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assume that they are having it off.”
    â€œAnd you don’t think we will?”
    â€œI know you are your own woman.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œI trust your judgment.”
    Talk of the imagination of Somalis going amok about sexual matters, as do all prudish societies. More to the point, could she, Cambara, share an intimate space with a man who might come on to her at the sight of her showered, with her favorite night cream on, walking into the bedroom and lying on her side of the bed, wanting to read? Could she sleep in such physical proximity to him? Will he respect her wishes, or will he pester her until she loses her temper and reminds him of his responsibility to himself: “All for your own good!” Tempted, will she make the first move? What of his bad breath? How would she bear it?
    Just before dusk, mother and daughter returned from their long walk and talk, the one content, the other worn out, hot and bothered, and looking half alert to the goings-on, restless like a child having a bad sleep.
    Between showers and a dinner together, Arda held out an envelope, which, when opened, Cambara discovered to contain an open return air ticket to Nairobi, a lot of cash in thousands of U.S. dollars, in small and large denominations, a yearlong and renewable insurance policy for two, with one of the parties described simply as “partner.”
    â€œDo you have dates by which I must leave?”
    Arda replied, “We’ll wait for the letter from the commissioning editor at CBS, who has assured my neighbor that she has put it in the post. Meantime I’ve booked your onward flight, window seat all the way. I’ll let you decide on your return date.”
    â€œHow sweet of you!”
    â€œYou’ll be a better judge, since you’ll be there.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œDamn. I clean forgot.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Arda retrieved an envelope from the top of the sideboard, which, sitting down, she passed on to Cambara. “The yellow fever and cholera certificate.”
    â€œBut I haven’t had the jabs.”
    â€œIt’s all taken care of.”
    â€œHow did you swing it?”
    â€œI know how you hate taking your shots.”
    â€œDid you bribe somebody?”
    â€œThere are ways to get around such problems.”
    â€œYou’ve left nothing to chance, have you?”

    Cambara left for Nairobi as arranged. She hired a taxi from the airport and went directly to the place she was to share with Zaak. It irked her to be there exhausted from the long trip, having barely slept a wink because of a neighbor who talked endlessly. When she got to Zaak’s door, he was so deep in sleep that it took her and two security men from the apartment complex almost half an hour to rouse him from it. She interpreted irritably the fact that he was unprepared for her arrival. Her irascibility did not augur well, and she knew it.
    Within an hour, soon after a shower, she joined him in the kitchenette and right away noticed the telltale disfigurements in body and soul, which she would see more of when she met other Somalis who had just come from Mogadiscio: trauma born of desolation. She could not put her finger on why she felt uncomfortable in his company, maybe because she sensed that he was transmitting to her a flow of detrimental vibes, possibly without being aware of them. She held back and wouldn’t get any closer to him, afraid that he might have transported some kind of contagion from the fighting that he had fled. To have the place to herself, she sent him out on an errand to the local general store with cash to buy basic groceries, including coffee, tea, and fresh milk. Then she had a couple of hours’ sleep. She awoke to Somali being spoken and was able to work out in no time that it was the BBC Somali Service early-evening bulletin.
    They dined out their first evening together at an Indian restaurant two doors away from the apartment