Of the usual crowd, there is Bile, her principal pillar, staunch supporter, frequent companion, and untiring consultant on the reconstruction of the text, who is reticent about offering advice in public on matters to do with the rewrites and acting with the discretion of a man who wants everyone to accord Cambara the deference due to her; Dajaal, who has been getting more directly involved in providing logistical assistance, shifting chairs and running errands, driving folks around whenever asked, and making himself available as a stand-in for the ScriptWoman; SilkHair, who has been left off balance by the new presence of Qaali in Gacal’s life, which has resulted in Gacal showing less enthusiasm to eat with him, be with him, or remain a partner in disporting himself with SilkHair than he used to. Off-kilter, SilkHair has had to adapt to his enforced aloneness, often in a brooding, sulking mood, silent, withdrawn, wrought up over the slightest jab from Gacal or any hint of affront from Bile or herself. Cambara has observed that, of late, he has lost the wild, mischievous shine in his eyes. Gacal too is an altogether altered boy. You can catch him often lapsing into English at unexpected moments, as an indication of the difference his mother’s presence has brought about. This way, too, he banishes SilkHair from his life.
There are also half a dozen young faces that she does not know, the majority of them female, who are attentive to detail, as students are, a couple of them taking notes. Cambara can’t tell if they are journalists or theater directors in training. All she remembers is seeing two or three of these arrive with Farxia. There is also the daughter of Odeywaa, the shopkeeper, an acquaintance, through her parents, of Kiin, who has volunteered to fit the bill of ScriptWoman, even though this is the first time she is doing this sort of thing.
She can also count Qaali among those present, watching with interest and raring to help, but she is a cautious person, given to standing back and supplying even her interlocutors with sufficient breathing space, the better to know if she is imposing herself on them. Qaali, dressed in baggy shirts and trousers two sizes too large, which Cambara has lent her, has come along with Gacal. She and Gacal have spent close to fifteen hours talking, reconnecting, and getting reacquainted after their long, tormented separation. Gacal often looks in Qaali’s direction when he thinks no one is observing him, maybe to make sure that she is still there. Every now and then, he even inflicts unnecessary breaks in the rhythm of the rehearsals by pausing right in the middle of a take, going to her, and whispering a son-to-mother secret in her ear. He continues not only to inquire aloud what she thinks of his performance, thereby irritating some of the others, most especially SilkHair, but also to barge in with comments that impose a moratorium on anyone else participating in their family in-jokes. Once or twice, mother and son have been driven back to the Maanta just to be there in what used to be Cambara’s inner sanctum, which has now become theirs. Kiin won’t hear of Cambara footing the bill, insisting, “The pleasure of providing free lodging to Qaali and Gacal is mine.”
Kiin has been in and out the entire day, bringing food and other necessities, and putting her resourcefulness at Cambara’s disposal. After lunch, she brought along her two daughters, intent on exposing them to the camaraderie that is part of creating theater. When not serving tea or busy helping in other ways, the older of the two girls sits close to Qaali, keeping a keen eye on the rapport between Gacal and his newly recovered mother in a manner clearly indicating that her mother has told her about what has occurred. Cambara, however, has, of late, discovered that Kiin is forbiddingly reserved, especially about the fact that she has not found roles for her daughters, as promised. She keeps resorting to either changing the subject or moving away on some pretext or other. No longer of the habit of deriving great joy from reiterating that it is through Raxma that she and Cambara met, something she has often done when being presented to a new person, Kiin has evaded making any reference to this link. Cambara isn’t sure why. She wonders if Raxma has upset Kiin by keeping her in the dark about Qaali and Gacal or if there is some other more telling reason that will eventually come to light, something to do with her and Raxma. For it has occurred to Cambara that, as she saw in the dream the other day, maybe Raxma and Arda are planning to descend on Mogadiscio in time to watch the first performance.
All of a sudden, Gacal’s voice reverberates across the hall as he gives a superb performance of a scene thought of as salient to the entire play. When he has done two more takes, and Cambara compliments him on his rendition, Gacal runs offstage and over to Qaali. He is so excited that he goes around hugging all those near him.
With everyone’s concentration broken, Cambara wanders in the direction of the trestle table and the chair close to where the ScriptWoman is and stands there admiring the handiwork, not because it is very beautiful but because Cambara appreciates the gesture of someone providing her with a table that has sufficient surface for her to spread her papers and notes. She kicks gently at the trestle, as if testing the firmness of the wooden support. Then, carrying her stacks of paper and some notes in a folder, she walks over to the ScriptWoman to ask, “How are we doing?”
ScriptWoman is petite and very pretty at that: nose aquiline, skin yussur black, so dark it has a touch of blue to it. She is in an all-black blouse, dark blue skirt, and grayish head scarf. The smallness of her build and her choice of dark as a theme, plus the fact that her chin is weak, sets alight in Cambara the bizarre memory of having known this woman before. She remembers why: ScriptWoman distantly reminds her of Raxma, because of her friend’s preference for all-black outfits. But whenever ScriptWoman speaks — she has stained teeth the color of brown curry — or walks — her footwear being of the cheap, leather-upper, rubber-heeled, ill-fitting kind — Cambara forswears never likening the two, thinking of it as a putdown of Raxma, who has a particular fondness for all-leather, stylish, Italian flat-heeled shoes, which she buys as much for their durability as for their comfort. Not necessarily expensive footwear but well made nonetheless. For the second time today, she wonders if the dream is dictating which of the many forks in the road her thoughts tread whenever they go off the beaten track. Now that she has seen her friend in the mien of ScriptWoman, she is bound to ask herself if she will see her mother, who was in the same dream, in the gestures of someone else.
Cambara suggests to ScriptWoman, who is reorganizing the unnumbered pages of the script, to put her marked-up script and her notes, some of which she used yesterday, on the center of the trestle table. She adds, “I will compare the changes made today to yesterday’s when I have a moment.”
ScriptWoman does as told: She puts the lot on the trestle table.
It is then that Cambara realizes that she does not know who brought the trestle or how it got here. Inexplicably, she feels put out, as if she were a conservationist disturbed at the thought of being responsible for the unwitting introduction into the environment of some alien vegetation detrimental to the survival of the local species. If this is my house and I live in it and will contribute so much money toward keeping it secure and safe, then it follows that I ought to know what pieces of furniture come in to it. But she has been remiss in paying close attention to what is going on.
She asks ScriptWoman, “Have you any idea who brought this trestle table?”
“The white man,” replies ScriptWoman.
Seamus, she thinks. “When?”
“An hour before you returned from lunch.”