“Very good.”
“You are an A-student, I hear. I’ve always known you would do well, given the chance.”
That she has bothered to find out how well he is doing at school is heartening to him, given that his mother has never shown the least interest in his studies. “So, did you accompany Saafi to her interview dressed like this?”
“No. I had the full Muslim outdoor gear.”
“Niqaab, hijab, and all?”
“When I am outside the house, I comply, but when I am indoors I dress the Somali way,” she says. “Here I am in dirac, maybe tomorrow I’ll be in traditional Somali guntiino. I am a woman for all seasons.”
“And where’s Mum?”
“I’ve just told her off and she is changing.”
“Why did you tell her off?”
“She had on a niqaab and hijab inside the house.”
“What did you suggest she wear, then?”
“I’ve suggested she put on indoor summer wear.”
He cannot wait to see his mother come out.
“How do you manage to make her do what you say?”
“I know your mum far better than anyone else does. She and I have been soul mates for a very long time. I know her weaknesses and her strengths,” says Arla. “We’ve been through a lot together, she and I. We’ve seen happy days together and cried over each other’s shoulder on sad nights.”
“That’s probably true, but it doesn’t answer my question,” he says.
“I am coming to it. Don’t rush me.”
“I won’t. I promise. But go on, please.”
And he starts to set the table for four.
Arla asks, “Are we having a sit-down dinner?”
“Yes, we are. To honor your presence.”
Arla gives him her hand and says, “I did not mince my words with your mum. I’ve told her that it is all well and good to engage in self-reinvention in the way she has done, but that it doesn’t make sense if there is no gain in it for her. I was there when she met Dhaqaneh, and I encouraged her to make herself into the woman your stepdad would be happy with, a devout woman, dressed accordingly. I expected that when she got here and saw the situation, met Mugdi and Gacalo and got to know their attitude, she would give up all her pretenses and get on with life.”
“Why did she not do what you suggested?”
“She became a victim of self-deception. She fell for that awful man and his offer of marriage.”
The table set, he puts the food in the microwave.
Barely has Naciim asked Arla to let his mother know dinner is ready when Waliya appears in the kitchen doorway. With shock he notes how completely she has transformed: she’s wearing a floral summer dress, perhaps bought earlier today when they all went shopping; her long hair is gathered into a bun with a Somali headscarf; on her feet are flat-heeled shoes with the buckle loose; and most strikingly, on her face is the lightest trace of lipstick and kohl eye makeup.
“Did you cook dinner for us, son?” she asks.
Naciim suddenly feels so furious he cannot bear to speak. For most of his young life, it is now clear, his mother has lived a life of pretense, which has spawned terrible miseries not only for her but for them all.
Naciim suggests that they serve themselves and pushes one dish toward Arla and another toward his mother. Waliya asks, “What do we have here, dear?”
He does not recall her addressing him as “dear” in all the time they have been in Oslo. Again this disturbs him, but not to the point of expressing his fury.
He says, “This food is from a Punjabi restaurant.”
“Punjab is in India, am I right?”
“There are two Punjabs, one is a state in India and another is a province in Pakistan.”
“Is this food halal or not?” asks his mother.
“Stop the fuss and eat,” says Arla, addressing her words to Waliya as though to a misbehaving child. “One dish is fish and, as you know, fish is always halal. The other two are vegetarian. So say ‘Bismillah, thank you, son,’ and eat up.”
As instructed, she says the Bismillah, and with a sheepish grin, helps herself to the fish and takes a couple of spoonfuls of rice.
“Good?” asks Arla.
“It tastes nice, considering,” says Waliya.
Naciim refuses to allow his mother’s words to get to him. He helps himself to a small portion and eats without engaging anyone in a conversation, worried he might make snarky backtalk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Nearly everything is in a state of flux, with Naciim reporting daily to Timiro and Kaluun after he has called on Mugdi. Timiro and Kaluun confer frequently in the hopes of finding a way to slow down the old man’s descent into despair. When they have studied the situation from various angles and Kaluun suggests there is little else to be done short of moving to Oslo to look after him, Timiro bristles, knowing what this means: that in likelihood everyone expects her to relocate to Norway, being Mugdi’s daughter and a female at that. But although the idea of moving back to Oslo has appealed to her, it has remained only a fanciful scheme. In Geneva, where she resides and where a number of UN agencies are headquartered, Timiro often lands well-paying consultation. In Oslo, there are no similar work opportunities.
She says, “Let me talk to Birgitta.”
“What’s the point?” Kaluun asks.
“I’ve an idea. Let me discuss it with her.”
“Birgitta and Johan are globetrotters,” says Kaluun. “One week they are in the Caribbean, the next week they are in the Alps. They don’t have the willingness to help more than they do already. Like it or not, it falls to us. One of us has to move there.”
Birgitta wants to introduce Mugdi to a former schoolmate of hers, a couple of years her junior, who is in charge of the Norwegian literature section at the National Library. She tells Timiro, “She is sixty-two years old, a widow, no children, very well read, a very fine person, empathic about immigrants and multiculturalism, and she speaks French.”
“Widow, no children. I like that,” says Timiro. “How often do you see her?”
“Our second homes in Sweden are two kilometers apart,” says Birgitta. “We meet when we are there and at times go together for long walks. She brings along her dog, and either we go to her or she comes to us. I’ve no idea why I didn’t think of this sooner.”
Timiro asks, “What is her name?”
“Her name is Nadia Stein.”
Timiro says, “I like that, too. Nadia.”
“I’d be happy to introduce them.”
By way of introduction, Birgitta writes one email to Nadia and another to Mugdi. Then, as though it were an afterthought and she is a matchmaker, she sends them both a second long email, detailing the pertinent particulars each needs to know about the other. This second missive gives her a chance to express her heartfelt desire for the two of them to get together.
Mugdi may deny it, but his anal retentiveness displays itself in the time it takes him to mull matters over instead of initiating communication, and he allows days to pass after receiving Nadia’s email, even though he is as keen as she sounds to meet up.
Finally, Nadia takes the initiative to make a phone call and, listening to Mugdi, she feels that, despite his reticence, he is a man whom it will be a pleasure to get to know. She suggests they rendezvous for brunch the next day at a café close to the National Library.
Nadia and Mugdi meet at noon, on what has turned into the most beautiful day in July thus far, with the sun on splendid display and crowds milling in the streets. Mugdi is a few inches taller and nearly a decade older; Nadia is half a dozen kilos heavier. They discover to their pleasant surprise that they have actually known each other by sight; she admits to having seen him more than once at the library from her cubicle.
As they wait in silence for their orders, Nadia
remembers what Birgitta has told her about Mugdi’s late wife and son, and the widow and children who survived him. Birgitta said that Mugdi felt honor-bound to avoid confrontation with the widow because of the promise he made to his late wife in the weeks before she died. Birgitta also explained the pride of place occupied by the boy Naciim in the old man’s heart and mind.
Mugdi, for his part, recalls how Birgitta wrote that Nadia was truly enamored of Africa, having worked in Tanzania, Ghana, Namibia, South Africa, and Burkina Faso, training librarians while on assignment from the Norwegian government. She found her African colleagues more amiable than her colleagues at home, and made several friends, mostly women. She did become close to a Tanzanian man as her marriage neared collapse, but nothing came of it after she discovered that he was married to two other women, one in church and one by tradition.
Mugdi distantly reminds her of the Tanzanian man in more ways than one: he too was soft of speech and delicate in his manner. And like the Tanzanian, Mugdi possesses a chest so narrow he seems birdlike.
The waitress delivers their order and the two of them eat in silence.
Then Nadia says, “Have you been to India?”
“No, I haven’t. Why do you ask?”
“I was there recently for research and had to get a visa,” she says. “I’ve become interested in the questions they insist you answer on visa forms. The Indian application form asks about which of the three ‘sex’ categories you belong to: female, male, or transgender. But when it comes to marital status, there are only two categories: married or single. Here, you are not required to give an answer to the third category, divorced. Religion, as a defining category, is important to both India and Iran, where I’ve also traveled, but not to Norway.”
“Is divorcing in India anathema?”
“The forms have to cater to a variety of applicants, some of whom are divorced. Or, as in the case of Iran, there are transgender people—but this is not considered a category worth belonging to. Now, can you imagine Africans giving space to transgender folks in the visa forms?”
“I haven’t seen an American nonimmigrant visa application since becoming Norwegian, but when I last filled one in, I remember a question asking if you were ever a Communist,” he says.
“What about the obligatory question now asking if you have a mental or physical disorder that poses a danger to others?”
Mugdi says, “In colonial times in Somalia, you had to state the name of the clan to which you belonged. This was part of the divide-and-rule policy of that era. The question was removed from forms several years before independence, but to apply for your ID or passport, you still have to state the color of your eyes, hair, or skin—a reminder, if one is needed, that the form has not undergone all the changes necessary.”
“You are a dual national, aren’t you?”
“In name only.”
“How so?”
“Because I haven’t applied for a new biometric Somali passport. As you may know, for over two decades during the Somali civil war, Somali passports were not accepted anywhere as valid travel documents, because there was no central government, and you could purchase counterfeit passports at supermarkets along with your food.”
She asks, “How easy has it been to travel on a Norwegian passport? Are you accepted as Norwegian or do Norway’s immigration officers question your Norwegianness in the same way that Breivik and right-wing ideologues might?”
He replies, “I believe that it has required a great deal of soul-searching on the part of many a Norwegian to accept that someone who is black and has a Muslim name can be as Norwegian as a white native. I am often labeled a refugee, even though I am now a national.”
As Nadia is about to speak, two young men walk past their table on their way out of the café. Both handsome and in tight jeans, they are holding hands. The shorter one is talking about the “preponderance of foreigners” in Oslo and how the city has lost its character and charm.
“Did you hear that?” asks Mugdi.
Nadia says, “Sadly I did. Maybe if these two as schoolboys had read the history of Norwegian migration, which I am certain you are more familiar with than they are, neither of them would hold such a view.”
Mugdi motions to the waitress to bring him the bill. Nadia, meanwhile, stares into the void, lost in thought. After he has paid and before they leave, she asks him questions about the translations he has been working on. He sounds unhappy about the slowness of his production.
She says, “Maybe you need to go out a bit.”
“I am sure I do,” he says.
“In that case, would you join me for dinner one of these days?” she asks.
“I would love to.”
“What about a week from now at my place? Eight o’clock?”
He replies, “Yes, I look forward to it.”
They hug as they part, and she kisses him with warmth on both cheeks and says, “Next week at eight.”
He leaves the café, takes a tram, and sits with a book in his hand, facing a group of rowdy teenagers, the boys beltless and wearing their trousers low on their hips, one of them proudly showing off the top of his underwear. The girls are in flimsy summer outfits, a few showing tongues pierced with silver buttons, or their lower lips weighted with custom-designed discs to create an effect similar to that of the Mursi women in Ethiopia. Mugdi amusedly watches the antics of these youngsters, kissing and cracking jokes in Norwegian and English, oblivious to the world around them; they feel comfortable with who they are.
In the farthest corner of the same tramcar, to Mugdi’s right, are several Somali women, variously covered in different types of veil, from the moderate scarf to the all-engulfing body tent, albeit with the face uncovered. The niqaab-wearing woman is fair-skinned and bespectacled, and Mugdi thinks she has probably singed some hair off her cheeks, judging by their roughness. Another wearing a hijab has covered her face and neck with a piece of polyester: itchy, and not at all comfortable, he thinks.
Of all the veiled women, the one who seems keenest on ogling the young Norwegian women in their robust self-expressions, and who follows every move they make, is the one in the body tent. She watches everything from behind the veil, smiling whenever she hears something funny, which she translates for her neighbor, covered in a more severe double-layered veil—with scarves, face veils, gloves: the works. She appears to have brought along the full extent of her religious wardrobe. Then the two women laugh, modestly covering their mouths with their hands.
The young Norwegian women are self-centered in the way of the young anywhere in the world. They take no notice of the old men or of the Somali women, who perhaps appear to them, as a Norwegian friend of his once put it, “like crows gathered in an open air piazza on a bright summer’s day, mourning the death of one of their mates, killed by a stone thrower.”
Mugdi moves to a seat nearer the Somali women and pretends to read, even though his aim is to eavesdrop on their conversation. From the few words he is able to pick up, he infers that they think the young Norwegians behave as though they belong to a home with no adults to show them what matters in life. To Mugdi, this sounds far more damning than anything he can say about the young women of either group. When his stop comes, he gets off the tram, disturbed.
Naciim visits Mugdi after school and is very happy to observe that the old man is in a brighter mood than he has been in a long while. They chat briefly, updating each other on their latest doings. Then Mugdi asks, “How are things at home?”
“The tape of the Koran is back on,” says Naciim.
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday evening.”
“And whatever has become of Arla?”
“The tape is back on and Arla is gone.”
“But her coming has been positive, hasn’t it?” says Mugdi. “She has managed to get Saafi a job and, more important, convinced your mothe
r not to make any fuss about her daughter working outside the home.”
Naciim says, “Arla’s disappearance is as much a mystery as was her arrival.”
So much for the empathy Arla has shown, thinks Mugdi. So much for the words of comfort she has spoken to Naciim or the changes her presence has brought. Arla is a holdover from the past that she and Waliya shared, and Mugdi has been wary of the possible dangers that she might pose if he ever met her. The woman is wild and no one can tell what she may do, given the chance.
“Have you asked your mum where she’s gone?”
“Mum won’t say. But I can find out.”
“How?”
“Well, she left behind a bunch of stuff, bank documents and the like. My guess is that she’ll return at some point to collect them. So I’ve hidden them in my bedroom to make sure I at least get to speak with her when she does. I want to get to the bottom of the mystery that is Arla.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nearly nine months after Arla’s disappearance, with his mother unwilling to answer his questions as to her whereabouts, Naciim and Saafi return home late one afternoon to discover they cannot let themselves in. They take turns trying the key, knocking the door, all to no avail. But because they hear the tape of the Koran running, they assume that their mother is at home. And so they pound on the door some more and call their mother by name. Naciim wonders to himself—he doesn’t share his inner worries with Saafi, who panics easily—if the antiterror unit has taken her away or—here he is mischievous and he knows it—if Zubair has been released and he and his mother are having it off or something.
He turns to Saafi, asks, “Do you know where Mum might be?”
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