The Bamboo Stalk by Saud Alsanousi

notice that people have different names for it –
kawayan
in the Philippines,
khaizuran
in Kuwait, and bamboo in many places.
    Once the relay tower had been put up in the clearing in front of my favourite tree, I began to sit cross-legged on the ground facing in the opposite direction – with my back to the tower and facing the tree trunk. Although I was in a different position, the same sounds still found their way to my ears.
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    14
    One morning, about ten days after the relay tower went up on Mendoza’s land, I was in my room when I heard Uncle Pedro honking the horn of his truck outside. I opened the window and shouted, ‘Need any help, Uncle?’ He gestured for me to come out.
    My mother was sitting in the seat next to him. She opened the door and my little brother stepped down. ‘José, take Adrian to Aida and you come back and come with us,’ she said.
    Off we went to the office of the Kuwaiti businessman.
    â€˜He’s not coming today. You can come back tomorrow,’ one of the staff told Uncle Pedro, but my mother insisted on meeting the man. The worker turned to a colleague and didn’t say anything. His colleague picked up the phone and made a call. ‘You can visit him at home at this address,’ she said, writing it out on a piece of paper. ‘If it’s really so important.’
    Uncle Pedro pulled up in front of a simple house, not much different from the one we lived in. ‘Are you sure of the address?’ my mother asked.
    Pedro pointed towards the door of the truck. ‘Go and check for yourself,’ he said.
    â€˜This couldn’t possibly be a Kuwaiti’s house, Pedro,’ she said.
    Pedro didn’t answer. She opened the door and turned to me. ‘Come along, José,’ she said.
    I followed her while Pedro stayed in the truck waiting for us. Mother knocked on the door. We didn’t have to wait long. ‘Welcome, come in,’ the man said in English.
    He was a man in his forties. He seemed simple, perhaps compared with the image that went with Pedro’s description of him as a Kuwaiti businessman. He was of medium height, thin, greying a little on the temples, calm-looking, and with a distinctive pointed moustache that drooped on the sides of his mouth, and black eyebrows that seemed to be thicker than they should be.
    In his little sitting room, which was full of books, he asked us to sit in front of a small desk covered in papers and well-sharpened pencils.
    â€˜My name is Ismail,’ he said, sitting behind the desk. I later found out that he was the Kuwaiti writer Ismail Fahd Ismail, who lived in the Philippines for six years after the liberation of Kuwait.
    â€˜I’m Josephine, sir,’ said Mother.
    Then she pointed at me. ‘And this is Isa, my . . .’
    â€˜José!’ I said, interrupting her.
    â€˜José. My son,’ mother said, correcting herself.
    â€˜Pleased to meet you,’ the man said with a smile, then paused, waiting for my mother to speak.
    â€˜Sir,’ she said. ‘I want to ask you about a man.’
    The man’s calm face showed signs of interest. ‘I thought you needed a job!’ he said.
    â€˜What I need is more important, sir,’ she said.
    The man nodded, encouraging her to continue.
    â€˜Sir, do you know a Kuwaiti man called Rashid?’
    He gave a gentle smile. ‘Thousands of Kuwaitis have this name,’ he said.
    â€˜Rashid al-Tarouf, sir,’ said my mother, more specifically.
    The man raised an eyebrow.
    â€˜A writer,’ my mother continued, ‘who lives in . . .’
    â€˜Qortuba?’ the man interjected.
    â€˜Yes, yes, sir,’ said my mother in surprise.
    There was silence for a few seconds.
    â€˜Do you know him, sir? Please.’
    The man nodded.
    â€˜Do you know him personally?’ she asked.
    The man kept nodding and my mother went on talking. ‘I used to work in his mother’s house in