Read Online The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Masha Hamilton
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Matani asked.
Badru didn’t reply at first. He seemed to absorb the scene beneath the tan tent, where his neighbors knelt before volumes spread on a piece of burlap. “I do not find his books,” he said laconically after a moment. “The ones that came from the backs of these camels.”
Matani moved closer. “So ask him where they are.”
“He was not able to tell me, Teacher.” Badru added the title with heavy politeness.
Matani opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. He didn’t know whether to yell or strike the young man or turn his back. He couldn’t tell whether Badru was simply obtuse or outright defiant. Badru so feared being pitied as the older brother of Scar Boy that he always seemed guarded, as impenetrable as parched earth.
Matani felt the weight of Mr. Abasi moving close. “What’s this? We’re missing books?”
Matani massaged a fresh throbbing at his temple. “One young man is unwell today,” he said. His voice sounded faint, even to him. The missing books seemed an omen that stretched far beyond Scar Boy’s irresponsibility. He wished, suddenly, that he had mentioned the mosquito-eater to Jwahir. She would have comforted him, surely. She would have told him the incident was unimportant.
Mr. Abasi shrugged. “So let the sick recover. We do not need a roll call. We need only the books.”
Badru must have seen the look in Matani’s eyes that recommended—even pleaded for—silence, but he ignored it. “We do not know,” the brother said, “where the books are.”
“And you are?” Mr. Abasi demanded.
Now Badru did not reply. Now he chose to stay quiet.
“The brother of the ill one,” Matani said after a long moment.
Mr. Abasi shifted from foot to foot, gazed over at the camels, then out to the horizon. “So the books are lost, then,” he said.
“No, Mister Visitor,” Badru said.
Oh, the arrogance in the boy’s tone. It was clear now, and not only Matani could hear it. Mr. Abasi glared. “You don’t know where they are. Isn’t that the definition of lost?”
Matani cleared his throat, then spoke. “The boy means that his brother knows where they are—he must, of course he does—but he is not well today.”
“Not well enough to speak?” Mr. Abasi asked. “Unusual. But if so, then what about yesterday? It is a surprise that we have come to you today, the very same day twice a month that we make this jarring, endless trip?”
The chatter under the acacia tree, Matani noticed, had evaporated. The others all paused, their attention drawn to the knot of Badru, the librarian from Garissa, the teacher—and now the foreign woman, who was approaching with her clipboard.
“Matani?” Miss Sweeney said. “Is something wrong?”
“A young man has failed to return two books,” Mr. Abasi said.
Among the people of Mididima, whispers moved like wind swirling through the bush. Matani made out two words, and he was sure Badru heard them also: “Scar Boy.”
Mr. Abasi’s voice floated above all their heads. “We will pack up our load now,” he said. “No one will be allowed to keep any books. If you find the missing volumes, send word. In that case, we will come back to you again—unless, of course, your day is already filled by another tribe wishing to be visited by this library.”
The murmuring undertone was replaced by the subtle sound of grips tightening around book covers, and then asharp-edged belligerent silence. One young boy bent down and snatched up a volume at his feet. Matani felt the eyes of his neighbors turn toward him.
A long-necked bustard, half-tamed by some of the children, landed near the acacia tree. Matani stared at the bird a moment, feeling tightness in his chest.
“Perhaps, before we…” he began.
They were waiting, his neighbors, his students, exchanging glances with each other: some squatting on books as if these were eggs to be laid; others slipping books beneath thin shirts so their stomachs looked rectangular; still others
Badru didn’t reply at first. He seemed to absorb the scene beneath the tan tent, where his neighbors knelt before volumes spread on a piece of burlap. “I do not find his books,” he said laconically after a moment. “The ones that came from the backs of these camels.”
Matani moved closer. “So ask him where they are.”
“He was not able to tell me, Teacher.” Badru added the title with heavy politeness.
Matani opened his mouth, but nothing emerged. He didn’t know whether to yell or strike the young man or turn his back. He couldn’t tell whether Badru was simply obtuse or outright defiant. Badru so feared being pitied as the older brother of Scar Boy that he always seemed guarded, as impenetrable as parched earth.
Matani felt the weight of Mr. Abasi moving close. “What’s this? We’re missing books?”
Matani massaged a fresh throbbing at his temple. “One young man is unwell today,” he said. His voice sounded faint, even to him. The missing books seemed an omen that stretched far beyond Scar Boy’s irresponsibility. He wished, suddenly, that he had mentioned the mosquito-eater to Jwahir. She would have comforted him, surely. She would have told him the incident was unimportant.
Mr. Abasi shrugged. “So let the sick recover. We do not need a roll call. We need only the books.”
Badru must have seen the look in Matani’s eyes that recommended—even pleaded for—silence, but he ignored it. “We do not know,” the brother said, “where the books are.”
“And you are?” Mr. Abasi demanded.
Now Badru did not reply. Now he chose to stay quiet.
“The brother of the ill one,” Matani said after a long moment.
Mr. Abasi shifted from foot to foot, gazed over at the camels, then out to the horizon. “So the books are lost, then,” he said.
“No, Mister Visitor,” Badru said.
Oh, the arrogance in the boy’s tone. It was clear now, and not only Matani could hear it. Mr. Abasi glared. “You don’t know where they are. Isn’t that the definition of lost?”
Matani cleared his throat, then spoke. “The boy means that his brother knows where they are—he must, of course he does—but he is not well today.”
“Not well enough to speak?” Mr. Abasi asked. “Unusual. But if so, then what about yesterday? It is a surprise that we have come to you today, the very same day twice a month that we make this jarring, endless trip?”
The chatter under the acacia tree, Matani noticed, had evaporated. The others all paused, their attention drawn to the knot of Badru, the librarian from Garissa, the teacher—and now the foreign woman, who was approaching with her clipboard.
“Matani?” Miss Sweeney said. “Is something wrong?”
“A young man has failed to return two books,” Mr. Abasi said.
Among the people of Mididima, whispers moved like wind swirling through the bush. Matani made out two words, and he was sure Badru heard them also: “Scar Boy.”
Mr. Abasi’s voice floated above all their heads. “We will pack up our load now,” he said. “No one will be allowed to keep any books. If you find the missing volumes, send word. In that case, we will come back to you again—unless, of course, your day is already filled by another tribe wishing to be visited by this library.”
The murmuring undertone was replaced by the subtle sound of grips tightening around book covers, and then asharp-edged belligerent silence. One young boy bent down and snatched up a volume at his feet. Matani felt the eyes of his neighbors turn toward him.
A long-necked bustard, half-tamed by some of the children, landed near the acacia tree. Matani stared at the bird a moment, feeling tightness in his chest.
“Perhaps, before we…” he began.
They were waiting, his neighbors, his students, exchanging glances with each other: some squatting on books as if these were eggs to be laid; others slipping books beneath thin shirts so their stomachs looked rectangular; still others
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