Free The Camel Bookmobile by Masha Hamilton Page B

was, he knew, a worthless effort to mask the fear of failure that rose like bile in his stomach. He felt Mr. Abasi at his side and turned to him. In the librarian’s eyes, in his silence, Matani saw reflected Mr. Abasi’s utter conviction that the next library visit would be the last to Mididima. That meant there would be no education for his son, the one he intended to have.
    Mr. Abasi turned away. “Load up,” he told the driver.
    The lead camel stopped scratching her side against the acacia and gave a loud, dissatisfied snort from deep in her long throat. Matani, without words, watched as the drivers began repacking the boxes on the ground and the villagers, ducking as they would in a sandstorm, moved quickly toward their homes.

Part Two
H umans in love whisper “forever” and “always” and convince themselves that they mean it, every time. Mosquitoes, on the other hand, take romance to the opposite extreme. The female mosquito need make love only once in her life. The sperm, stored in her body, is then hers to use at will.
—Mosquito Habits, Dr. Sarah Jenkins
German-language edition, 1987

The Teacher
    M ATANI WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS HUT READING BY THE last stingy pinch of sunlight when he was distracted by the sound of men working in concert to secure the thorn fence that would discourage wild animals from entering Mididima and attacking the livestock overnight. He stopped to listen to their voices—smooth chords sliding beneath the scratchy melody of bushes being dragged across the dry ground. He closed his book and tapped his fingernails on its cover, keeping time with the fluid rhythm of the men’s conversation. Why, he wondered, had Miss Sweeney given him this book about a poor baby boy poisoned by a scorpion, and a father with nothing more than eight graceless pearls to offer a greedy doctor? The Pearl . She called it a classic. Was it, instead, another omen? Combined with the overdue books and the dead mosquito-eater, it signaled something, he thought. Or maybe a lack of something. No water? No food? Or a son who would remain unborn?
    No. He was rushing to conclude the worst when he’d read only the first dozen pages. It was because he’d had no time to calm down in the few hours since Mr. Abasi and the bookmobile had left. It offended him that Mr. Abasiconsidered Mididima’s people unreliable and unworthy of the library books, and that he did not expect Matani to recover the two that Scar Boy had checked out.
    He was wrong, Matani decided. The matter with Scar Boy would be resolved, and easily, in the morning. The infant in the story would recover. Matani himself would have a son, many sons. He would shed his superstitious side, so unbefitting a teacher.
    “Husband?” called Jwahir from inside the house, more formal than usual but in a tone rich with unexpected tenderness. He’d thought she was still angry about the bookmobile, but in her voice he heard only love. How much he still had to learn about this creature, his wife.
    “My dear?” he answered eagerly.
    “My father of mine is here to see you,” Jwahir said.
    My husband of mine. That’s what she used to call Matani, letting her voice slip into the charcoal range. It had always been a prelude to intimacy. But it had been many weeks since she’d used that lusty phrase with him.
    Matani cleared his throat, rose, and extended a hand as Jwahir and her father approached. Her father’s beard was dyed orange in honor of his age and position in Mididima. He’d only recently begun coloring it, and the sight of it still startled Matani. “Welcome,” he said. The two men shook hands for a full minute, the expression on Jwahir’s father’s face enduringly solemn.
    “News of the night?” asked Jwahir’s father
    They moved together into the hut. Jwahir left them alone there. “All is well,” said Matani. “And your news of many nights?”

    “My family is well, thank you,” said Jwahir’s father. “Although can you tell me of my