Setting the first aside, Burhaan then did the same with the second, this time with a thinner, lighter shade of the same yellow. He treated Jonah’s developing salt sores, to the American’s profound relief.
I never want to see that wetsuit again, thought Jonah. Not after those three days of suffering in it. He hoped he wasn’t expected to squeeze himself back into it once his wonderful bath was over.
Burhaan placed the ceramic bowls back in their hiding place in a small nook built into the side of the nearest hut, and returned to Jonah’s side with a tin can full of a deep brown powder, offering it to Jonah.
“What is this?” asked Jonah, taking the offering. He pointed at his mouth. “Is this food?”
Burhaan shook his head and gestured to his own orange hair. It wasn’t food; it was henna hair dye, the same he’d used for himself. Jonah briefly considered taking him up on the offer. It’d certainly get a rise out of Klea, might be worth it for that reason alone, but Jonah politely declined.
The two boys returned, carrying with them a kilt-like man’s dress. Jonah stepped out of the tub into a pair of waiting sandals, and allowed the boys to secure the dress around his waist. It was made of clean, soft cotton and dyed with a beautiful red pattern.
The kilt was joined by an open-necked cotton shirt with short sleeves and an intricate abstract sun pattern embroidered on the chest. Burhaan, Qaasin, and Madar wore their versions loose, but the shirt stretched tight across Jonah’s chest, shoulders, and biceps.
A bell rang in the courtyard, and Burhaan ushered Jonah and the two boys inside the main building. The main room had been stripped of walls and converted into a large family gathering area, bedrolls piled in the corner and a low wooden table surrounded by sitting mats. Jonah sat on the father’s left, and the two boys on his right. Three women walked in carrying hot dishes of bony silver fish, yellow rice and minced goat, each with unique and distinctly aromatic chutney, tamarind, and green pepper sauces. The women wore a Somali version of traditional Islamic dress, ornate robes and skirts with sashes and embroidered cloth.
He’s a polygamist, thought Jonah; flashing the father a knowing smile as the women busied themselves with preparing the meal. Not just a polygamist, but probably a village elder as well, maybe even the leader of a small clan.
The beaded entranceway between the women’s side of the compound and the main building parted, and Klea entered with a Somali woman on each arm. She’d been scrubbed clean and clothed in an immaculate wrap-around dress cinched at the waist with an embroidered belt, and her hair shone as it peeked from underneath an ornate purple hijab, complementing her fair skin and dark eyes. She flashed Jonah a little smile and proudly showed him her hands as if showing off a new manicure. The women had been busy — both of Klea’s hands were adorned with an elaborate henna pattern, crossing her palms and the back of her hands before disappearing up her forearms and toward parts unknown.
Klea sat directly opposite Jonah, maddeningly out of reach. He wanted to be close to her again, even if that closeness meant only the soft brush of his fingertips against hers.
“You’re very beautiful,” he said.
“I think this is a wedding dress,” said Klea, blushing as she acknowledged the complement. “It’s all they had in my size.”
Jonah laughed. “As you can see, I’m tough to fit in this part of the world.”
“I’m liking your skirt,” teased Klea right before Burhaan motioned for all in attendance to begin. Klea and Jonah obliged, and after a few minutes of uninterrupted eating, Jonah looked at Klea until she caught his gaze.
“I need you to translate,” he said.
“M’kay,” she answered, her mouth still full.
Jonah reached for the waterproof pack he’d taken from the raft and slowly withdrew his polymer pistol. He’d already disposed of the bullets, casting them into the ocean from the deck of the fishing vessel. Everyone in the room stopped to stare. Jonah carefully showed everyone the slide was back, the chamber empty. He laid the pistol flat in the palms of his hands and, with head slightly bowed, presented it to Burhaan.
“Tell him this is a gift,” said Jonah. Klea gulped loudly and translated.
Burhaan accepted the pistol, nodding wisely, testing the weight in his hand. He said something and handed it to Qaasin. The boy ran the weapon into another room and returned unarmed. Burhaan spoke in rapid-fire dialect to Klea.
“He says he could not possibly accept such a fine gift,” she translated. “It’s a tribal platitude. He completely intends to keep it.”
“Tell him the gift is barely worth a mention in comparison to his kindness and hospitality.”
“I don’t know the word for hospitality,” mused Klea, before choppily translating the message.
Burhaan smiled and clapped Jonah across the back like an old friend, then said something to Klea. She answered him without translating for Jonah.
“Yeah, he definitely liked it,” she said to Jonah. “Rifles in this area represent power, but pistols convey status. He asked the construction, I told him it was German. I think he was happy with that fact — said Germans make the best firearms.”
Everyone began talking at once and soon the plates were empty and the wives cleared the low table with the same order and efficiency with which they’d served the meal. The father gestured for Jonah and Klea to get up and join him as he exited the main building and the compound.
Jonah’s kilt hung just above his sandals, but Klea’s dress brushed against the sandy ground, forcing her to hold the hem up to the amusement of the other villagers gathered along the beach. Though the sun had set, the moon was nearly full, and several gas lanterns and other fires kept the small village illuminated with a low flickering light.
Jonah acknowledged the villagers as they passed, some of them reaching out to touch the tanned skin of his hands, others pulling at his short, blonde facial hair.
Despite the earnest warmth of the assembled villagers, Jonah felt something was wrong. A small cough here, a rattling exhalation there, a woman unsteady on her feet, a strange smell of sickness. Jonah realized his elaborate meal may have been more than many of the villagers had seen in some time.
“Come on,” said Klea, pulling at Jonah’s hand.
“What is it?” asked Jonah.
“He wants to show us something.”
Breaking away from the group of villagers, Burhaan stepped onto the beach, his bare feet sinking into the soft, immaculate white sand. He said something to Klea, but she shrugged, not understanding. He repeated himself, a little frustrated, pointing at his arm. Jonah caught a word — Bettencourt.
“He says Bettencorps is responsible for his missing arm,” said Klea, looking up at Jonah. “This is a great dishonor to him — forced to eat and wipe… well, you know. There is no dignity in this.”
“How?” asked Jonah, examining the stump. It looked like a clean amputation competently stitched closed. Maybe not surgical, but certainly performed by an able hand and a sharp implement. Burhaan spoke quickly, forcing Klea to interrupt to translate.
“He was fishing,” said Klea. “And he found a round metal object. He thought it might be worth something, so he looked at it closely. It was leaking a yellow liquid, which ran down his arm when he held it up to the light. It smelled terrible, like peppers — peppers? I don’t know this word. But he threw it back in the ocean. His skin began to swell with terrible blisters that covered his entire arm. Very painful. Eventually a local doctor was forced to remove the arm. I think he’s describing an infection.”