kaahin and I, when I learned that my youngest sister’s child was his, and yet he wouldn’t own up to it. Lately, since he admitted that he is the biological father of the boy, who is now eleven and living in Canada, we’ve been meeting to try to work things out.”
“Do you meet in secret or openly?” Jeebleh asked.
“In secret, of course,” Dajaal said.
“Because it would upset Caloosha?”
“It would, yes,” replied Dajaal. “Anyhow, I doubt that Kaahin would talk of this to anyone, least of all Caloosha, who would use it against him. It’s not in my favor or his for such things to come to light.”
A whirlwind gathered and blocked the sun from Jeebleh’s vision. He wondered whether Caloosha’s discovery of these secret encounters of Dajaal and Kaahin might start another battle between the warring factions. He imagined fingers on triggers, imagined the joy on the faces of drug-crazed youths shooting and watching, as their victims collapsed in a heap of death.
“Here we are!” the driver said.
WHEN HE AND BILE MET IN THESE CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES, THE ONE A host, the other a guest, Jeebleh was unable to recall things in as much detail as he would have liked. But he managed to tell Bile what had happened and in little time, fearing that he might not carry the telling through to the end. Bile listened without comment or interruption. When he was finished, Jeebleh felt restless, so he stood and opened the windows, wandered about, and then opened his shoulder bag, out of which he took the books he had brought as gifts. He presented them to Bile without ceremony, and then sat down, again without ceremony.
“Do you feel betrayed?” Bile asked.
“I hurt!”
Still restless, Jeebleh rose again and paced back and forth, agitated one moment, depressed the next, up and moving purposelessly one instant, down and wincing the next. At some point, he was surprised to find himself facing Bile, who had gotten to his feet too.
“Let’s go!”
Jeebleh didn’t ask where.
HE FOLLOWED BILE DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS AT A RUN; THEN DOWN ANOTHER set of steps, which he approached with caution; past a knot of women, some washing their babies, others busy cooking at braziers; past a group of men sitting uncomfortably on a mat, playing cards.
Jeebleh was becoming two people, one leading a familiar life, the other a life that was unfamiliar; one looking in from the outside, the other looking out from inside. Alive to his surroundings, he was able, with his active side, to spot the security detail shadowing them. He could see Dajaal and two young men tailing them. His more contemplative side wondered whether the civil conflict was being driven as much as greed — the quick gains and limitless profits available for the warlords — as by bloodlust, shedding the blood of others to settle centuries-old scores. He questioned Bile as they walked.
“Money runs the civil war’s engine, all right,” Bile agreed. “There are the corrupt commissions paid to the warlords for a start, the money they make from hiring out militiamen to foreign delegations on visits. There’s the money paid to the warlords in the form of tributes by foreign firms operating in the country. And Mogadiscians also pay other tributes to the warlords, who levy road tax and duties on everything imported through the entry points of the city, which they control.”
Jeebleh remembered being stopped in the car, and StrongmanSouth’s armed youths in fatigues readying to extort money when they recognized Dajaal. “Why do most vehicles on the roads have plates from the Arabian Gulf, and why do they all look just-bought?” he asked.