The Camel Bookmobile (8 page)

Matani felt the weight of Mr. Abasi moving close. “What’s this? We’re missing books?”

Matani massaged a fresh throbbing at his temple. “One young man is unwell today,” he said. His voice sounded faint, even to him. The missing books seemed an omen that stretched far beyond Scar Boy’s irresponsibility. He wished, suddenly, that he had mentioned the mosquito-eater to Jwahir. She would have comforted him, surely. She would have told him the incident was unimportant.

Mr. Abasi shrugged. “So let the sick recover. We do not need a roll call. We need only the books.”

Badru must have seen the look in Matani’s eyes that recommended—even pleaded for—silence, but he ignored it. “We do not know,” the brother said, “where the books are.”

“And you are?” Mr. Abasi demanded.

Now Badru did not reply. Now he chose to stay quiet.

“The brother of the ill one,” Matani said after a long moment.

Mr. Abasi shifted from foot to foot, gazed over at the camels, then out to the horizon. “So the books are lost, then,” he said.

“No, Mister Visitor,” Badru said.

Oh, the arrogance in the boy’s tone. It was clear now, and not only Matani could hear it. Mr. Abasi glared. “You don’t know where they are. Isn’t that the definition of lost?”

Matani cleared his throat, then spoke. “The boy means that his brother knows where they are—he must, of course he does—but he is not well today.”

“Not well enough to speak?” Mr. Abasi asked. “Unusual. But if so, then what about yesterday? It is a surprise that we have come to you today, the very same day twice a month that we make this jarring, endless trip?”

The chatter under the acacia tree, Matani noticed, had evaporated. The others all paused, their attention drawn to the knot of Badru, the librarian from Garissa, the teacher—and now the foreign woman, who was approaching with her clipboard.

“Matani?” Miss Sweeney said. “Is something wrong?”

“A young man has failed to return two books,” Mr. Abasi said.

Among the people of Mididima, whispers moved like wind swirling through the bush. Matani made out two words, and he was sure Badru heard them also: “Scar Boy.”

Mr. Abasi’s voice floated above all their heads. “We will pack up our load now,” he said. “No one will be allowed to keep any books. If you find the missing volumes, send word. In that case, we will come back to you again—unless, of course, your day is already filled by another tribe wishing to be visited by this library.”

The murmuring undertone was replaced by the subtle sound of grips tightening around book covers, and then a
sharp-edged belligerent silence. One young boy bent down and snatched up a volume at his feet. Matani felt the eyes of his neighbors turn toward him.

A long-necked bustard, half-tamed by some of the children, landed near the acacia tree. Matani stared at the bird a moment, feeling tightness in his chest.

“Perhaps, before we…” he began.

They were waiting, his neighbors, his students, exchanging glances with each other: some squatting on books as if these were eggs to be laid; others slipping books beneath thin shirts so their stomachs looked rectangular; still others holding books between their legs, spine out, as if that made the books invisible.

“I feel certain that…”

Matani fought to find the words. It was he, after all, who cajoled and scolded them into learning, who caned the younger ones when necessary. It was he who, in his neighbors’ eyes, made the library appear on the horizon. He was the go-between linking the villagers to the outsiders. Now that he and they faced this snake of an unfamiliar species, he had to be the one to defeat it.

“Once the young man is well…” he said.

But then his voice trailed off again, and he knew it would not return. The man who carries no weapon when he meets the snake must run, and fast.

It was not two missing books that defeated him. They would be recovered. It was a fear—unreasonable, surely—that Scar Boy’s irresponsibility foretold a larger loss, a more extensive unraveling.

“Hold it a minute here,” Miss Sweeney said. Kanika
stood by her side, and she’d been translating. “Who’s misplaced his books? Can I talk with him?”

Someone had spoken. Someone on his side had assumed a tone of authority. Matani surged with a gratefulness that he hoped Miss Sweeney could feel. “It is Scar Boy,” he said quickly. “He is unwell today. That is his brother.”

“This is the policy, Miss Sweeney,” Mr. Abasi said in a warning tone. “You agreed to it and it exists for good reason. If every settlement loses books, soon we will not have enough to continue this project of yours.”

“Scar Boy,” Miss Sweeney said slowly. “He’s…”

She let the words drop, but Matani met her eyes. “Yes,” he said.

She looked down at her clipboard, tapped her pen on it three times. “If he is unwell, of course he’s not brought the books,” she said. “Can’t someone else bring them?”

“The family,” Mr. Abasi said, “doesn’t know where they are.”

“Can’t someone run and ask him directly?” Miss Sweeney asked.

Matani spread his hands. “He goes mute from time to time. A reaction, perhaps, to his…” He felt censored by Badru’s gaze, even though Badru did not understand English. “To his circumstances,” he finished.

Miss Sweeney nodded as though she understood, but how could she? How could she know that the people of Mididima still couldn’t stand to look Scar Boy full in the face, even after all these years? It was not only his disfigurement. It was his attitude: the way he stood, the way he held himself apart as if morally superior, and his very silence,
which seemed to remind them of their own moments of shameful inattention like the one that had led to his maiming. That is what made him an outsider.

Miss Sweeney looked directly at Badru, studying him a moment. “Tell me, has your brother lost the books?” After a pause during which no one spoke, Matani translated.

“They are not lost,” Badru said without elaboration, and Matani translated his reply.

“If you don’t know where something is, it’s lost,” Mr. Abasi muttered.

“The books the boy checked out,” Miss Sweeney said, looking down at her clipboard, “were a child’s illustrated copy of
The Iliad and the Odyssey
and”—she hesitated—“a collection of Zen meditations?” She named the last one as a question and pursed her lips as though holding back some strong emotion—laughter? tears?—but when she spoke a moment later, her voice was calm. “Aren’t they somewhere in the home?”

“Or in the bush,” Mr. Abasi said, “or swallowed up by a leopard or burned in a fire or eaten in a meal.” He shook his head and muttered again. “Zen meditations. Dear God.”

“Let’s think a minute. What can we do?” Miss Sweeney addressed her question to Matani, who had no reply. Into the space left by his silence, Mr. Abasi spoke.

“This program of yours is well intentioned but flawed, an ill-fitted idea for tribes such as this,” Mr. Abasi said. “I’ve said this many times.”

“Not now, Mr. A.,” Miss Sweeney said.

But Mr. Abasi was unstoppable. “If we must transport library books across the desert, we must have rules,” he said,
voice rising. “Books are expensive to replace. Our standing library in Garissa could use a more extensive collection, but we are funding this instead. And these places have not a shilling to pay a fine. So we have to be absolute regarding the rules. Give each settlement an equal chance. Remain committed only to those who show full dependability.”

“And no room for the slightest error, Mr. A.?”

He shook his head adamantly. “No room,” he said. “You agreed to this when the program was established. Not all people are going to be able to learn your Western responsibility, Miss Sweeney. Not all people want to.”

The lead camel stirred next to the acacia, kicking up dust with a rear hoof.

“Matani, couldn’t you collect the books before we come next time? Then we’ll get them back, just a little late,” Miss Sweeney said. “There should be a grace period, after all.” She faced Mr. Abasi. “Every library I’ve ever heard of has a grace period.”

“Grace period? We don’t have that in my province,” Mr. Abasi said. “Besides, how can he guarantee?”

Matani had to restrain himself mightily not to nod at the reasonableness of the senior librarian’s words. Nothing could be guaranteed—not offspring, not rain, not recovery of a missing possession. Miss Sweeney was reminding Matani of his own sweet, outspoken Jwahir, and he wanted to help this foreign woman—he did—but he felt powerless to dissuade Mr. Abasi, who was gathering steam. He rubbed his temples again.

“Your policy, as I understand, is meant to prevent the willful destruction of books,” Miss Sweeney said. “Or their
misuse—like someone throwing them on the ground, Mr. A.” She tucked her clipboard under her arm. “People have already selected their books,” she said. “I’ve already written it all down.”

“Perhaps in the next place we will make sure each book is returned before any are allowed to be taken.”

“I suggested that,” Miss Sweeney said. “Weeks ago. You said it would take more time.” Matani detected a sharpness in her tone, faint but clear, that he couldn’t help but admire.

His neighbors were packed in close now, touching each other, breathing one another’s air, listening intently to words most couldn’t understand, tasting the intent of Miss Sweeney and of Mr. Abasi. Their arms, Matani noticed suddenly, were empty. Nor could anything be seen beneath their shirts. Undetectably, all the books had all been secreted away. Mr. Abasi would not be able to reclaim them today anyway.

Mr. Abasi must have observed this too. After a moment, he grunted. “We’ll give it two more weeks, then.”

“I think you’ve got a good idea, Mr. A.,” said Miss Sweeney.

“In the meantime, you’ll file a report explaining it.”

“Of course, Mr. A. If an explanation is needed, which I doubt. Matani will recover the missing books,” said Miss Sweeney. She grinned at the teacher.

Matani returned the smile, though he knew himself as trapped as an ignorant elephant in deep mud. What trapped him he could only sense, not yet name.

Kanika, whose expression showed she understood most
of what had occurred, was whispering to her grandmother and two others.

“Enough,” Mr. Abasi said. “We’re finished for today.”

Miss Sweeney glanced at Matani. She hesitated, and for a moment she seemed so unwilling to leave that Matani thought she was going to say good-bye to Mr. Abasi instead of to them. She looked over her shoulder toward Mididima’s homes, and then back to Mr. Abasi. “Fine,” she said. The youngest children ran forward to be patted by her one last time.

“If he’s not well, I’ll let him recover, but tomorrow I will see Scar Boy,” Matani told Badru. “Let him know.” His manner had stiffened now into what, for the first time today, might be considered teacherlike. His tone was, he knew, a worthless effort to mask the fear of failure that rose like bile in his stomach. He felt Mr. Abasi at his side and turned to him. In the librarian’s eyes, in his silence, Matani saw reflected Mr. Abasi’s utter conviction that the next library visit would be the last to Mididima. That meant there would be no education for his son, the one he intended to have.

Mr. Abasi turned away. “Load up,” he told the driver.

The lead camel stopped scratching her side against the acacia and gave a loud, dissatisfied snort from deep in her long throat. Matani, without words, watched as the drivers began repacking the boxes on the ground and the villagers, ducking as they would in a sandstorm, moved quickly toward their homes.

Part Two

H
umans in love whisper “forever” and “always” and convince themselves that they mean it, every time. Mosquitoes, on the other hand, take romance to the opposite extreme. The female mosquito need make love only once in her life. The sperm, stored in her body, is then hers to use at will.

—Mosquito Habits,
Dr. Sarah Jenkins
German-language edition, 1987

The Teacher

M
ATANI WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS HUT READING BY THE
last stingy pinch of sunlight when he was distracted by the sound of men working in concert to secure the thorn fence that would discourage wild animals from entering Mididima and attacking the livestock overnight. He stopped to listen to their voices—smooth chords sliding beneath the scratchy melody of bushes being dragged across the dry ground. He closed his book and tapped his fingernails on its cover, keeping time with the fluid rhythm of the men’s conversation. Why, he wondered, had Miss Sweeney given him this book about a poor baby boy poisoned by a scorpion, and a father with nothing more than eight graceless pearls to offer a greedy doctor?
The Pearl
. She called it a classic. Was it, instead, another omen? Combined with the overdue books and the dead mosquito-eater, it signaled something, he thought. Or maybe a lack of something. No water? No food? Or a son who would remain unborn?

No. He was rushing to conclude the worst when he’d read only the first dozen pages. It was because he’d had no time to calm down in the few hours since Mr. Abasi and the bookmobile had left. It offended him that Mr. Abasi
considered Mididima’s people unreliable and unworthy of the library books, and that he did not expect Matani to recover the two that Scar Boy had checked out.

He was wrong, Matani decided. The matter with Scar Boy would be resolved, and easily, in the morning. The infant in the story would recover. Matani himself would have a son, many sons. He would shed his superstitious side, so unbefitting a teacher.

“Husband?” called Jwahir from inside the house, more formal than usual but in a tone rich with unexpected tenderness. He’d thought she was still angry about the bookmobile, but in her voice he heard only love. How much he still had to learn about this creature, his wife.

“My dear?” he answered eagerly.

“My father of mine is here to see you,” Jwahir said.

My husband of mine.
That’s what she used to call Matani, letting her voice slip into the charcoal range. It had always been a prelude to intimacy. But it had been many weeks since she’d used that lusty phrase with him.