Season of Crimson Blossoms (21 page)

‘You've been kidnapped,' Gattuso announced from behind his mask. ‘If you don't cooperate, we kill you dead. If your people don't cooperate, we kill you dead. They don't pay money, we kill you dead. You play pranks with us, we kill you dead-dead. Understand?' He tormented the sudden silence with the rattle of his cracking knuckles.

The girl held her head in her hands.

It was the chloroform, Reza knew. ‘The headache will pass. You will be all right.'

‘Who are you? What do you want with me?' There was a hint of an exotic accent to her Hausa.

‘The boy you were with, was he your boyfriend?'

She looked up at Reza. ‘He's my cousin,
God damn it.
' She said the last words in English.

The two men looked at each other.

‘Your cousin, right? How are you related exactly?'

‘He got away, didn't he?'

Gattuso punched his palm. ‘You will answer the question. How are you related?'

‘Please, just let me go. Whatever your problem is, I know nothing about it.'

‘Answer the goddam question!'

She started crying.

Reza noticed Gattuso's increased restlessness, noticed his eyes jumping around, looking for something to smash. He guided him out and locked the door behind them.

They strode back to the living room where Dogo and Joe were playing Whot. Reza sat down and mulled over this new information. He understood now why Moses had called to ask them to hold on to her. Inadvertently, their mission, whatever it was, was still on course.

When her screams, muffled by the folds of emptiness, and the sounds of her fists on the door reverberated around the wide expanse of the house, he went back up, with Gattuso on his heels. She tried to rush past him when he opened the door. It was easy to grab her arm and fling her back onto the mat. Despite the fire that raged and leapt in her eyes each time she reached for his throat, she was weak and still unsteady from the drug. He parried her assault with relative ease but she kept striking wildly. She fell when he slapped her. There was a profundity to the silence ushered in by the sound of him striking her. It was the sort of silence that reminded him of the desolation in his heart.

She sat still, holding her breath, looking into his face as he held her upper arms. He saw a shade of dread crawl up into her eyes and felt her go limp. He enjoyed watching the fear he struck in her eating away her resistance.

‘You will give us the name and contacts of your people.'

She gave them a name to look for in her phone: her uncle, the tycoon.

‘He'd better pay up.' Gattuso thumped the door.

The girl looked at him briefly, over Reza's shoulder, and then turned her eyes back to the taller man. Reza stood up and said they would send up food.

‘Wait, please.'

Reza halted, still facing the door. When the silence lengthened, he turned and saw her lower her head. ‘What?'

‘I'm having my monthlies.'

His eyes widened. ‘Well, I wasn't planning on touching you, you understand.'

She shook her head. ‘I need pads.'

‘Oh! Ok. Pads. Indeed. Right, then. Pads.'

He went out and Gattuso locked the door from outside.

Gattuso, who had gone up with the food and a pack of pads, returned to announce that the girl had asked for Reza. Since his return from the pharmacy, Reza had sat beneath the window, legs stretched out before him, looking up at the floral patterns on the ceiling. He had gone out to get the pads, and to explore this largely isolated part of Jabi, where their operation base was, so he could get some air and clear his head. He had felt embarrassed asking for sanitary pads and had been relieved when the attendant did not seem to find his request particularly odd.

On the long trek back, he was comforted by the large expanse of uninhabited buildings lining the streets, some finished but empty, others uncompleted. It was a rich neighbourhood, he could see from the layout and the size of the houses. He had been reassured, as he had been the first time he came to look at the place, that there would be no one within earshot no matter how loudly she screamed.

He looked at Gattuso standing at the foot of the staircase, one hand resting on the railing, eyes expectant.

‘What the hell for?'

‘I don't know. She just said I should get the tall one.'

‘Tell her I am not here.'

But he saw how all three of them looked at him, eyes full of questions they wouldn't ask. He got up and dusted off his trousers, put on his mask and brushed past Gattuso on his way up.

The girl was standing by the window, which had been sealed from the outside with roofing sheets, her delicate fingers resting on the burglarproof bars.

He asked what she wanted.

‘I just wanted to thank you, for the pads, you know.' She turned to face him now.

He wondered why women had to be particular about the most inconsequential of things.

‘I need water, to wash.'

He turned to leave.

‘
Why are you doing this
?'

There was something appealing and natural about her accent when she spoke English, unlike the contrived nasal accents of the university girls who spoke and gesticulated flamboyantly when they came with their boyfriends to buy weed. He paused, wanting her to say more but still not wanting to answer the question.

‘I just want to understand what's happening … please.'

How much of what was happening did he really understand himself? ‘You just keep your mouth shut and you won't get killed.'

‘You've killed people before,
yeah? I saw it in your eyes.
'

Now he thought he saw her disappearing, melding into the blackness, into the night that grew as the walls fell away. That night, six years before, when Mike Two Guns had towered over him, demanding his money.

At thirty-five, Two Guns had dwarfed all the boys with his height, his bristling muscles and the legend of the two pistols he carried beneath his omnipresent jacket, the faded brown one he never washed. He had been the local go-to guy for all sorts of drugs, running his business through the boys, stocking them up with illicit goods they had to pay for in advance of retail, even if it meant from their own pockets. Most times, he slurred and swayed, high on coke or Tramol. Reza had chanced upon him stoned, sprawling beneath the Atili tree in the football field.

Two Guns had woken up to find Reza keeping watch over him and had leaned on the young man's shoulder as he staggered home. He had never allowed any of the boys to know where he lived. He had always drifted in the background, sometimes springing from behind the trees and walls to deliver a line before jumping back into the shadows. The import of that did not escape Reza.

He had been pleased when Two Guns started sending him to his weed suppliers to restock, or to shake up some of the other
boys who were defaulting on payment. The boys had to be milked whenever Two Guns needed money, which was often. He was constantly in debt. No one knew exactly to whom or to what extent.

But then Two Guns started making crazy demands, even on Reza. And when Reza could not pay up, Two Guns prodded him on the chest and blew smoke in his face. ‘Look, Reza, or whatever the fuck your name is, if you need to sell your bitch of a mama, sell her and get me my money. Otherwise, I'll waste you, you hear?'

Reza knew something had to give.

On a moonlit night when Mike Two Guns was high on Tramol and alcohol, staggering home and singing to himself, Reza followed him. In the football field where he had first earned Two Guns' trust, Reza snuck up on him and grabbed him from behind. The first three stabs were quick and Two Guns seemed astonished to see blood gushing from his stomach.

Reza stood panting, surprised by how easy it was to stab someone. He had been in knife fights where people had been cut before, he was not called Reza for nothing, but he had never actually stabbed anyone. He thought Two Guns would slump and die, as he had seen in movies, but the man staggered forward, grabbing Reza's shirt. Reza gasped. Suppressing the fear that came over him, he tried to loosen the grip on his shirt but Two Guns held on tightly, even though he was too weak to do anything else. Beyond the gleam of tears highlighted by the moonlight, Reza could see the questions floating in the wounded man's eyes. He had to finish it, end the tyranny that had subdued the boys and would certainly swallow him if he let it. He tightened his grip on the handle of the knife and plunged it in once more.

‘Please, just die.' Tears streamed down Reza's face. ‘Just die.'

When Two Guns, grunting, had pulled him closer, Reza stabbed him again. And again. He continued to stab until Two Guns' grip slackened and the man fell, first to his knees and then to the dust, wheezing, choking on his own blood.

Reza had felt powerful as he looked at the dying man as he lay in the dust. He had felt a kind of freedom he had never imagined possible.

He never bragged about it or even mentioned it but the next morning when the corpse was discovered in the field, the boys
looked in Reza's eyes and knew he was the one who had liberated them from the oppression of Two Guns. There was a new overlord, and he resided at San Siro. One after the other they had come to offer him the '
yan daba
greeting – tapping their right fists into their left palms and bowing their heads in reverence.

He took over the weed market but avoided coke and the cocktails; they made a man weak, like Two Guns. He wanted to be different, to run his business differently. He would not live in dread of the police, so he made an arrangement with them. It was these little decisions that set him apart.

Sometimes he saw the life dying out in Two Guns' eyes and the shock of betrayal after he had stabbed him the first few times. Sometimes he remembered how, at that point, he loathed Two Guns for his weakness. He remembered the exhilaration he had felt, something he had experienced each time he stuck a knife into someone he thought deserved it. And there had been the tear-jerking gratification he had felt seeing Two Guns lying in the dust and listening to his wheezing breath fading into the long, long night.

‘
Yeah
?' The girl's voice intruded into his reverie. She was looking at him, expectantly.

He looked at her hair, at her modest breasts, her gracious hips. ‘There's nothing beautiful about killing people.'

When she looked up, their eyes met, briefly, before she looked down.

He turned and went out of the room. Locking the door behind him, he reached into his pocket for his phone.

The gold necklace stood out against Binta's skin and dazzled her as the lights shimmered off the accents of its chain. She smiled sadly into the mirror, reached out and caressed the pendant between her thumb and forefinger.

‘Hassan, I really can't accept this.'

Reza put his arms around her, pressing himself into her back. ‘You don't like it?'

‘No, no, Hassan. I do. But I just can't … take it.'

‘I want you to have it, in place of the ones I took from you the first time.'

‘Oh, I see. Is this some kind of payback then?'

‘Yes, if you like.'

‘But it's more expensive than mine.'

He crushed her against him so that she raised her head and laughed. He lifted her to the bed, undid her wrapper and cast it aside, running his hands over her hips. When he ran his hand over her cornrows, he was disappointed her hair wasn't silky, like Leila's. He rolled off her but she climbed on top of him, kissing him awkwardly.

She noticed he wasn't responding as passionately as he usually
did, so she sat astride his lean body and cast an enquiring gaze at him. He lowered his eyes to her sagging breasts and for the first time wondered what he was doing with her.

When he looked up and saw disappointment clouding her face, he turned her over on her back, but her probing look bothered him. So he turned her over again and positioned her on all fours. Eager to get it over with, he slid into her from behind, thrusting lethargically at first. But the noises she made, moaning with fervour, awakened his desire and he thrust with more gusto, his crotch slapping against her rear. It took him forever to come.

After he had emptied himself into her, grunting like a desperate animal, she lay beside him and played with the little anthills on his head. ‘You made me miss the madrasa today.'

‘Sorry about that.'

She thanked him for the necklace and he laughed and ran a finger down her body to her navel and back up. ‘I wanted to see you yesterday.' He circled her nipple with his finger.

‘I know. I went to see my son. He lives with his family in Maitama.'

‘Oh. Is he the one I'm supposed to see to ask for your hand?' he laughed.

Binta laughed too, a laughter that rolled and eventually petered into hollowness. Before then, it had never occurred to her that he would have such notions, and when she looked at his eyes and saw he was joking, she felt relieved. She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘He will shoot you the moment he sees this hair of yours.'

Reza ran his hand over his hair and laughed some more. She thought there was some strain in his laughter this time.

‘Have you ever been in love before?' The question came out of her suddenly and she wondered why she was asking.

‘Love? Ha ha!'

‘You must have loved. You young ones have that luxury.'

He thought for a while. ‘There was a girl, once. I was young, you understand. Back in secondary school. We used to walk home together. She was cute, a little plump, you understand.'

‘What happened to her?'

‘I don't know. Some rich dude came and her parents married her off. The next time I saw her, she was carrying this hideous
baby and she said, “Reza, see the ugly child I have. If it had been yours, it would have been cute.”'

Binta laughed, slapping his chest.

He sat up and reached for the backpack he had placed at the foot of the bed when he came in. From inside, he produced two takeaway packs of rice and chicken and a carton of juice. He set them on the little table in the middle of the room and pulled the table closer to the bed.

‘Have some chicken.'

Binta sat up. ‘Were you heartbroken? When the girl got married, I mean.'

‘I suppose I was. I wanted to leave town.' He started eating.

‘Was that why you left home?' She knew she was reaching deep into him, into the dark chambers where he hid his most private memories.

‘No, no,' He filled his mouth with food and she had to wait for him to swallow.

‘What happened?'

He stared into the mist of reminiscence. ‘I was seventeen or so, I don't really remember, you understand.' His voice sounded distant. ‘I was lying in my room; I had been stoned the night before so I was in all morning with the hangover. And these women, my father's wives, they started talking about her … that woman. She had just come from Saudi and left. And they started talking about what she had been doing in Saudi and stuff, you understand, calling her all sorts of names and saying how useless I was and stuff. I just got up and went out.'

He paused and took a sip. ‘They saw me and their mouths hung open like this.' He let his jaw drop for a while. ‘I just walked out.'

When the silence grew longer, she asked him what had happened next.

‘Nothing. I just left. I wasn't doing anything there anyway, you understand? Just saw a car heading this way and I got in. Had no idea what I would do. I just left.'

She patted him on the back and leaned against him. She had often wondered, in her many moments of doubt, what it would feel like to just open the door and go, like a bird escaping from a cage. There had been times she had felt like walking but had
lacked the mettle. She felt that way as she rested her head on his back, contemplating, even if frivolously, the possibility of walking away, with him, to places where they could live and love, unencumbered by communal shackles and familial expectations. But she knew it was impossible. He had his whole life ahead of him and she had to prepare herself for the inevitability of loss, of his tiring of her. She sighed and lay back on the bed.

Reza tore a chunk of meat. ‘Come on, it's all good now. Come, let's eat.'

She smiled sadly and sat up again to join him.

He did not notice that she only picked at the food and, when he was done eating, he reached into his bag once more and brought out several bundles of notes. He slapped them on the table one after the other while she gaped at him with a half-eaten piece of chicken in her hand.

‘Where did you get all this?'

Reza seemed delighted by the look on her face and when he laughed, the room resonated with a rich self-satisfaction she had formerly only associated with Munkaila.

‘I need you to keep this for me.'

‘Where did you get all this money? Did you steal it?'

‘Hey, relax. I told you I was going to be handling some business for my boss. This is just the advance.'

‘Advance! What sort of business is this?' She put down the meat. She could see rebellion crawling into his eyes. But she too was feeling confrontational.

‘You are not my mother, you know.' His voice was calm but resolute.

‘Oh, what are you trying to say now?'

‘Nothing. Nothing.' He started shoving the money back in the bag. ‘I won't have you judge me.'

‘I am not judging you. I am just asking questions.'

He sprang to his feet. ‘Why must you ask questions? Why?!'

She could see his taut muscles rippling with restrained anger so she started gathering her things. As she stood before the mirror, tying her wrapper, adjusting her dress, the gleam of gold around her neck caught her eyes. She unclasped the necklace and placed
it on the table. She felt him grab her and spin her around, his arm raised, ready to strike her.

The moment congealed into a haunting image: him standing over her, arms poised, frozen, one motion away from striking, eyes angry and daring, facial muscles quavering; her looking up to him in consternation, terrified even.

When he put his arm down and turned away from her, Binta put her hand on the cheek he almost struck, imagining the pain he would have inflicted on her, imagining the dent it would have made to her pride. Above the wild thumps of her heart, she felt the ripple of the sheer menace that had just rocked the nest they had built together and cushioned with desire and other sentiments they refused to name.

Hureira could not understand Fa'iza's agitation as she drew furious lines in her secret book. Upon her return from school and without even taking off her uniform, Fa'iza had pulled out her secret book and started drawing, her brow furrowed and her fingers clamped hard on the pen. But Hureira knew the manifestation of an imminent djinn possession, she knew the signs. Not inclined to take the risk of her body appealling to some dark, ethereal entities, she removed herself from Fa'iza's presence and went to sit out on the veranda, next to Hadiza's petunias, and began clipping her nails.

She was still sitting there when the Short Ones entered in long, floral dresses – Abida in gold, Kareema in sunset orange. Their veils trailed behind them as they swung their hips, almost to a rhythm.

‘Aunty Hureira.' Even that seemed chorused.

Hureira smiled, collected the novellas Abida was holding, skimmed over the covers and flipped through the pages. She kept one beside her. ‘I'm going to read this.'

The girls looked at one another. The consent came eventually, after some hesitation, in the form of a nod. And when Hureira told them Fai'za was acting crazy inside, they excused themselves and went in.

They found Fa'iza attempting to hide away the book she had been drawing in and trying, at the same time, to wipe away tears. It was Abida who enquired what had happened.

Fa'iza sat down against the wall with a bland expression. She looked up at the girls. ‘So which books have you brought for me?'

She collected them and looked through unenthusiastically. Her apathy deepened when she learnt that Hureira had taken the one she had been looking forward to reading the most. She shrugged but said nothing.

Abida patted her on the knees. ‘Don't worry, you will like these ones.'

‘Sure, sure.' Kareema walked to the mirror and patted her cheeks. ‘And where is your aunt?'

‘My aunt? I don't know. She went out, I guess.'

‘Mhmmm.'

‘What?'

‘Oh, nothing.' Abida's laughter sounded contrived, even she knew. ‘Nothing, really.'

‘What are you not telling me?'

The Short Ones noted yet again Fa'iza's increasing indifference to the little things that used to animate her.

Abida took hold of her hand. ‘Amin, what's wrong with you?'

‘Me? Nothing.'

Kareema scoffed, ‘Sure, there is. You are acting funny.'

‘Sure, sure.'

‘Acting funny? I don't know—' but as she said it, her voice quaked and she started snivelling. Abida put her arm around her shoulders and Fa'iza leaned onto her. When Ummi, back from playing at the neighbours', barged in with her stuffed doll, she was astounded by the sight of a teary-eyed Fa'iza, with the Short Ones sitting on either side of her looking morose.

‘Why are you beating my sister?'

The Short Ones laughed. Fa'iza smiled through her tears. ‘They are not beating me, silly.'

But Ummi was already flying out of the room to report the incident to her mother. Hureira rushed in and found the girls laughing.

She turned to her daughter. ‘Stupid girl, is that how they beat someone?' She hissed and went back to the veranda.

Kareema stretched on the bed and started humming. It was obvious there was something she was itching to say. Abida knew. She, too, was worried.

‘So, what's with Hajiya and Reza?' Kareema asked at last.

‘Karee-ma!' Abida clapped her hands.

‘Hajiya? Reza? What do you mean?'

‘What's she doing with him?'

‘With him? I don't know.' Fa'iza waved away the mental image of the man's shoes she had seen the other day at the front door, and then on Reza's feet.

‘Well, people have been saying things, you know.' Abida leaned away from Fa'iza.

‘Things? What things?'

‘Sure, sure. Things about the way Hajiya is running around with Reza.' Kareema spat out his name as if it stung her tongue.

‘Karee-ma!'

‘Oh, shut up, Abida. Have you not heard what the women from the madrasa have been saying about how she was seen going into Shagali Hotel with Reza.'

Fa'iza put her hand over her mouth. ‘
Oh, la ilaha ilallahu
! Kareema, how could you say such a thing?'

‘Abida, tell her.'

Abida looked away.

‘Tell her, I said.'

‘How can I say what I don't know?'

‘Well, tell her about San Siro. You were there. You saw that.'

‘Saw what? Abida, what did you see?'

‘Well, I don't know. We saw Hajiya at San Siro. Very early in the morning.'

‘Sure, sure.'

‘But we didn't know what she went there to do.'

‘Oh, stop being ridiculous, Abida. Did you not see her with Reza?'

‘So?'

‘She has been going to San Siro and now all the women are talking about her going to Shagali to have a tryst with that
dan iska
.'