The Camel Bookmobile (19 page)

The Librarian

T
HE
C
AMEL
B
OOKMOBILE WAS ON THE MOVE, HEADED FOR
its bimonthly visit with two tribes that, loosely put, neighbored each other. Mr. Abasi, astride Siti, led the way beneath a sky decorated with silky white filaments draped so far above the ground they seemed to belong to another world. Four weeks ago, he’d seen a herd of zebras grazing in this area. Now they were gone and the grass was browning from the bottom up. The earth was undeniably flexing its muscles, and without a respectable spell of the Millet Rains, it would reclaim its prominence on the plains. Then they’d see that Mr. Abasi had been right, these foreigners who didn’t understand about drought and famine and nomads. Then the “villages” visited by the bookmobile would vanish like the water holes themselves, probably with a good portion of the country’s store of books. And none more quickly than Mididima.

But he’d given up for good on trying to enlighten anyone. Word of the Camel Bookmobile had made a bit of a splash in the international press, from the Netherlands to Belorussia, thanks to media packets distributed by the American companies that were helping fund it. File photos of Miss
Sweeney had been dispatched, and Mr. Abasi’s boss had been quoted. A photographer even flew in from London to shoot roll upon roll of the camels and the books. Siti was still adorned with the coins and tassels provided for the event.

Frankly, Mr. Abasi had other concerns. That was why he’d been looking forward to today’s trip in a way he never did. He had worries to discuss, and no one with whom he could appropriately discuss them. But there was Siti. Since that day when he’d made his startling discovery, he’d grown to appreciate the reversal of fate that his ancestors handed him. He could talk to his mother now. And she couldn’t talk back.

He glanced behind him and saw that he was far enough ahead of the others, so he bent forward, putting his mouth close to the camel’s small but powerful ear.

“I know you liked your missionaries, Mother,” Mr. Abasi said, speaking in a brusque whisper. “Especially the”—and here he snorted—“missionary food.”

Siti’s muscular nostrils flared as she groaned, a sliding four-toned call of warning. Mr. Abasi paid no attention. Such daring in his speech was permitted now.

“Yes, they helped pay for my stay in England, the bit that the scholarship didn’t cover,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “But I cannot tolerate these foreigners any longer. At least, not unless they simply go quickly skipping off into the bush with their smorgasbord of cameras. Let them spend their time chasing migrating wildebeests, or floating in hot-air balloons, or skydiving, dear God—or only our dead ancestors know what. As long as they have nothing to do with me.”

Siti’s ears cocked back to show she was listening. Mr. Abasi found this gratifying.

“I’ve spent years—my whole life, really—observing these visitors. I admit I used to envy them their small, obscure privileges—complimentary perfumed shampoos provided by the game lodges, and drinks served in tents looking out at the sunset. I envied them, too, their self-satisfaction. By the end of their safari adventures, they always seemed to feel quite—
intrepid
, that’s the word. They went home content that they’d weathered the African experience, and happy enough to leave the Africans behind.”

Siti grumbled deep in her throat.

“I don’t mind being left behind,” Mr. Abasi said. “What I resent—what I always resented in people—is their insincerity.”

Siti ducked her head, setting her dangling coins jangling and pitching Mr. Abasi forward. He managed not to fall off.

“Straighten up; I’m not talking about you, Mother,” he said. “You were sincere—but way overblown. Anyway, don’t get offended with me. It’s Miss Sweeney I want to talk about. She’s a different sort of foreigner. She couldn’t be less interested in safaris or complimentary shampoos. And she doesn’t even look like the others. It’s as if she’s just shuttled in after a long trip from a more primitive place, with her dark, frizzy hair flying. No camouflage colors for her—instead, it’s that purple bag loaded with poetry books. She’s sincere, all right. Also annoying. Now, go this way.”

Mr. Abasi could tell from the angle of the sun that they had strayed a little too far east. As Siti turned slightly to get
back on track, he rubbed his eyes, suddenly noticing that the glare of the day made them water. “I’ve been sleeping poorly, waking early every day,” he said. “But what do you expect? I know that if anything happens, they’ll blame me. Yes, me! Even though I’ve opposed this whole operation from the start. I’ll be answerable.”

Siti gave a cry that almost sounded sympathetic.

“What might happen? Too many possibilities to count,” Mr. Abasi said. “She could be abducted by
shifta.
Mauled by a baboon. An irritable goat could gouge her. She could eat something poisonous or contract a mortal disease. An elder could put a fatal curse on her. She could be taken as a second wife.”

Mr. Abasi felt his own shoulders sag under this recounting of potential disasters. For a while, man and camel—or mother—traveled in silence. At last, Mr. Abasi recovered enough to go on. “I’m not cut out for this,” he said, “overseeing a white woman’s misguided cultural rescue mission.”

Siti stopped, looked back at him, winked, and bared her teeth. How well Mr. Abasi knew that false, knowing smile. His mother had warned him on many occasions that becoming a librarian was a mistake, involving too much needless pressure. She’d wanted him to sell small electronics instead. “But don’t listen to me,” she’d said more than once in an icy voice. “Better to be a man who talks only to himself. That way, you’ll never be contradicted.”

“Well, I admit it,” he said now. “This part of the job is mad. Allowing her to trim a lion’s mane would have been wiser.”

But what did he mean by the word
allowing
? Women—all women, as it turned out, and not only his mother—were untamable. It would be best to simply disregard them. “I’m trying,” he said aloud. “I’m trying to forget about her.”

Siti tossed her head in a knowing way.

“No, Mother, nothing like that. She’s only a responsibility,” Mr. Abasi said. “I’ll be perfectly happy when she’s gone.”

The camel gave a skeptical hiss, spitting a soft spray of saliva.

“Oh, be quiet,” he said, irritably. And, remembering how much his mother hated silence, he refused to talk for the rest of the trip.

Scar Boy

T
ABAN LOOKED UP FROM HIS DRAWING AND COCKED HIS
head, listening to the footsteps make a partial circle around his home and pause. The steps sounded light, so he doubted they belonged to a man. Man-steps worried him most right now. He could always peek through the holes in the wall and see who it was, of course. But he didn’t want to be reduced to peering from his home like a cowering bush rat. He took four slow breaths before the steps shuffled, then moved away.

“They’re hovering,” he said softly.

Badru lifted his head from his bowl of millet and studied Taban questioningly.

“They’ve been hovering for the last two days. Haven’t you noticed?”

Badru stared at him for another beat, then shrugged.

Taban knew his brother had no idea what he was talking about. Maybe Badru didn’t even believe him. Badru hadn’t developed a sixth sense about the footfalls. He’d never needed to—he didn’t spend as much time within these walls, sensing what lay outside.

Taban had been studying the footsteps for years. He
could tell a person’s size, sex, age, even mood. He was long accustomed to the usual pattern: the vibrations approached, picked up speed as they neared, and swerved slightly away as though his hut were barricaded by an invisible ring of poisonous knobthorn bushes.

The steps closest to his hut were always the shortest and quickest. Fear made feet move faster.

But lately, the footsteps had begun to follow a different path. They advanced toward his home, much nearer than before, and paused for as many as ten of Taban’s breaths before reversing and moving away. Taban felt the clear warning in that pause. They wanted the books. The white woman’s presence had made their desire more urgent. They thought Taban was useless, expendable, and maybe even evil. Eventually, the footsteps wouldn’t hesitate; they wouldn’t retreat.

Sometimes he thought he should simply leave before the situation became treacherous—not only for him, but for his father and Badru too. They weren’t as watchful as he had become; they wouldn’t even recognize the danger until too late. They shouldn’t be sacrificed.

But where would he go? How would he survive, day to day?

And besides, what about Kanika?

Kanika’s footsteps were what first attracted his attention. Her walk was light, almost tripping, and she always headed in his direction without pause. She’d never treated him with fear, never scurried away. His father’s heavy steps spoke of sorrow and guilt; Badru’s were short and controlled. Both reminded him of what he was. Of everyone in Mididima,
it was Kanika who treated him like any other person. He couldn’t resist that.

Now he heard footsteps again, a man, drawing near, stopping. This time Badru noticed too. He looked up and caught Taban’s eye. They sat silently, staring at each other as they listened. It made Taban think of bush rats cowering while the hook-beaked martial eagle looped overhead; and as much as he hated the feeling, he knew Badru hated it more, because Badru was less used to it and felt he didn’t deserve it.

Taban wished he could apologize, but he felt himself involuntarily harden against the blame he could see in his brother’s eyes—not only for the books, not even mainly for the books. For the hyena. For being what the hyena made him. And for how that had affected Badru’s life.

Badru waited until the steps walked away. Then, in one fluid movement, he stood, kicked the bowl he’d been eating from, turned, and pushed out the door.

Taban sat quietly in the empty hut. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Then he bowed to his drawing again.

The Drum Maker

A
BAYOMI WAS HEAVY-EYED AS HE WALKED BACK TO
M
IDIDIMA
. He’d been tired before, lie-down-on-the-ground, let-the-earth-take-him exhausted. But he’d always known that he had something to do next, and he’d known what it was, and that certainty had been like a drink of vigor. This time, when he thought of his next step, he lacked confidence. He changed his mind as easily as tall grass swayed in the wind.

He’d left the settlement at noon the day before and returned in the middle of the night to sit alone inside the
kilinge
. In houses around him, people slept—his sons, his friends, Jwahir. He’d watched the fire for hours, hoping his heart would calm, but the flames were mocking. “What do you want me to do?” he’d asked without any clear sense of who “you” was or what form an answer might take. No one replied.

He’d thought, unreasonable as it sounded, that someone would reply.

He’d left again before anyone had awakened, and walked in a widening spiral around Mididima until the muscles in his legs shivered with a desire for rest. He’d thought about staying away for another night. Hiding until decisions were
made, until issues were resolved without him, and then coming back to find what fate had left him.

But he couldn’t this time. He was heading back, within sight of his own home now. He had duties.

First, he had to speak with Taban about the missing books, and right away. It had already become too much a topic in Mididima. But he dreaded questioning Taban. He’d paid no attention to the books—for all he knew, his son had actually handed them over and was being accused without cause by those who’d never trusted him anyway. And besides, because Taban spent so much time inside, alone, he should be allowed his books if he did still have them. Abayomi didn’t want to be the one to take them away.

Still, it wasn’t fair to leave Badru, as spirited as he was, to defend his brother. Badru had long ago adopted the attitude of the attacking jackal, but it was feigned. Without Taban, Badru might now be learning to read with Matani. He would have been a thoughtful man, like Matani’s father. As it was, the hyena’s attack had disfigured Badru as well as his brother, though Badru’s were scars of defiance. He disdained authority as Abayomi never had. Abayomi only hoped this wouldn’t become his defining trait.

“Hello, Abayomi,” one of the men called out as he entered the settlement. He nodded greetings. He didn’t expect any questions about where or how he’d spent his night, and certainly not why. His neighbors, he knew, would accept and even honor his need for time apart; after all, no other man here had charge of children. As for his feelings for Jwahir, no one would guess. She’d already been taken, and he’d been unmarried so long he doubted that his maleness even oc
curred to anyone anymore. Besides, except when the Camel Bookmobile was visiting, he and Jwahir had been discreet.

Before he went home, he stopped to drink some of the water stored in plastic containers and kept under a small ramada. He shook several empty ones before he found one with water still inside. He’d been thirstier than he’d realized. He drank so quickly that a drop dribbled down his chin and dropped into the earth.

“The boys are fine?” he asked his cousin Chege.

“I saw Badru this morning,” Chege answered. “All was well.”

Abayomi felt only slightly reassured. Chege’s observations of the boys were superficial, he knew. Chege had not been forced to become half-female as Abayomi had, so he wouldn’t notice unless the stench of death emerged from Abayomi’s home. Abayomi’s sons needed their father. They always had, in different ways, and they would go on with that needing for three more years. Then, together, they would join their age group and leave him for month after month to herd cattle outside Mididima, and to form new, grown-up alliances. Already, Badru went to the dances that the young sometimes had beyond the settlement borders. Taban did not, but when the time came, he would follow tradition and go with those his age to herd cattle—he had to, if he hoped to become a man in Mididima.