Crossbones (16 page)

Jeebleh recalls how, in the 1977 war between Ethiopia and Somalia, they found laughter in the treacherous nature of head lice, and discovered the punning potential in speaking figuratively about matters of political import. As a schoolboy, he came down often enough with fevers brought on by malaria and all sorts of other bites. His mother would use kerosene to rid him of the lice or shave his head.

Malik says, “A flea-bitten nation lying dead by a roadside, spotty, dirty, and armpits itchy, head crawling with lice. Battalions of bedbugs on the move and in fatigues, light green their carapace of choice. In my dream, I saw battalions of lice moving in an eastward motion, coming toward the Somali–Ethiopian border town of Feerfeer.”

Jeebleh says, “The stakes are high and everyone is jittery, with the drums of war and the saber rattling, which are becoming deafening.”

Jeebleh then recalls to himself a brief passage from Günter Grass’s
Local Anesthetic,
in which the dentist describes tartar as “enemy number one” to the teeth. Imagine—tartar laying traps, ensnaring the
tongue; and the tongue, busily searching for crust formations, rough surfaces that nurture tartar, so that it can destroy them. No wonder diseased gums are rich with pockets in which germs find homes; no wonder nations breed all sorts of persons, some of whom will cause the death of their own kind, betrayers, sellouts, subhuman suicides.

“Politics is a living thing, and you can never tell with living things,” Jeebleh says. “Living things kill or are killed; they walk away, they change alliances; they bite, they are crushed underfoot. Lice or not, living things are the darkness upon the face of the deep.”

Malik thinks, Nits, knocks, bites, and bellyaches, frets, furies, and mind-numbing fevers are little local pains. Little local aches caused by a chipped front tooth!

Breakfast is a simple affair: medium-size bowls of natural yogurt, a homemade gift from Cambara, eaten with two spoonfuls of marmalade for Jeebleh, who then makes an omelet with tomato and onion for Malik. Jeebleh has tea before joining Malik in coffee.

Dajaal telephones to say that, as Malik requested the previous night, he is bringing along Qasiir, his grandson, to try to repair Malik’s computer.

“Give us half an hour,” Jeebleh says.

Dajaal asks, “What about you, Jeebleh?”

Jeebleh replies, “I know that Malik wants to stay behind with Qasiir to work on the machine, but I would very much like to visit with Bile. From what she has told me, Cambara will be out shopping, and Bile will be alone, an ideal time to visit. He is expecting me, says he feels a lot better today, thank God.”

“Then I can come and fetch you from Bile’s after the business with Malik’s computer?” Dajaal suggests.

“We’ll arrange that when you come.”

Barely has Jeebleh given a bear hug to Qasiir, whom he remembers fondly from his previous visit as “cool,” using the idiom of the young, and introduced him to Malik, when it occurs to him that he must discuss with Malik the possibility of drafting Qasiir in their attempt to locate Taxliil. Jeebleh feels certain that Qasiir will have contacts among his former fellow militiamen, some of whom must be serving the current Courts dispensation.

By Jeebleh’s recollection, Qasiir was quick, bright, and trustworthy, a levelheaded young man with a reputation for calculating risks before making a move; he was different from many of his peers. Today Qasiir has on a pair of ironed jeans, a shirt a size too small, and sneakers that look overused. His belt has a buckle the size of a fist and on his chin he sports a tuft of hair too sparse to bother with. He wears a shoulder holster, too, with a pistol in it.

“Look at you,” Jeebleh says, “all grown up and with a family of your own. You have a child, don’t you? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, such an active one he keeps us awake.”

Jeebleh observes that Qasiir is physically and temperamentally different from the teenager on whom he had last set eyes a decade or so ago. He has put on some weight around the waist, but he carries it with ease.

“I am surprised you’re still wearing jeans,” Jeebleh says. “Don’t your peers who have gone over and made common cause with the robed, bearded lot look upon a jeans-wearer with suspicion?”

“Many do, but those close to me know the score.”

“You don’t go to mosques wearing jeans, do you?”

“As if that matters,” Dajaal says.

Qasiir says, “Not on Fridays, Grandpa.”

Malik is momentarily distracted by the fact that Qasiir addresses
Dajaal, his granduncle, as “Grandpa.” Then he remembers that the term
granduncle
has no equivalent in Somali. He knows from his own experience how taxing it can be to address Jeebleh in any tongue, for he cannot bring himself to address him as “uncle,” as a Somali son-in-law might, but “father-in-law” is too awkward and formal. Maybe the problem of how to address in-laws is a problem nobody has resolved in any language, anywhere.

“You go to mosque only on Friday?” asks Malik.

“I want to be seen, don’t I?”

“It’s all part of the show,” Dajaal says.

Malik asks, “If it’s true that the religionists give women so many lashes if they are seen in the streets unveiled, how do you explain that jeans-wearing men are not penalized? I wouldn’t be surprised if some thought you were sabotaging the Islamic way of life.”

Qasiir is, as Jeebleh expects, quick on the uptake. “It is possible that they let me be because several of my mates are active Shabaab members, with considerable clout. I know these friends better than anyone, know that they exchanged their status as clan-based militiamen for a white robe and a beard because many are too lazy to bother finding razor blades and shaving daily.”

Dajaal says, “Copycats, that’s what they are.”

Jeebleh remembers a French proverb that says that while a man with one watch knows what the time is, a man with two may become uncertain as to the precise time, because of the watches’ disparity. He thinks that because Qasiir’s peers, Janus-faced, look to both the past and the future, they may be likely to help.

“Received wisdom has it that everybody knows everybody’s business in Mogadiscio,” Jeebleh says. “But tell me, Qasiir. Has this wisdom become inoperative under the current conditions?”

“How do you mean?” Qasiir asks.

Jeebleh says, “We hear of unknown assassins roaming around the
country, a group known as ‘fifth columnists’ creeping up on their prey and killing former senior army officers, intellectuals, journalists. Who are these assassins who operate by means of stealth and dare murder a man when he is coming out of a mosque?”

“We may think we know who they are, but we can’t say for certain,” Qasiir says.

Dajaal adds, “We suspect we know who is behind the killings, because we know who the victims are—mostly professionals.”

Jeebleh asks, “Is it possible to know where the two dozen young recruits from Minnesota have ended up, or by which route they have come?”

“We base what we say on a
kutiri-kuteen
, on hearsay, no evidence,” Dajaal replies. “In days of old, the functioning principle was the primacy of the clan. We knew that this was just a cover. Nowadays, the primacy is religion. The killer is described as a mujahid, who, if killed, becomes a martyr.”

Malik says, “How are the victims described?”

“To justify killing them, the victims are defined as apostates,” Qasiir responds. “I suppose there is nothing new in this.”

Then Dajaal speaks knowingly about how the killers move in on their prey like cat burglars. Once they kill, off they go—unseen.

Jeebleh says, “We’ll all have to be cautious.”

“A small indiscretion can lead to death and disaster,” Dajaal warns. “We’ll all have to be aware of where we are at all times, conscious of how we go about our daily business. As a journalist, Malik has to remain alert. Every minute of the day.”

“Caution at all times,” Jeebleh says.

Malik assures them that he is used to all that.

Jeebleh looks at his watch discreetly and says to Dajaal, “Time we went, you and I. For my lunch with Bile.”

“I’ll wait by the car,” Dajaal says, “and Qasiir will start working on
the computer, to repair it, if possible, or at least to recover the deleted files.”

Jeebleh is becoming anxious that he will be leaving in a couple of days, and may not bring the tasks he has set for himself to a successful end in such a brief time. Still, he hopes at least to lay a foundation for Malik to have help in searching for Taxliil, without sacrificing his resolution to pursue his writing. He joins his son-in-law in the room facing the sea before going down to join Dajaal. No sooner has Jeebleh embarked hesitantly and longwindedly on laying out the strands of his reasoning than Malik gently cuts him short, informing him that the thought of involving Qasiir has already occurred to him; he will do it at the opportune time.

Malik adds, “I’ll discuss the matter with Qasiir, and then we’ll firm it all up in your and Dajaal’s presence later. I’d like to receive Dajaal’s backing; it’s proper to do so.”

“Good idea,” Jeebleh agrees.

WHEN JEEBLEH IS BUZZED INTO BILE AND CAMBARA’S HOUSE, HE
finds the maid preparing to leave. Bile, seated, welcomes him with a warm handshake. He looks better. As Bile motions Jeebleh to a chair, the maid says, “Please, Bile, tell Cambara that you’ve asked me to leave early before I finished the job she asked me to finish. Please, please do so, because I don’t want her to be upset with me.”

Jeebleh thinks she can’t be very good at her job, considering the unswept corners where the dust has gathered, the unwashed dishes in the sink. Surely jobs as cushy as this are hard to come by in a city with one of the highest unemployment rates in the world.

Bile says, “I’ll tell Cambara that.”

But the maid lingers until Bile shakes his head in annoyance and says, “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

With her gone, Jeebleh and Bile cursorily revisit their shared past, as childhood playmates raised like brothers in the same household through their years in Padua.

Now Bile gives Jeebleh news that pleases him no end: of the three
lemon trees that Jeebleh planted at his mother’s grave site, two have already fruited, and the mango tree is producing fruits the size of a monkey’s head as well as providing shade to visitors at the cemetery. Bile says, “I’ve been there only twice in the past year, I am afraid, once in Dajaal’s company, the second time in Cambara’s.”

“I will treasure the memory of your kindness.”

“Come, come, she was
my
mother, too.”

Moved, Jeebleh begins to blink away tears, and the palms of his hands reach upward, bloodlessly pale as a lizard’s underside. Bile looks away, tracing the life line, the head line, the love line, the sun line, and finally the fate line of his own palm with his forefinger, as a blind man might. What a journey it has been, two friends taking parallel roads for a lifetime informed by the same ideals. Each served long prison terms as well, the last few years of Bile’s in solitary confinement. Then their fates took them to opposing destinations: Jeebleh’s, as a professor at a college in the United States and as a father of two daughters, one of whom has blessed him with a grandchild. Bile dedicates his life to the ideals of philanthropy; it is a great pity that civil wars do not admit the principle of charity toward others.