Salaado said, “One?”
“You don’t know whether she knew the three men, nor whether they frog-marched her out of the hospital. You haven’t enough information to go by,” he said, and waited for her to indicate that she was ready for the second point.
She said, “Two?”
“Will you tell the police the whole story? Will you tell them about her background? Will you talk about the suspicions, however unfounded, that she led the Ethiopian security forces to the WSLF warriors” hiding-place in Kallafo? Will you tell them this and more?” he challenged.
I didn’t know why then, but I found it odd that they both looked at me as if taking note of my presence for the first time. I acknowledged their stare by becoming more self-conscious than ever.
Salaado said, “He'll be the principal witness, won’t he?”
Uncle Hilaal nodded.
She sighed sadly and said, “I wish there was something we could do, short of pointing suspicious fingers at Askar or making life difficult for everyone. I wish she would just turn up, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “l like her very much. She is a strong woman and Fm sure shell survive this and many more difficulties. Something tells me she will”
“Yes, she was a likeable, strong woman,” said Uncle Hilaal.
The taste of blood in my mouth dominated my mind and I cut myself a slice of bread and chewed it. I took a sip of water to chase it down my dry throat. My thoughts led me to a familiar territory — I was younger again, I was with Misra, and she was my universe, she was the one who determined the circumferences of my cosmos, her body was an extension of mine, my body her third leg as we slept and snored away time, my head her third breast as she rolled away from the sheet which had covered her earlier on. I wished I could find answers to the meaning of the taste of blood in my mouth; I wished I knew what her disappearance meant.
“Do you think the Western Somali Liberation Front has something to do with her disappearance?” I asked, naturally worried about what I might do if it had.
In unison, they both said, “Oh no, no, no.”
For four solid days, we waited to hear news of Misra.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
Two days later
The eclipse was total — there was nearly eight minutes of primeval darkness. During this brief period, people sought one another’s company or tried to find refuge in the spacious word of the Almighty a word inside whose letters some discovered a shelter, a word in whose womb others obtained the required warmth, blood and love. The mosques began to fill with worshippers; the wealthy among the community of Muslims opened their gates to beggars whom they fed generously; those who were in love but had not yet decided when to marry proposed matrimony immediately their frightened souls were no longer depressed by the hour of trial, the hour of darkness; those who had planned to commit wicked perfidies undid the knots of their conspiracies, repenting the regretful time spent away from their Creator. In short, the streets of Mogadiscio were empty of strollers, the markets of buyers or sellers, and the mosques filled with men, the homes with women. And dogs barked unceasingly, afraid for their canine souls, donkeys brayed in fright whilst horses were seen running, as though mad, in the streets of the virtually empty centre of the city. “The apocalypse, now as always,” said Hilaal, himself falling into a dark of depression, “sooner or later, sex!”
And Askar looked up at the heavens and saw the moon’s shadow obscuring the sun’s light. It was a most unique experience — a darkness gathering like dust, a rim of faint light, the sky dark as the eclipsed pathway, the moon moving, its shadow racing across the earth from one horizon to the other. He was indeed fascinated by all this, which he thought he would never forget, like one doesn’t forget a most distinct personality one has encountered only once. Askar would preserve the memory of this moment, forever, in his head, a thought treasured among his most memorable thoughts, an event amongst the events to be remembered forever and after, like the stare Misra held “preserved” in her vision of him the day she found him, the “stare” which focussed on the centre of her guilt and made her “come” in blood. “Sex, sooner or later.”
However, it pained him immensely to see Uncle Hilaal looking so unwell, silent and depressed. (Salaado had gone out to do the week’s shopping and hadn’t returned as yet.) It seemed as though Hilaal had suddenly aged. He walked about as old people do, looking straight ahead of himself, attentive, as seniles are, to the space surrounding his body, his feet firmly on the ground, his back a little too stooped, his gait shufflingly slow and predictable, his gaze absent-mindedly dwelling on the items of furniture in his peripheral vision. “I am depressed, like a woman in season,” he said. “It’s the eclipse, I'm afraid.”
Depressed, Hilaal’s voice had undergone substantial changes. For one thing, it lost its charm; for another, it had thinned. But why should an eclipse have such an effect on Hilaal’s psychology? Why should it play havoc on his bodily constitution? Why should his migraine be so acute as to create an imbalance in him, upsetting his view of the universe, impairing his sight, imposing a vertiginous viewpoint on every thought he had, distorting his perception of realities, why? He found no analogous cases in his annals with which to compare Hilaal’s state, save his memory of Misra in season. Her body ached, her hands pressed the kernels of her breasts, she sat for one second, only to rise a second later, remaining restless all the time, losing her temper often. Hilaal dropped into a black hole, deep as Misra’s depressions — Hilaal, whom he had never known to be unwell.
Presently, Hilaal walked fast past Askar without acknowledging his presence. A moment later, he walked past him a second time, but slowly, like somebody carrying a wobbly weight whose body leans forward on account of the burden. But he didn’t speak to Askar. And when he did, which was later, he pointed at things, he stared blankly at items as though he had forgotten what they were called. For instance, he touched his stomach, then made motions suggesting it was running. A little later, he tapped on his forehead and Askar wasn’t sure if he meant to say his head ached or that he had gone mad.
Askar was not affected by vertigo nor did his stomach run nor did his head ache. He retained his water intake, his body repelled nothing, his bladder expelled no liquid of any colour, unnecessarily. He went back and forth, making himself useful, offering assistance when he could, now a towel, now a glass of water, now a word of consolation, of assurance, now moral support and now physical support as Hilaal walked back from the toilet for the nth time. Askar thought he was as efficient as Karin, remembering how she plied the road between a woman in season and an old husband who lay on his back, disabled, invalid.
When it seemed Hilaal was feeling a little better, towards early afternoon (roughly siesta-time), Askar asked him how he was. Hilaal confirmed he was feeling better. Then, “I wonder how she is,” said Askar, without identifying the person to whom he was referring.
“Who?” said Hilaal, saying the word so fast he spat it out, as though it were hot and bitter at the same time.
Askar (was it deliberate or no, no one could tell) disregarded the question and went on, “And if she is well.”
“Who?” repeated Hilaal forcefully, his voice hoarse, his dry throat making a grating sound — something between a cough and the clearing of a throat. Askar wondered if, together with his intellectual sobriety, Hilaal had misplaced or been deprived of his memory too. Just at the moment Askar was remembering Misra’s depressive seasonals, Hilaal started. It was as if (Askar thought) Hilaal were a woman whose advanced pregnancy had given her a kick in the ribs. No, no, thought Askar. It was as if he was one of those robots which, before speaking, made hiccupping sounds, alerting their audience so they kept themselves ready for their messages. Hilaal said, “Do you mean Salaado?”