That was how Karin entered his life.
III
Once a month, for five, six, and at times even seven days, Misra looked pale, appeared to be of poor health and depressive, and was of bad temper. And she beat him as regularly as the flow of her cycle. He used to think of her as a Chinese doll which you wound — if you waited long enough, its forehead would fall lifelessly on its chin, when unwound. A makeshift “mother” substituted her. Not one of Uncle Qorrax’s wives, no. The woman’s name was Karin and she was a neighbour, with grownup children who had gone their different ways, and a husband who lay on the floor, on his back, almost all the time, perhaps ailing, perhaps not, Askar couldn’t tell. Karin carried or took Askar wherever she went, as though he were running the same errands as herself. For a long time, he called this woman “Auntie” and never bothered to find out what her name was, wondering if she had any. For all the children in the area, including Uncle Qorrax’s, referred to her as “Auntie”, too. One of Uncle Qorrax’s sons said she was the wife of “the sleeping husband”.
Karin didn’t tell him what the matter with Misra was for a very long time. And when she did, she simply said, “Oh, Misra is bleeding”. This made no sense to Askar. He had not seen any blood (he had once had a nosebleed himself and of course knew what blood looked like) and therefore said he didn’t understand. He reasoned that this must be an adult’s way of hiding something, or Karin’s liking for speaking in parables. He couldn’t forget that it was she he had asked what was wrong with her husband and she replied that he had a backache. On making inquiries still further, this time from Uncle Hilaal, he was given the scientific name of the ailment. Now he asked, “Do you ‘bleed’ too?”
Karin said, “I’m too old for that, thank God.”
This puzzled Askar. And Karin, with grandmotherly patience, explained: “What Misra has is called Xayl. We women have other ugly names for it. Only women, above or below a certain age, have it — or suffer it. Men don’t. When women are in their fifties or older, they stop having it. I haven’t suffered from it since I was fifty-three. Do you understand?” she said, her bloodshot eyes fixed on him.
Askar needn’t have spoken — she could see from the expression on his face that he didn’t follow her explanations. She wished she could make him grasp her meaning— she, who took delight in talking to him about things she hadn’t dared talk about with her own children. She said, “When you are a little older, you will understand”, in the manner in which a doctor assures an ailing person that all will be well if they take the tablets as prescribed.
“But I won’t bleed?” he asked.
She forgot to repeat that only women suffered it — a fact he either hadn’t registered, or which had escaped him, when she said, “It brings with it lots of pain and suffering.”
“If I had some of it, then Misra will have less of it, yes?”
She wore the pained expression of somebody who felt misunderstood. Her head, as though it weren’t on its neck any more, began to shake, “No, no, no. Misra is a woman,” she said to Askar.
He shrugged his shoulders, “So what?”
Without her speaking, he realized he had misunderstood her. Then he heard her say: “Only women of a certain age have their periods, women between the ages of twelve and let’s say fifty. Not men. And definitely not boys.”
He stared at her in wonderment, in silence. She went on, speaking slowly, articulately, “My husband and my sons do not suffer the monthly pains of menstruation. My daughters, yes. I, yes — when I was younger.”
“Suppose a woman doesn’t have it? Suppose she misses it?”
She wanted something clarified before she answered that: “You mean, when these women are still young enough to be afflicted by them and they’re not as old as I?”
Askar nodded.
Karin was sure. “It means that they are with child.”
He appeared puzzled. Nor did the following explanation which she offered enlighten him, any more than a nomad listening to a news broadcast about the devaluation of the Somali shilling finds the subject comprehensible. She said, “Women who miss their periods are pregnant unless they are unwell.” Rather, this complicated matters.
Was Misra with child once monthly since she was unwell? Misra’s periods used to be accompanied by depressive days and nights, and her breasts ached. She was unwell and she bled a great deal. Her monthly agony flowed for almost a week. Her pain was most acute in the lower abdomen to which she held constantly, and which she pressed as though she were squeezing pus out of an infected wound — so severe was this pain, at times she fainted. When the tension in her body was greater, she doubled up with it — as though she were in labour.
Karin, mixing kneaded dough with ground millet and water to make canjeera for Askar and, if she could eat it, for Misra as well, was saying, “Remember when you’re a grown man — remember the suffering and the pain on her face. Remember how women suffer. And do not, please, do not cause her further pain and suffering.”
He wished he had the will to make the required promise. Also, he wished he could remind Karin that Misra was not always in pain during this period. At times, he could see her sit in a palatial silence, daydreaming. He didn’t know if Misra had ever told Karin of the two men, namely Uncle Qorrax and Aw-Adan, who called after nightfall. With no after-dark visitors, these nights were quieter when Misra stopped moaning with excruciating pain. At any rate, neither of the men visited her when she was in season. He wished she was never in seasonal agonies. He wished the two men did not come after nightfall.
But there was one occasion when Misra didn’t have the monthly, excruciating pain. Karin came and inquired after their health, all right. In fact, she called more often, arousing suspicions in Askar’s mind — and something told him something was amiss. Came a woman whom he had never seen before and the three of them were closeted in the room, speaking in whispers. What were they hiding from him?
Although there was no visible pain — the kind that he had associated with her periods — there was the same kind of pronounced tension in her body and she daydreamed a lot and for long periods of time. She didn’t beat him, however, and had no temper to lose, it seemed. But she was most firm with the two after-dark callers — she wanted to see neither of them. Aw-Adan was very persistent. She didn’t hesitate. She said to him, “Go.” And he went.
There were changes in Misra’s diet. She began chewing clayey lumps which were brought for her from the river bed; she ate a great many sour things; she also brushed her teeth with coal.
One evening, Aw-Adan came and the two of them entered the room and Askar could hear the key turning in the door as they locked it from inside. And Askar went to his favourite spot below the window. Undisturbed, he eavesdropped on their conversation. It was very brief. She wasn’t willing to enter into a long dialogue with him. “No marriage”, he caught the phrase and held it in his mind long enough for him to hear her snap, “In any case who says the child is yours? He isn’t.” And she came out.