North of Dawn

by Nuruddin Farah

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Have you forgotten that it is thanks to Arla that I’ve landed the job at Lego?” she says. “You see, if Arla is in trouble with the authorities, then it is possible that anyone linked to her in any way will be affected.”

  “Let me worry about that,” he says.

  “So I should act as if everything is normal?”

  “Did you ever hear the proverb that says that one must prepare for the worst, even if one hopes for the best? Please do and you’ll see that everything will turn out well.”

  He goes to take his shower and she goes to work. They are agreed that they will meet at Mugdi’s. He assures her once more that things will work out in the end. She adds, “With Allah’s help.”

  Naciim, adrenalized with rage, goes to school earlier than usual, eager to share the photos with Edvart and Janine and to talk to Ms. Koht, his school adviser, about the dawn raid and how the men terrorized and took away his mother without the authority of a judge’s warrant. He knows Ms. Koht’s partner is a reporter on Aftenbladet; perhaps he will want to write about the raid.

  When Ms. Koht finds him standing with Edvart and Janine in the corridor, the three students talking in low voices, Naciim indicates that he wishes to see her. Ms. Koht motions to him to follow her into her empty classroom. She goes ahead of him and closes the door.

  “What’s the problem?” she asks.

  Naciim pulls out his phone and shows her the pictures he has taken. She flips through them one at a time, the better to study them.

  “Please send these to me,” she says, giving him both her mobile phone number and email address. He forwards them to her before the school bell rings.

  “A parent is a parent, never mind how shitty they are,” says Edvart, as he, Naciim, and Janine sit on the school steps after classes. “I know there are times when I wish I could kill my dad, he is so insensitive. I remember the terrible things your mother did to you and how she upsets you.”

  When it is Janine’s turn to speak, she says, “My uncle is a criminal lawyer.” She pauses, reflects for a moment and then goes on, “I am not suggesting that he can act as your mother’s lawyer. But I am sure he would give me the name of a colleague of his who may be of assistance, even do it on a pro-bono basis. Would you like me to call and ask what he thinks and if he can help?”

  Naciim is touched and he thanks them both. He says, “Let us wait for a day or two. Maybe then we’ll know more, know if she’ll be charged with something.”

  Edvart says, “Still, tell us how we can help.”

  “I’ll call if I need your assistance,” he says.

  When Janine and Edvart have gone their separate ways, Naciim takes a tram to Mugdi’s to bring him up to speed on the latest developments. No doubt, he will spell out the details for her with the tact this requires when he picks her up from work.

  Mugdi broods over the meaning of this raid, aware that there is no way of knowing where the antiterrorist unit is holding Waliya. He also believes that nothing can be done to help her until she is brought before the courts and charged, or released. They will have to wait, and Mugdi is worried about Naciim’s state of mind in the meantime.

  Finally he says, “You have no idea why your mother thought that Arla would know where the unit would take her?”

  “None at all.”

  “You haven’t been in touch with Arla, have you?”

  “I am on my way there now.”

  “So you know where to find her?”

  “I do. Remember, I told you how I followed her and a man a few weeks ago to the apartment where I believe they are staying.”

  Mugdi brings out his wallet and hands Naciim a wad of cash. “This is a stopgap, for your taxis and other incidentals. If you need more, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa,” says Naciim.

  “I suggest you and Saafi stay here until your mother’s situation becomes clearer one way or the other.”

  * * *

  Naciim rings Arla’s apartment doorbell and she lets him in, but she does not seem happy to see him.

  “How did you know I live here?” she asks.

  Arla has on a see-through robe, her hair fashionably coiffured, her neck adorned with silver pendants. She is also wearing very bright pink lipstick. He is struck by her smooth skin and comely appearance. He would be ecstatic if he could lay his head between her breasts and if she would be his guide. He imagines there is nothing like having sex with a woman of Arla’s age and experience.

  “Did you not hear me? How do you know where I live?” she snaps.

  Snapping out of his reverie, he says, “I have a message from my mother.”

  She darts an angry look down the hall and says, “You can come in, but just for a moment. I am going to change, and when I am back, I want you to tell me how you found me.”

  “Maybe my mother told me?”

  “I don’t believe you,” she says and walks off.

  This gives him the opportunity to look around the apartment. He wanders into the room that serves as a study, where he observes a number of papers carrying the name “Christian Christiansen.” He also notes the expensive furniture.

  Arla returns, dressed a bit more modestly in an expensive, patterned frock.

  “The truth is, my mother didn’t tell me.”

  “I knew she wouldn’t know.”

  “I tailed you and a huge white man from the tram stop, and you led me here.”

  “I wonder: do I know a huge white man?”

  “His name is Christian Christiansen.”

  Her eyes twinkle a little mischievously.

  “When you’re ready, I’ll give you the message.”

  She says, “That is old news.”

  “Have you news that is more recent?”

  “Have you been home?”

  “Not yet. I’ve just come from school.”

  “As you speak, your mother is home.”

  “Did she explain the reason for the raid?”

  “She didn’t volunteer and I asked. Apparently the antiterror unit recently took a woman named Axado into detention and when they questioned her, they found a number of things that linked her to your mother. The woman is from Stavanger and she worked at the nursery as your mother’s assistant. Do you remember her?”

  “Vaguely. What is Axado accused of?”

  “She is a sister of a Somali-born Norwegian citizen suspected of being a member of the Shabaab unit that is responsible for the Westgate shopping mall massacre in Nairobi, in which many people were killed,” says Arla.

  “And what has my mother got to do with this?”

  “Your mother’s name is linked to Axado and thence to a Somali-Norwegian terrorist who once lived in the same block as your mother. Some money was wired to this man using your mother’s bank details. Or so she told me herself.”

  “Does Mum acknowledge knowing the man?”

  “She swears she doesn’t.”

  “You say she has been released, right?”

  “She’s been let go, pending more investigation.”

  “Why did she say you would know where she was?”

  “Because Axado, who has a way of reaching me, has alerted me to what is afoot,” says Arla. “That is how I know.”

  Then Arla’s phone rings. “Hi,” she says, her whole demeanor visibly changing. Naciim understands from the way her body melts into something soft and gentle and sweet that sex is on her mind now, perhaps because her secret lover is on his way here. He hears the voice of a man saying in English, “I am close by.”

  When she hangs up, she sighs. Naciim is about to comment on how happy she looks when she forcibly pushes him out of the apartment and closes the door.

  He goes home and finds his mother weeping. But she will not answer his questions
about where the men took her or what happened to make her cry this way.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Early one evening a couple of weeks later, Arla turns up at Waliya’s apartment in a taxi, laden with two huge suitcases.

  Naciim observes that his mother turns off her Koran tape, though he is not enthused over her request that he help with Arla’s luggage. He drags his feet and although he has heard her request, he wants her to repeat it. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “Please go down and help Auntie Arla.”

  “Help her how, Mum?”

  “Go down and meet her. She’s in a taxi.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “She has two huge suitcases to bring up.”

  “Is Arla moving in with us, Mum?”

  “Why must you jump to hasty conclusions?”

  “I bet she’s had a nasty fight with her man.”

  She looks stunned. “What man?”

  “It beats me why you pretend not to know.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Mum, I know stuff. I’m not a child.”

  “Just help bring her suitcases up.”

  “I don’t know if I want her to move in with us.”

  “It is not your place to decide who moves in and who doesn’t,” she says. “And in any case, who says that Arla is moving in?”

  “Would you like a bet?” says Naciim.

  “On what?”

  “That her man has beaten her to near death.”

  As Naciim goes down to meet her, he notices there is less of Arla’s usual bluster and more of a sense of defeat about her. As testament of her mood, she has donned an abaya, and supplemented this by wearing a light-weight transparent fabric covering part of her face. Nor does she bother to return his greeting or respond when he says, “Are you okay?”

  His gut feeling is that Arla is going to be staying with them for a long time.

  “Can you help with the suitcases, please?” she asks.

  Her lips and eyes are swollen, as if her face has been struck several times with vengeful force. The visible parts of her body are bruised all over. When her full-length abaya slips down as she rummages in her handbag for the taxi fare, Naciim is able to see more of her face. He steps aside to study her every move, and waits, as she wraps herself afresh with the niqaab and a face veil.

  “Who’s done this to you?” he asks.

  He catches sight of the discolored skin on her wrist, elbow, and neck. There is dried blood here and there and he thinks the swollen section of her finger joints must be hurting her, for they look stiff as wood. Eventually, she brings out a wad of cash and manages to say, “Here,” as she passes the money to him and gestures in the direction of the driver. Naciim takes the initiative to ask the taxi driver how much the lady owes him. When he mentions a sum, Naciim counts the money and pays.

  The taxi driver gives back the change that is due. As before, Arla says something to Naciim, who of his own accord gives the loose coins to the driver, suspecting that he may need his help to take the huge suitcases up to the apartment. Arla appears to disapprove of the huge tip but says nothing. She points a finger and says, “Suitcases?”

  Naciim tells himself that this can only mean that she and Christian Christiansen, her common-law husband, are done with each other, unless—like many victims of wife-beating—Arla decides to return.

  The driver releases the trunk. Naciim tries to bring out the suitcases, but they are too heavy for him to lift. The taxi driver, maybe offering to give him a hand, asks, “What floor?”

  “Sixth.”

  The driver asks, “Is there a lift and does it work?”

  Naciim nods in the affirmative.

  The man says, “Then I’ll help you.”

  When Arla heads for the lift, Naciim and the taxi driver watch in silence, as though certain that the suitcases will be brought up somehow. Meanwhile, the automatic door opens and she disappears into the lift. The taxi driver says to Naciim, “Do you know what happened to her?”

  “No idea,” says Naciim.

  Naciim and the taxi driver wait for the lift to return to the ground floor, neither speaking.

  When they hear the loud thud of the lift arriving, Naciim places his hands below one of the suitcases and says, “Ready? Shall we?”

  The driver says, “I’ll carry one and help you with the other.”

  Naciim insists he can carry one. He says, “I am strong enough to meet my responsibility,” as if they are dealing with more than suitcases. He adds, “A man my age should not shirk his duty.”

  The driver says, “We need to take up one suitcase at a time. There is either gold or stones in them, they are so tightly packed.”

  They take the lift up to the sixth floor. When the taxi driver has helped him get the suitcases to the door, Naciim gives him an extra tip, thanks him and says, “I can manage from now on.”

  The driver shakes Naciim’s hand with renewed warmth, and he says, “If I were you, I would tell the lady to report the brute to the police and to have him reined in. This is not Somalia. This is Norway, where they take wife-beating seriously.”

  “You may be right,” says Naciim.

  The driver speaks his parting shot. “I’d rather you didn’t shirk your responsibility and that you reported the incident to the authorities.”

  “Thanks for your suggestion.”

  For the first day or so, Arla keeps to herself, eating in her room and seldom coming out.

  In the days following, she avoids Naciim, venturing to the bathroom only when she is sure he is out of the apartment. On the odd occasions when he has reason to knock on her door, she does not answer.

  However, she spends a lot of time with Waliya and Saafi, the three often talking in conspiratorial tones, so low that Naciim cannot make out what they are saying. Yet today, almost a week after Arla has moved in, and with Saafi out at work, he manages to finally decipher part of Arla and his mother’s conversation. He is able to pick out Mugdi’s name, which occurs more than once. Naciim feels troubled when he figures out why they have spoken the old man’s name: Arla, from what he hears, suggests that she and Waliya work on an elaborate pretext that will make it possible for them to move in with Mugdi, who now lives alone in a very big house.

  “We move in and then we take over,” says Arla.

  Waliya asks, “Take over how?”

  “I’ll think of a way.”

  “I don’t like the idea,” Waliya says.

  There is a pause and he hears footsteps heading his way. Deftly maneuvering from where he has been eavesdropping, in no time he is in the kitchen, where he opens the fridge, retrieves an onion, and takes hold of the chopping board.

  His mother asks him, “What are you preparing?”

  “Depends on what you would like to eat.”

  Waliya fixes her gaze on the wall before her. She says, “We both liked the chicken you made yesterday with rice.”

  He boasts that he has a couple of fish dishes in his repertoire. “Would you like me to make fish and would Auntie Arla like it too?”

  “I’m sure she would.”

  “A bit of salad as well?”

  “But not with the dressing you make.”

  “What is wrong with the dressing I make, Mum?”

  “Your dressing has that French thing, what do you call it?”

  “It’s called ‘mustard,’” he says.

  “It has alcohol as an essential ingredient, yes?”

  “I can make a dressing with no alcohol in it.”

  “Forget about salad. Make us chicken and rice.”

  “Will Auntie Arla join us at the table then?”

  “I’ll ask her.”

  Naciim avoids his mother’s stare, certain that it is time he engages Arla in
a serious conversation about how she came by the bruises and the bandaged, maybe broken, nose. He remembers his own mother’s bruises not long after they arrived in Oslo, when she said she had slipped in the bathroom. (He thought “Mea culpa,” at the time, because it was he who had left the wet soap in the shower.) The two bruises, his mother’s and Arla’s, look remarkably similar. He wonders to himself if his mother lied about her contusions in the first place and whether it is now Arla’s turn to do just that.

  Arla shows no eagerness to join Naciim in the kitchen. However, she does so at Waliya’s insistence when the young man’s mother announces that she will shower and then say her afternoon prayer. Now that Naciim is alone with Arla, he asks, “Will you not tell me what happened?”

  She says, “I was alone when I fell and I will leave it at that.”

  Naciim sighs and goes to fetch Saafi from work.

  Dinner ready, Saafi, Waliya, and Arla join Naciim at the table. Naciim serves the meal, offering a plate each to Arla, Saafi, and his mother and then serving himself a small portion. He watches Arla pushing the food around, like a child who has had enough to eat and is ready to play.

  Arla’s question blindsides him. “Any idea how many unoccupied rooms there are in Mugdi’s house?”

  He gives himself a moment’s pause and says, “Mugdi won’t rent a room to you or anyone else, if that’s what you have in mind.”

  “Who’s talking about renting?”

  His bone-deep suspicion comes to the surface and he looks at his mother. Saafi says, “All the rooms are accounted for. One is the old man’s, one is Timiro’s, the third is Naciim’s, and I use Riyo’s room when I stay over now and then.”

  “But they’re not always there at the same time, surely,” she says.

  Naciim says, “Nothing would make him share his home with you or anyone else. He values his privacy.”

  “Not even in case of an emergency?” she asks.

  “What kind of an emergency?”

  Arla says, “What would he do in such a case?”