Gravel Heart(71)
On my way home I passed people I knew, and some of them had already heard. News of such events travelled quickly, then the rumours and the explanations began, and then slowly, after some days, information emerged from witnesses about the whereabouts of the poor man who had been arrested, and maybe even why. Sometimes it was only the rumours and the wild theories that accompanied them that people remembered. I disentangled myself from the curious questioning as politely as I could, after all I really knew nothing, but I was grateful that Amir’s arrest was so widely known. It was safer that way.
Saida was distraught when she heard there was no news. ‘You found out nothing,’ she said, making me feel useless and cowardly. She must have seen that her words hurt me because she reached out to touch my hand and called me habibi. ‘We don’t know who took him, or why, or where to,’ she said. ‘It’s unbearable, we can’t sit and do nothing. Isn’t there someone we know?’
That’s how it was, you see. Whenever some hardship came, people asked if there was anyone to go to, someone who would help them. That’s how it still is. I said that I would go and see if Yusuf would agree to help us find out something. You remember him? We were at school together and were very good friends when we were younger. As I cycled towards Yusuf’s father’s house, I debated if I should ring first. There was a shop on the way where I could stop and do that. Yusuf’s father was now a powerful man in the government, Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs. Yusuf himself was also a junior official in the ministry. I would see him sometimes, driving by in his gleaming red Honda with his sunglasses on. It made me smile to see him drive by like someone on TV. He always gave me a wave if he caught sight of me, which made me think some of the old feeling between us was still there. When we ran into each other in town we still had time for greetings and conversation. The last time we met I had teased him about his diplomatic career and Yusuf said he was expecting a posting to Washington soon. He was playing up his position as a way of making a joke, of being sarcastic about his own importance, but that did not mean he was not important. All the children of the powerful were being groomed to be powerful too. That is what families do, if for no other reason than to ensure the security of their plunder. That’s how things are.
Yusuf lived in a wing of his father’s house, with his wife and child. Imagine how big that house would have to be to accommodate a grandee and his consort, and have wings large enough for his children and their families, and perhaps outhouses for their servants and their guard dogs, and garages for their cars. If I rang beforehand, it would perhaps turn out that the telephones were bugged, not to spy on the deputy minister but to protect him and his family from nuisance and insult, so that any such callers could be traced and punished for their discourtesy. And if they were bugged, Yusuf would have to be cautious and perhaps would try to get rid of me quickly if it turned out that I was asking indiscreet questions. Perhaps he would try to get rid of me anyway if I spoke to him on the phone, even if it were not bugged. Promise to help then do nothing. It would be easier to do that on the phone than to my face.
On the other hand, if I just turned up outside the deputy minister’s mansion, which I knew had walls topped with barbed wire as well as an armed guard in a kennel beside the gate, I was not likely to be allowed to reach Yusuf. I might even be arrested for something: disturbing the peace, suspicious behaviour, audacity. It was still late afternoon and I thought that might help, as if I might be there on pre-arranged business rather than disturbing the family while they were relaxing. I thought I would rely on the old-fashioned politeness usually extended to a caller. And if that failed, then I would ring and arrange to see Yusuf at his office the next day. That was what went rather anxiously through my mind as I cycled to ask for his help.
The deputy minister’s house was set back some fifty metres from the main road. The ground either side of the drive was cultivated, with hibiscus and bougainvillaea and oleander and cannas and other plants and bushes I did not recognise. This spectacle was protected from the attentions of adventurous children and wandering goats by a chicken-wire fence on the verge. The house was on the edge of town, and some people brought goats there to graze. I am talking about twenty-five years ago. Now that area is built up, although the houses you see there are still mansions with large gardens.
When I turned into the drive of the deputy minister’s house I saw there were two soldiers at the tall green gate. One of them was armed and the other was without his beret, as if he was off-duty and standing there informally, rubbing his head in an absent-minded way. I dismounted some metres from the gate and wheeled my bicycle towards them, to give them plenty of time to observe my approach. I had never in my life touched a gun or even the sleeve of a man in uniform, though both were ubiquitous in our lives. I hoped there would not be a tremor in my voice when I spoke. Both guards saw me, and the one who was armed adjusted his beret carefully as I approached, as if he needed to look his best as he fired his gun at me. While I was still a couple of metres away, the one without a cap said, Simama hapo hapo, bwana. Stop right there, mister.
‘Salam alaikum,’ I said, and was relieved to receive unhesitating replies from both soldiers. It is always so reassuring to hear a prompt reply, because hesitation means the person you have greeted does not like you and is only replying because God commanded that a Muslim must reciprocate that call of blessing when another Muslim makes it (and must not when it is uttered by an unbeliever). ‘I’ve come to speak to Bwana Yusuf,’ I said.