“How much did the sandwich cost?” Jeebleh asked.
“Hand him over! Hand him over!” the mob chanted.
“I’ll pay for what he’s eaten, so you can let him go free.” Jeebleh looked from the well-fed man to the scraggly youth, and then at the agitated mob, and finally at Dajaal, who stayed out of it, but, as ever, was prepared for any eventuality. Jeebleh addressed the fat merchant: “What’s your problem? I am prepared to pay for his sandwich.”
“He always steals food, runs off, and never pays!” the trader said. “Hand him over and we’ll teach him a lesson. And don’t waste our time.”
“The boy is hungry, that is why he steals!”
The mob moved in on Jeebleh threateningly. Now cowed, he brought out a dollar’s worth of the local currency, and made as though to give it to the trader, who scoffed at the idea of allowing the youth to go free. It was then that Jeebleh lifted his shirt and showed that he had a revolver — and immediately he discerned a change in the mood of the mob, which started to disperse. The trader accepted the money, and the youth scuttled across the road, vanishing into the dust he stirred.
“I’ll be damned!” Dajaal said.
DAJAAL LEFT JEEBLEH IN FRONT OF THE BARBERSHOP, AGREEING TO RETURN in an hour or so — he would get in touch with a mason he knew, in the meanwhile — and take him back to Bile’s apartment.
Jeebleh walked into the shop with the air of a man who, armed and knowing no fear, was prepared to meet his destiny. The three barbers stopped snipping, and the clients, some waiting on benches against a wall, stared at the stranger entering. He took a seat.
There were seven other customers: one having his hair cut, two having their moustaches and sideburns trimmed, and the rest waiting. Those in the chairs had limp towels wrapped around their throats. On the floor were curls of hair in impossible postures, waiting to be swept away. Even though he couldn’t tell who the men in the shop were, he sensed something earthy in their voices. They had been raised probably in the semi-arid hamlets of the central regions, where many of StrongmanSouth’s supporters hailed from, and where he recruited a large number of his militiamen.
A cassette of Somali music was playing. Jeebleh enjoyed listening to it. Did the fact that people were eating in restaurants and having their hair cut at the barbers’ mean that the most deadly phase of the civil war had ended? The fact that one could pursue these activities without fear suggested a degree of normalcy. Ostensibly, no one in the shop was armed. Certainly, everyone had looked in his direction with ferocious intensity and suspicion when Jeebleh entered, but no one had pointed a gun at him.
One of the barbers beckoned to him with the sweeping gesture of a Mogadiscian welcoming you to his home, indicating a chair vacated by a man whose hair and moustache he had just trimmed to perfection. As Jeebleh took the chair, a scruffy youth came in with a tray holding several metal cups and offered a cup to each of the customers and the barbers. He then began to sweep up the hair on the floor. The men waiting their turn read newspapers and sipped their tea. When the youth was done, he went to Jeebleh’s barber for payment, and then was gone, taking the empty tray with him.
Jeebleh just tasted his tea, didn’t drink it; not only was it too hot, but it was also sugary. He mused that the youth had brought the tray of tea, and the barber had paid for it; the boy trusted he would get paid, and that he would find the cups when he returned later. These small things represented society’s gradual recovery from the terrible trauma of war. Was the worst now over?
“How would you like yours done?” the barber had meanwhile asked.
“I’d like it cut very short.” Jeebleh placed the conical hat in front of him where he could see it, so he wouldn’t forget.
The barber brought out an electric clipper from under a table, where it had hung on a hook. He adjusted the blade and switched it on, then tested it against his open palm.
“I’d prefer that you use scissors and a comb, please,” Jeebleh told him.
The barber started cutting with avuncular charm, and the two of them talked in the soft tones of men confiding in each other. They spoke in general terms, eventually touching on the changes in the clientele of the shop, which, the barber explained, had been the rendezvous for the city’s cosmopolitans in the days before the civil war.
Then, out of the blue, the barber asked, “Are you a friend of Bile’s?”
“Do you know him?” Jeebleh asked.
“He’s one of my customers.”
“What about Raasta and Makka?”
“I remember them coming here with him. Have you met them yourself?”
“I’ve seen photographs of them at Bile’s.”
“They are so gorgeous, Raasta’s dreadlocks,” said the barber. “No one other than her mother is allowed to touch them, or tend to them.”
“I suppose you’d know Faahiye too?”
The barber went absolutely quiet and shifted uneasily. He took a sip from the teacup closest to him, and stared at the cup in front of Jeebleh, as though suggesting that he should take a sip of his. “Do you know Faahiye?” he finally asked.
“I’ve known his wife for a much longer time.”
“I’ve never met her myself,” the barber offered.
“Is it true that Faahiye lives around here?”
“I have no idea.”
Nervous, the barber clipped Jeebleh’s right ear, and instantly apologized. It was just a small snip, but there was blood. And that worried Jeebleh. An incision with a pair of scissors at a barber’s might not be dangerous in many situations, but here, given the AIDS epidemic, you couldn’t be sure. Jeebleh’s countenance was flustered. He felt the cut with his fingers, to determine how serious it was, how deep. The towel still wrapped around his throat, he half rose and daubed his ear with a bit of cotton dipped in alcohol. Then he leaned forward, staring into the mirror, preoccupied.
He had seen a girl resembling Makka in the deepest recesses of the mirror before him, and was following her movements: then snip! How did he know the girl was Makka, when he had never met her before? Because he had seen her photograph, and felt sure that there couldn’t be a facsimile of Makka. Also, the girl’s lower lip was drawn down and slightly out, and there was the ubiquitous sliver of saliva, as transparent as the fine knots in a spider’s net, lucid and purposeful.
While the barber fussed over the cut, daubing it with more alcohol, Jeebleh looked for Makka’s reflection, hoping that she might still be there. The barber held him down, telling him not to move, fearful that he might cut him again. Yes, Makka was there in the mirror, all right; and she was grinning with self-recognition. He watched her watching herself with fascination.
He studied her face. Maybe she was playing a child’s game modeled on one that his daughters were fond of playing. One child is blindfolded, and the fun lies in her looking for her playmates, and finding them. If Makka was at play here, could Raasta be far? The thought filled him with excitement. He pushed the barber’s hand away and got to his feet, his whole demeanor disorderly. One idea led to another. He decided to go after Makka. He was convinced that she either had a message for him or would take him to Raasta and Faahiye.
He paid the barber as much cash as he could bring out of his wallet, even though the job had been only half done, and badly at that. He dashed out in pursuit of Makka, half his head unevenly trimmed, the other boasting its shock of hair as yet untouched. Someone might have assumed that he was pioneering a new style.