The head of security gives what he can see of the white man a once-over and then barks instructions at one of the youths to “let the gentleman in.”
It is then that Seamus steps in, his hands fisted, his features breaking into a friendly grin, his stride even, his demeanor unafraid and unworried. However, because of the thickness of his facial hair and the distance separating her from him, Cambara cannot determine the nature of his amity or to whom he is addressing it or if it is turning into a snicker. Even so, Cambara says, “Terra firma,” to herself, as she studies him, thinking “What a great presence,” from the vantage point of seeing him and guessing who he is before he has laid his eyes on her. To welcome him, she gets to her feet, almost daring to call out to him by his first name. She takes a good hold of herself and then sits down, fussily smoothing her hair with her hands and touching them to her face in callous disregard of what anyone else watching her might think.
Seamus goes round shaking hands, taking the hand of everyone in his vicinity in his own. He starts with the head of security and then holds the hands of the other man in his for a few moments, eventually shuffling in her direction, his steps short, paunch more prominent than he likes it to be, and his right hand ahead of him, as if he might make a present of it to her. Seamus, she thinks, has the look of an exhausted beast of burden that is carrying more than twice its weight and rises to its diminished height, knees burdensomely bent and aching, gaze wary, and mouth pouting, as if annoyed. Look at him wanting to shake everyone’s hand; watch him hitching his belt up every so often and, while doing so, subtly touching his private parts as if making sure they are still there. Pray, how does he get around? What means of transport does he have, if any?
“I am Bile’s friend,” Seamus says loud enough for the benefit of all those overhearing him, this way defining a kind of kinship that he hopes will make sense to the armed and unarmed youths: a mascot for Bile, for friendship. She makes a knowing effort not to return the goggle-eyed stare of the youths, who, in her view, are merely highlighting their curiosity, it being the first time for them, perhaps, to see a Somali woman not in a veil welcoming a European man in view of so many of them. In broad daylight. Without a chaperone.
She says, “Seamus, I presume,” shaking his hand with the warmth of one who might even go as far as hugging him but stopping just short of that.
“Welcome to our city, Cambara,” he says, pronouncing faultlessly the guttural c with which her name begins. “Bile says hi and so does Dajaal, both having had the pleasure to make your acquaintance under unfavorable conditions. It seems to me I am the lucky one, in that I meet you when you look rested, relaxed, and ready to host me at your hotel.”
“The pleasure of meeting you in this friendlier situation is all mine, Seamus,” she says, mouthing his disyllabic name as if taking more of an ownership than she has meant to.
When the waiter arrives, carrying a double espresso for him, Cambara points Seamus to a chair, which he takes, his back to the youths who are presently undressing both of them with their leering. Seamus says, “Thanks,” instinctively, addressing his word neither to her nor to the waiter. He gives the waiter sufficient time to move away, shifting in his seat, then has his first long, pensive sip of the coffee but stops short of telling Cambara whether it is to his taste or not.
He pulls at the bristles on his chin, now and then rooting out a loose hair snuggling in the bend of his fat, thick fingers with the thoughtfulness of a farmer picking weeds in the underbrush. Something about the way he is sitting tells her that Seamus has grown into his Somaliness in the same way alien vegetation adapts to take root eventually in the soil in which it has been planted.
“Tell me,” Seamus says conversationally.
“Where does one begin?” she says. She sounds evidently charmed, her cheerfulness as spontaneous as a baby’s first grin.
“Begin anywhere,” he smiles encouragingly. “Anywhere will do.”
“I am sure you are familiar with John Coltrane?”
“Not as much as you are, I presume.”
“My favorite Coltrane is ‘A Love Supreme.’
“And is that where you want to begin?”
“I may equally begin it with a moment of on-the-level sadness, when one discovers one’s partner is glorying in one’s debasement, luxuriating in it?” She looks away, as though embarrassed, maybe because she is uncertain if he is following her meaning.
Her hand moves toward the upper part of her cheek — a woman who hasn’t decided whether she is wiping away tears or removing a bit of kohl with a Kleenex. She recalls not putting on eyeliner for several months now — she, who has trained as a makeup artist — not since losing her dear, darling son.
“My son died,” she says. “Drowned.”
“I am very sorry,” Seamus says, looking away.
“In my husband’s lover’s pool.”
He mouths the word “Sorry,” but issues not a sound. Again, he looks away and then at his fingernails, which, Cambara notices, either have been chewed down to the flesh or are long and dirty.
“You could say that I’ve come here to grieve.”
Seamus swallows as if he had a fish bone in his throat, which he clears. He is the image of a man who wants to help but does not know how, who wants to say something but has no idea what words will express what is on his mind.
Then after a long silence, when Cambara is at a loss for words, he says, “And while grieving, while mourning…”
“I’ve vowed to recover our family property.”
“Kiin has made no mention of that.”
“What has she spoken to you about?”
“Mourning, peace, and masks,” he says, brief in his choice of words, as if tapping out his thinking in Morse.
“I hope to be of some service to the community of women among whom I find myself,” Cambara explains. “I am thrilled Kiin has asked me to make my contribution in that regard.”
Seamus behaves as if he is ill prepared for what he is about to say, and so he frets, his beady eyes dwelling on his nails, which, biting, he has cut close to the flesh and are bleeding a little. In the disquiet that is of a piece with his absentmindedness, he puts his finger in his mouth and, tasting blood, frowns.
He says, “Put plainly, you need our help.”
“That’s right.”
As the waiter returns, this time with Seamus’s order of liver-and-pancake breakfast, Seamus smiles distractedly, then she sees his right hand going up and waving with enthusiasm to someone, she presumes. Cambara wants to know whom he is greeting, notwithstanding, and spots Kiin gesticulating and finally touching her open palm to her lips in a quick dispatch of kisses to both of them before moving away from the balcony of the upstairs of the outhouse.
Cambara asks Seamus, “How is Bile?”
Seamus replies, “He is a little unwell.”
“What’s ailing him? Is he depressed?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” agrees Seamus.
Then he beckons to the waiter who is standing close by, against the wall. In accented Somali he says he would like another espresso, no sugar, please.
“Tell me in plain language what it is you need help with,” Seamus says to Cambara, “and I will see what I can do and tell you whether or not I can.”
She speaks plainly and to the point, starting from the beginning, now that she is no longer nervous in his presence and need not try to impress him. She talks animatedly about her plans: how she will be grateful for any assistance he can offer her, especially in the carving of masks. Then she explains that she has already sketched everything herself and shares with him the pencil drawings she has done on her sketch pad.