The Orchard of Lost Souls (28 page)

Roble sprinted up and pulled her away from the thorns, his heart thumping against her ribs, the moment only spoiled by the scent of dog shit on her boots. Crouched under his arm, shocked but
unharmed, Filsan had marched with him back to the checkpoint, all hostility between them evaporated. He was completely in shadow, just the outline of what a man should be, and she held on, pushing
closer and closer against him. She felt out of herself in an exhilarated, animalistic way, all her reticence and manners stripped away; she wanted to merge with him,
become
him. But Roble
had sat her down on the barrel at the checkpoint, handed her the torch and turned to the radio transmitter, shouting demands for immediate reinforcement, his eyes darting fearfully in every
direction. They had been separated that very night, he assigned to a checkpoint on the hills outside of town and she to Birjeeh to help coordinate Victory Pioneers with the armed forces already in
Hargeisa.

Over the next few days, each time Filsan sees a military truck careering through the streets, uniformed casualties prostrate on the back, she is chilled by the thought that Roble could be
amongst them. Far from being repelled and driven out of the city, the NFM have grown in number and entrenched themselves. Hundreds of rebels have returned from exile in the scrublands of Ethiopia,
from their desert lairs, carrying their scavenged weaponry on their backs. Veteran fighters, whose names and photographs pepper dossiers of wanted men, have come to wreak havoc, their apparent
resurrection a call to arms to thousands of the city’s angry youths.

At the checkpoint nearest to the National Theatre, Filsan oversees movement into the strategically important centre of the city. Most residents fled within the first hours of the bombardment,
but stragglers remain: the crippled and elderly, the patients thrown out of the hospital when it was requisitioned by the military, street children and lunatics freed from the asylum by a mortar
blow. Filsan switches on her radio and hears that the rebels have cut the water supply to the hospital and they need water to be trucked in immediately for the injured soldiers there.

Two members of the Victory Pioneers, Ahmed and Jimaale, are stationed at the checkpoint to help identify NFM sympathisers; they know everything about everyone – family, clan,
neighbourhood, occupation, associates – the years of busybodying finally paying off. They seem invigorated, their pockets bulging with watches and money confiscated at other checkpoints; they
keep asking the conscripts to give them a weapon but Filsan forbids it.

A group of civilians creeps up to the barrier, with bundles wrapped in blankets on their backs. The solitary male with them is around twelve years old and struggles to manoeuvre a cart full of
their worldly possessions.

They stop beside the barricade and wait.

‘Where have you come from?’ Filsan asks.

‘Iftiin,’ a young woman says, a strap across her forehead to secure the load on her back. She seems to lead the group, while the eldest woman leans against the wall panting.

‘What is your name and who are these people?’

‘Nurto Abdillahi Yusuf. These are my mother and siblings.’ She waves back without turning her head.

‘Her father used to work in the cinema; they are a well-known
anti
family. Check that cart, they are probably giving supplies to the enemies,’ shouts Ahmed, rushing to the
cart himself.

‘Stand back,’ Filsan orders before cutting through the tethers that hold the contents of the cart in place. She rummages within it: a foam mattress, a paper bag of medicines, sacks
of flour and rice, a
girgire
cooker, and then something that surprises her.

She digs the revolver out of the hole it has been hidden in within the mattress.

‘There!’ exclaims Jimaale. ‘Caught like a cat with a piece of chicken.’

‘It is for protection against bandits, we are just women and children, we need something for our safety,’ pleads Nurto.

‘Who gave it to you?’ Filsan checks the gun over; it is an old police model.

‘We have had it for years, my father bought it after we were burgled in the seventies, everyone has one, drunks and glue-sniffers were breaking in at night.’

‘Liar! Liar!’ Jimaale shoves the girl. ‘You are an
anti
! Why not call the police if you are broken into?’

‘We have seen you at protests against the government, you can’t lie to us.’ Ahmed kicks her to the ground.

Filsan pulls him away. ‘Take them to Birjeeh. They will discover the truth.’

Ahmed and Jimaale pull the bundles off their backs while Filsan ties Nurto’s wrists and then her mother’s. Her children fight Filsan’s hands away, but she resists striking them
and orders the two youngest conscripts to march the whole family to headquarters. As their figures recede, it strikes Filsan as ironic that they had delayed fleeing so they could take as many of
their possessions as possible, but now those very possessions impede their flight.

The crackle of the radio breaks into Filsan’s thoughts; on the end of the line is Lieutenant Hashi, the logistics officer, ordering she move to the checkpoint beside the radio station. She
leaves Ahmed and Jimaale to pilfer what they want from the cart and rushes to the next position.

Kawsar hears snatches of the chaos outside: the scrape of corrugated tin as it is pulled off the neighbouring homes, the
whoompf
of deep-throated cannons firing behind
the hotel, the ominous approach of footsteps in the courtyard. She senses her death is imminent; every part of her is cold and her heart beats sluggishly, hopelessly. A weight presses down on the
bed and she turns her head. Farah sits there in his favourite narrow-shouldered pinstripe suit; he leans back and sighs a bottomless sigh, ‘Who would have thought it would come to
this?’

It is so good to hear his deep, clear voice that it brings abrupt tears to her eyes.

‘
Kawsar-yaaro,
little Kawsar, you have struggled too much without me. Put it behind you now.’ He smiles and she recalls the shallow dimple in each cheek. ‘We have been
waiting for you.’

Teasingly, Hodan steps out of the kitchen, smiling her father’s smile and dressed in a satin wedding dress that pools on the floor around her.

‘Take me with you.’ Kawsar holds out her arms and lifts herself as far as she can.

As Hodan nears, Kawsar watches her perfect, luminous face fade until she sees nothing but dust motes floating in the air. She turns to Farah but the bed is empty. She drops her arms and cries
out, cursing herself: why can’t she at least have a simple death after such a long, complicated life? What is this trial that she has been forced to endure? If she had a knife she would end
it herself.

Deqo winds back to the villas. The trees are bare; all the birds have flown away, leaving an ominous silence in their wake. She wants to see those grand kitchens again, touch
the gleaming copperware and empty those cupboards groaning with mysterious, exotic packages. The guttural thump of mortars booms behind her and she picks up speed, keeping close to the wall and
hiding beneath the shadows of flowing pink bougainvillea bushes. Ducking into the largest villa she runs up the concrete steps and enters its cool, green-tiled reception room. A heavy wooden-framed
armchair is close enough to the door to push back and use as a barricade. The overhead fan stirs at the change of air she has brought in with her, but the rest of the house is eerily still. Vast
sheets shroud the other furniture, dust and dead insects already gathering within the folds on the floor.

Deqo paces through the hall and into the kitchen. White-painted cupboards dominate one wall and hide the pans, cutlery and provisions that would have crowded the floor of Nasra’s kitchen.
A straw mat beside the window has the dark imprint of a body clearly visible, two plastic slippers and a
caday
the only other reminders of the maid who lived and worked in this room.
Instead of a makeshift
girgire
she had had a permanent charcoal-burning range to prepare meals with, four circular hobs and an oven underneath that must have shortened her labour by hours.
A huge enamelled sink holds the dirty plates that the family had used before fleeing. Deqo prods the congealed red sauce on a plate and puts her finger to her tongue; it still tastes good. Two
large taps drip onto the dishes and she decides to wash them as a kind of payment for the family’s unknowing hospitality With difficulty she turns the stiff taps and water gushes out, clear
and abundant; a cloth and dishful of detergent are within her reach and within moments the sink is empty.

Shaking her hands dry Deqo marvels over how all this luxury has been hidden from her. Work in a place like this isn’t work; there are no buckets to lug from the standpipe or collapsing
piles of pans and knives to dodge. The kitchen has a high ceiling and two wide windows that funnel the midday sun inside, pale yellow walls casting a gentle light over everything. Three giant
copper pans hang from the wall and their shifting bottoms shine beams of gold onto Deqo’s skin. She breathes deeply, knowing she has found where she belongs.

Opening the nearest cupboard she fills her arms with packets of imported biscuits she has seen in the market but has never eaten. Shoving a bottle of cordial under her arm she heads for a
bedroom. She settles for the largest one and throws her stash onto the silken pink quilt that covers the gigantic bed; it is like reclining on a cloud, floating magically on a carpet. She extends
her limbs into a star shape and then pulls them back and forth, caressing the silk and sending shudders of pleasure up her spine. Unscrewing the bottle with her mouth, she spits out the top and
swigs the dark liquid, as thick and sweet as caramel. Scrabbling a hand over to the open biscuit wrapper, she draws three out and stuffs them into her mouth, letting crumbs cascade over her and
flicking them carelessly away onto the bed, onto the floor. She is free to do as she pleases without punishment, guidance or scrutiny.

Waking up in a dim, strange room, full of shadows and dark recesses, Deqo panics at the wet sensation over her legs. She leaps from the bed and finds a pool of dark red cordial splattered over
the quilt. Grabbing the sticky bottle, she curses herself for making this palace so filthy so quickly. She rips the cover away and to her relief the sheets beneath are still pristine: bundling the
quilt up in her arms, she carries it to the bathroom to wash later.

No sound seems to penetrate the house from the war beyond the walls; it echoes and hums and ticks as if she has been swallowed by a giant and caught within his ribs. Deqo dances and slides over
the tiled floor; she feels completely safe, hidden away, with only the pad of her feet for company. Light seeps from under a door and she remembers the other rooms, each of them as well furnished
as the one she has slept in. She pushes the door open and discovers the room alive with shadows, fluttering, monstrous shadows that span each wall. Deqo looks up to see six white moths beating
their wings between the bulb and floral lampshade. She wonders if this is the only light they could locate, if the rest of the town has descended into lifeless shade, and if like her they are
afraid of what might happen in that darkness.

Approaching the window, she notices the hole in the mosquito mesh through which the moths must have entered. It is just a few moments before nightfall and a swipe of watery indigo separates the
brooding sky from the sullen earth. Distant flares shoot up like stars but leave a sickly green vapour in their wake. It is an alien world being destroyed, one that she doesn’t belong to or
feel any ownership over. Turning away from the window and drawing the curtain across, her attention turns to the key in the wardrobe; it clicks like a stiff knuckle and the thick-mirrored doors
fall open. It is packed tight with clothes, the metal pole sagging with the weight of them, the bottom of the wardrobe covered with rows and rows of shoes. Deqo takes out a pair of silver high
heels and slips her feet inside, a gap the size of her fist left behind the heel. She spies sequins between the layers of clothes and pulls out the garment, a kind of short-sleeved top heavy with
embellishment, a palm tree picked out in jewel-coloured beads on the front. A wide-brimmed black hat finishes the look and Deqo totters back to look at herself in the mirror; for the first time she
likes the girl smiling back at her.

After a motionless couple of hours at the theatre checkpoint, another order from Hashi comes, this time telling Filsan to join Roble on the Jigjiga Road to Ethiopia. A jeep
collects her and she jumps in eagerly despite the danger of the district they are entering. Hundreds of rebels are hidden in the hills around Hargeisa and the exchange of fire between them and the
soldiers reverberates down into the valley. Filsan covers her nose against the acrid smoke drifting over from burning houses and rolls the side window up. She has nothing to bring Roble, not even a
bottle of cola; the only comfort she has to offer is her presence and she hopes that will be enough. Small dots clamber along the hills as the jeep sweeps past; the refugees appear nothing more
than bundles of multi-coloured blankets moving in columns like ants.

‘Should just stay in their beds rather than dying out there,’ the driver says in an accent that reminds her of home.

Filsan turns to him, suddenly interested. ‘When did you arrive from Mogadishu?’

‘Three days ago. I have barely slept at all, just drive, drive, drive.’ He makes a cutting motion with his hand at the road.

‘How are things there?’

‘Difficult, the city is full of northern refugees.’

That isn’t what Filsan cares about; she wants to know if any new singers have broken through in her absence, if the Lido beach café is still open, if the television reception has
improved at all.

He tells her he was born in Wardhiigley but brought up in Hamar Weyne, had attended a school she has only vaguely heard of, and worked as a mechanic before joining the army. They have no family,
acquaintances or interests in common and the conversation quickly drifts to an end.