greater the distance their voices have to travel, the higher the volume must be. Every passerby stops and stares and then continues walking, many shaking their heads, even though they, too, shout just as animatedly as this man when they make long-distance calls.
As Ahl waits, the man’s voice grows louder by the second, then suddenly he disconnects, and is quiet. He turns to Ahl, greets him warmly, and then opens a drawer and brings out a piece of paper with phone numbers written on it. The man’s lips move, like a child practicing the spelling of a new word, and then he says, employing his normal voice, “Here they are, the numbers you wanted.”
Ahl nods. “Thanks.”
“I’ve just spoken to Warsame,” says Ninety-Decibels. “All is well, as promised.”
Ahl is relieved that Ninety-Decibels does not confuse him by naming the names of Yusur’s relatives, whom he is expected to know but doesn’t; he has no desire to get mixed up with the local politics, if he can help it, and he won’t do so, unless the situation demands it. Staring at the names on the piece of paper torn from a child’s exercise book, Ahl is aware that he is encountering a catalog of relationships entangled through blood, marriage, or both. This is where his upbringing in an insulated nuclear family fails him. To operate well in Somalia, one memorizes and makes active use, on a daily basis, of a multitude of details having to do with who is who in relation to whom. Most Somali speakers can’t help but mention the clan names of everyone they talk about, and so he is often left utterly confused.
Ninety-Decibels continues, “Xalan and Warsame have been informed about your arrival, and one or both of them will meet your flight in Bosaso. They will take you to your hotel.”
Ninety-Decibels’s phone rings, and he answers it. To Ahl’s surprise, though, Ninety-Decibels lowers the timbre of his voice to forty decibels. Ahl assumes the man must be speaking to someone local, maybe next door. When he hangs up, Ninety-Decibels asks, “Will you be looking for Taxliil?”
Ahl hesitates visibly, but says with a straight face, “We have no idea where he is.”
“You say no news yet from your son?”
“We wait and hope,” Ahl says.
When the phone rings and Ninety-Decibels’s timbre escalates to 150 decibels, Ahl decides it is time to leave. As he departs, he mouths, “Thank you.”
DHOORRE, WEARING A DRESSING GOWN AND, UNDER IT, A PAIR OF pajamas and slippers, shifts in the discomfort of his sleep on the garden bench. Then he awakens in a startle, badly in need of a pee.
It takes him a while to remember that he came out to the porch to take a closer, admiring look at a gorgeous bird with an immense beak and colorful plumage. Then a gust of wind shut the door and he couldn’t get back in. The bird gone, he walked around the unkempt garden, where the trees, their bark like peeled-off skin, and the shrubs are emaciated from neglect. He feared he might come up against city riffraff camping out here, or someone fleeing the fighting, which has lately been ferocious. Property, after all, does not mean what it used to mean. He knows what he is talking about, he owned several houses, some of which were rented out. He was once an important man in Mogadiscio himself. Today he is a man without property, living in a house that his son himself is renting.
With no book to read and no one to talk to, he fell asleep on the garden bench. Now his bones are sore and the sciatica in his legs is extreme. He remembers he was having a sweet dream, in which he anda childhood friend were watching one of his favorite Italian movies, Vittorio De Sica’s
Shoeshine
. He recalls the mesmerizing beauty of the camera work as it captured the two boys riding a horse through Rome. Two boys living in innocence until tragedy strikes. There is no innocence in this city. After all, every resident of this city is guilty, even if no one admits to being a culprit.
He gets up,
As Ahl waits, the man’s voice grows louder by the second, then suddenly he disconnects, and is quiet. He turns to Ahl, greets him warmly, and then opens a drawer and brings out a piece of paper with phone numbers written on it. The man’s lips move, like a child practicing the spelling of a new word, and then he says, employing his normal voice, “Here they are, the numbers you wanted.”
Ahl nods. “Thanks.”
“I’ve just spoken to Warsame,” says Ninety-Decibels. “All is well, as promised.”
Ahl is relieved that Ninety-Decibels does not confuse him by naming the names of Yusur’s relatives, whom he is expected to know but doesn’t; he has no desire to get mixed up with the local politics, if he can help it, and he won’t do so, unless the situation demands it. Staring at the names on the piece of paper torn from a child’s exercise book, Ahl is aware that he is encountering a catalog of relationships entangled through blood, marriage, or both. This is where his upbringing in an insulated nuclear family fails him. To operate well in Somalia, one memorizes and makes active use, on a daily basis, of a multitude of details having to do with who is who in relation to whom. Most Somali speakers can’t help but mention the clan names of everyone they talk about, and so he is often left utterly confused.
Ninety-Decibels continues, “Xalan and Warsame have been informed about your arrival, and one or both of them will meet your flight in Bosaso. They will take you to your hotel.”
Ninety-Decibels’s phone rings, and he answers it. To Ahl’s surprise, though, Ninety-Decibels lowers the timbre of his voice to forty decibels. Ahl assumes the man must be speaking to someone local, maybe next door. When he hangs up, Ninety-Decibels asks, “Will you be looking for Taxliil?”
Ahl hesitates visibly, but says with a straight face, “We have no idea where he is.”
“You say no news yet from your son?”
“We wait and hope,” Ahl says.
When the phone rings and Ninety-Decibels’s timbre escalates to 150 decibels, Ahl decides it is time to leave. As he departs, he mouths, “Thank you.”
DHOORRE, WEARING A DRESSING GOWN AND, UNDER IT, A PAIR OF pajamas and slippers, shifts in the discomfort of his sleep on the garden bench. Then he awakens in a startle, badly in need of a pee.
It takes him a while to remember that he came out to the porch to take a closer, admiring look at a gorgeous bird with an immense beak and colorful plumage. Then a gust of wind shut the door and he couldn’t get back in. The bird gone, he walked around the unkempt garden, where the trees, their bark like peeled-off skin, and the shrubs are emaciated from neglect. He feared he might come up against city riffraff camping out here, or someone fleeing the fighting, which has lately been ferocious. Property, after all, does not mean what it used to mean. He knows what he is talking about, he owned several houses, some of which were rented out. He was once an important man in Mogadiscio himself. Today he is a man without property, living in a house that his son himself is renting.
With no book to read and no one to talk to, he fell asleep on the garden bench. Now his bones are sore and the sciatica in his legs is extreme. He remembers he was having a sweet dream, in which he anda childhood friend were watching one of his favorite Italian movies, Vittorio De Sica’s
Shoeshine
. He recalls the mesmerizing beauty of the camera work as it captured the two boys riding a horse through Rome. Two boys living in innocence until tragedy strikes. There is no innocence in this city. After all, every resident of this city is guilty, even if no one admits to being a culprit.
He gets up,
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