“I would advise you to rein your fantasy in.”
Naciim knows that if Arla puts her mind to moving into Mugdi’s, she will find a way to do so. But he thinks it would be difficult for her to take over.
When Naciim’s protracted silence makes both women nervous, Arla resorts to whispering audibly to Waliya in her frenzied attempt to assure the boy that she had no intention to harm Mugdi in any way. He thinks he knows what her ultimate goal is and he is confident that he will subvert it.
“The house is much too a big for one man,” she says. “Why not share it? Is there anything wrong in finding out if he’ll mind us moving in?” She turns to Waliya. “We don’t mean to do anyone harm, least of all an old man, who has shown kindness to Naciim, Saafi, and you.”
Naciim says to his mother, “Having been mostly unfriendly, you cannot expect any kindness from the old man, who will never forget the outrageous comments Zubair made and which you didn’t challenge.”
Waliya falls silent.
“Doesn’t he need young female company now that his wife is dead?” Arla asks.
“He is content being alone,” says Naciim.
Arla goes on, “Most Somali men of his age remarry. I’ve known many old men who secretly pine for the company of younger women.”
Naciim says to Arla, “Mind if I ask you a question?”
His mother says, “Not if you’ll be rude.”
Arla says, “Let him ask whatever he wants.”
“Are you offering your services to him?”
“Of course not.”
“It sounded as if you were.”
Waliya says, “How dare you talk to Auntie Arla in that rude way! She is not a prostitute.”
“I never said she was.”
Waliya then storms out of the kitchen, followed by Saafi.
Alone with Naciim, Arla says, “This is good-natured banter and neither I nor your mother mean to do ill to Mugdi, who is a likable old man, from what I hear. In fact, we’re proud that you are protective of him.”
And she leaves him in the kitchen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It has taken Arla about five more months from the moment she thinks about the idea and whispers it to Waliya to the instant she believes that it is mature enough of a plot to act on. Then the disaster her scheming has set in motion strikes. Waliya is in the living room, praying, Saafi at work, and Naciim at school when Arla, as per claim, happens to see a fire igniting with such suddenness and ferocity that within a few seconds the white smoke turns black and the walls burst into flames.
Waliya, entering the kitchen, halts in mid-stride, shocked. She prepares for danger while Arla’s eyes open wider, transfixed as she stares at the fire and then at Waliya, as though daring her to do something. Waliya does not need reminding that Arla has long had a fascination with fires.
A formidable tension divides the two women as much as it unites them. When Arla extends her hand toward Waliya, preparing to say, “Come,” Waliya sees the severe burn that left an indelible mark on Arla’s skin many years ago when they were both young in Somalia.
“The fire is still hungry,” says Arla.
Waliya says, “I should phone the fire brigade. We can’t just wait and watch as the fire destroys where we live.”
As Waliya moves to the phone, Arla takes her by the hand and stops her, saying, “It must continue to burn.”
Waliya, turning, sees that Arla has packed suitcases by the door and her handbag is slung over her shoulder, ready to call a taxi and leave. Waliya regrets agreeing to Arla’s plot, remembering Arla telling her years ago that she was born holding a box of matches in the clutch of her fingers. This gave her mother such a fright that she considered abandoning the baby. Arla says, “I can say I’ve done what we’ve agreed on.”
“You and I remember things differently.”
Arla looks at Waliya but remains silent. The fire burns steadily, the flames continuing to feed on everything around.
Waliya, panicked, brings pails of water from the bathroom and pours them on the flames, in the hope that the fire will not spread through the wall and ceiling into the other apartments above and below.
Just then Naciim arrives on the landing and sees smoke pouring out of the apartment. He pounds loudly on the door and enters, his heartbeat quickening and his state of confusion playing havoc with his reasoning. When he stumbles in, the combined heat and smoke from the burning fire increases his uncertainty. He raises his hand to protect his face and closes his eyes against the smoke. Though he can now hear his mother speaking, Naciim is unable to spot her until he rubs his eyes and moves with caution in the direction of the sound the two women are making.
“Let’s go,” he says to his mother.
In the kitchen, the fire has almost slowed to a stop, but it has gathered momentum elsewhere. Arla, he eventually observes, is nearer the door, her handbag firmly in her grasp and her packed suitcases by her side. Naciim has the sense to run to his room to retrieve his identity papers, which he stuffs hurriedly into his school satchel. He also fills another shoulder bag with a handful of valuables and his favorite books.
He says to his mother, “Any idea where your essential papers are?”
“Why would I bother about papers?” she says.
“In that case, let’s get going then, quickly.”
“Given the choice, I wouldn’t go anywhere.”
He scans the fire with rising panic and asks, “What’s the problem?”
“We came here as refugees after living for years in zinc-sheet shacks in the refugee camp in Kenya,” she says. “Now we’re homeless. So what is the point of going anywhere else and starting over? There’s no point.”
“What do you suggest we do? Burn in this mindless fire?”
“I am a cursed woman,” she says.
He grabs her by the hand to pull her out. But she is too unwilling to help. She says, “With one husband dead in a suicide blast, another in jail, the apartment burning, my children lost to me, why would I want to continue living this life?”
A Norwegian woman comes to assist and the two of them drag his mother out. Once safe, the thought of rushing back in and giving a hand to Arla with her suitcases fleetingly crosses his mind, but he thinks better of it and stays with his mother. A man shouts at the top of his voice to warn people not to take the lifts. As he prepares to support his mother down the flight of stairs, Naciim spots Arla charming a young Norwegian into giving her a hand to carry her stuff down to the hall.
When they are in the vestibule and are waiting for something to happen, with the residents milling about and talking anxiously, Naciim asks his mother if she remembers where she was when the fire started.
“As if any of this or anything else matters anymore,” she says.
Arla joins them and says, “Finding us somewhere to stay is the one thing that matters most now.”
He says, “We’ll book ourselves into a cheap hotel.”
Arla asks, “A hotel? For how long?”
“Until the city sorts out something for us.”
Waliya says, “Allah has willed the fire to start and only He knows where we’ll find a temporary home.”
Eventually, they hear the fire brigade sirens coming closer. Naciim thinks it is the most opportune time to ask Arla if she knows who Prometheus is.
“How should I know?”
Waliya asks, “What are you two talking about?”
Arla declares, “Your son is a show-off.”
“Will you let my son be, after all the trouble you’ve caused, from which we’ll find it difficult to recover?” She turns to Naciim and says, “As for you, son—really, do you need to parade your knowledge?”
Naciim helps Arla with her suitcases after his mother begs him to. When they are outside the building, it dawns on all three of them that they have
no idea where to go or where they will stay. Naciim knows he and Saafi are guaranteed a place in Mugdi’s house, but is not enthusiastic about Arla and his mother sharing the home with them, fearful of the menace Arla poses. Still, he feels weighed down with the burden of arranging a place for his mother until something else is sorted for her. As he rubs the residual smoke out of his eyes, Naciim now relives his memories of the refugee camp in Kenya, and then recalls his arrival in Oslo with his mother and sister.
With crowds milling at the entrance to the building, Naciim decides to call a taxi, which takes a long time to come. He gives the driver the name of a cheap hotel in Groenland, which he knows about thanks to Janine, with whom he has rented a room a couple of times for privacy’s sake.
At the hotel, Naciim reserves a room for his mother. He has no objections to Arla staying with her, if that is what she wants. He then phones Saafi to let her know what has happened. He gives her the address of the hotel and asks if she can get herself there in a taxi. He then telephones Mugdi to inform him where he is and the disaster that has struck.
Mugdi says to Naciim, “Come and let’s talk.”
Naciim knocks on the door and waits, worried that he may disturb Mugdi, who has lately been hosting Nadia often. He wonders if moving in may upset the elderly couple’s tête-à-tête.
Mugdi lets him in and says, “Welcome, my dear.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” says Naciim, soon realizing, as he prepares to deposit his school satchel and shoulder bag in his room, that Mugdi is not alone; Nadia is in the living room, where she and Mugdi had been watching a BBC cultural program on TV. Naciim says, “I am sorry.” But Nadia greets him with enthusiasm.
Mugdi speaks in Norwegian, wanting to include Nadia in the conversation. He says, “There is no reason to be sorry. Anyhow, give us your latest news.”
Telling them what has happened, Naciim says that he has made temporary arrangements for his mother in the hotel in Groenland, and he tells Mugdi that even though the idea of allowing Arla to share it with his mother does not sit well with him, yet he has raised no objections when his mother insists on hosting the woman. Then, in an effort to reinforce his total trust in Mugdi, Naciim says he did not have sufficient funds for a cash deposit—Mugdi knows that the boy doesn’t have a debit or credit card.
“Why did you take them to a hotel?” Mugdi asks.
“Where else could I take them?”
Mugdi remembers that when they first arrived, he and Gacalo gave a formal undertaking that they were responsible for Waliya and her two children. Since then, much water has flowed under the bridge, but he owes it to Gacalo’s memory and feels, too, that he is under a moral obligation to help the three of them. But he is unsure if he wants to host Arla, unless Naciim suggests that he, Mugdi, extend this goodwill gesture to the woman, because she is an inseparable friend of his mother’s.
He says to Naciim, “We’ll call the city authorities about the possibility of finding you, your sister, and your mother accommodation, somewhere close to your school and Saafi’s place of work. I take it that is what you want?”
“Yes, Grandpa. That’s what I want.”
“But you know you are always welcome here.”
Naciim, his voice betraying a little tremor, says, “Thanks, Grandpa.”
“We don’t yet know how the fire started?”
“Arla blames it on a short circuit.”
“She would, wouldn’t she?” says Mugdi. “The self is never to blame.”
After a pause, Mugdi asks, “Did you say you didn’t have sufficient funds to deposit at the hotel?”
“That’s right,” says Naciim.
“Would you like me to lend you my credit card?”
“The manager has agreed to wait until Monday, when the banks open, when I’ll pay the remainder,” says Naciim.
“How many days have you reserved the room for?”
“A couple of nights.”
“But do you need to keep them at the hotel?”
“What other options are there?”
“Why not move them here?”
Naciim closes his eyes and clenches his hands. Then he opens his eyes and looks this way and that, as though he is in a burning house and is in search of a fire exit. He knows what he overheard from his mother and Arla, yet he cannot bring himself to share what he knows with Mugdi.
“I don’t think it is a good idea.”
Nadia asks, “Why not?”
Naciim wears a guilty expression and looks monumentally sad. He loves the old man and does not want Arla to have the opportunity to hurt him.
“Think about it,” suggests Mugdi.
Naciim says, “Let us take our time on it.”
Mugdi excuses himself and goes to the upstairs bedroom. Meanwhile, Nadia says to Naciim, “You don’t know how the fire started?”
“No idea,” says Naciim.
“Oslo’s fire department, one of the best in the world, will conduct tests and they will tell us all we need to know.”
When he has rejoined Naciim, Mugdi brings out some money, which he spreads on the low table in the manner of a poker player fanning out his cards.
“This is all I have now in the way of cash. You take it. Unless you want us to go together right away to get some more from an ATM to tide you over.”
Naciim thanks him for the funds, even as he regrets his inability to confide fully in Mugdi.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Saafi, at Naciim’s gentle prodding, agrees to pay the monthly rent of a two-bedroom apartment he has found a block away from their old flat and which guarantees them immediate occupancy while they wait for the city to find them more permanent shelter. Naciim cuts school for a day to help his mother and Saafi pack the little they have in the way of possessions into suitcases and plastic carrier bags. But there is a problem: Arla wants to relocate with them. Naciim is firmly against this; however, he says that he will pay for one or two more nights for her at the hotel until she finds alternative accommodation.
His mother asks, “Where did you get the money for her two-night stay at the hotel?”
“From Grandpa Mugdi,” replies Naciim.
Arla is chain-smoking before the sign that says in several languages that the room is nonsmoking. Naciim stares at her, incredulous, but she merely smirks. And he grows even angrier when she says, “Either you get more money from him and pay for more nights here, or else I’m coming with you.”
Naciim makes as if to leave the room but Arla blocks his escape. Her hand on his chest, pushing him with all her might, she says, “Where do you think you are going? We haven’t yet settled on a solution.”
He says to his mother, “Please ask your friend to move out of my way.”
Arla removes her hand, but continues to stand in his way.
He continues, “Please tell her to prepare to pay the fine for smoking in a nonsmoking room. I’ve got less than a quarter of an hour until checkout time, when I also expect a taxi to take you and your stuff to the new place.”
“I hope you are coming with me,” his mother says.
“When have I not come with you?”
Naciim takes the heaviest of the suitcases down in the lift, inwardly seething with rage. How he wishes his mother would stand up to Arla and tell her to eff off.
After he has settled the bill for two more nights, he calls the room from reception so as to spare himself another unpleasant encounter with Arla. When his mother comes down, she subjects him to a harangue, saying, “Why do you always go out of your way to embarrass me in front of my friends? I find it insulting that you determine if Arla, who has nowhere else to go, can or cannot stay with us.”
He is silent as she grows more agitated. She says, “There’s enough space. The three of us women can stay in one room, and you, the big man and Mahram, can have your own.” Then she quotes a Somali
proverb with the gist that “those who love one another can crowd into a small space without the slightest annoyance.”
He says, “You’re being unreasonable, Mum.”
She is tearful as she says, “You have Mugdi to help you out, your white friends, your classmates, and a life full of daily excitement. Saafi has a job that keeps her busy all day. I have no friend, except Arla. I’ll be alone with my weeping, with my thoughts.”
He searches through one of the suitcases for her tape player and Koranic tapes and puts on her favorite surah. The chanting of the holy text always calms her. He allows the tape to run for quite a while, waiting for his mother to fall under the influence of the recitation.
Then he says, “One reason why Arla has been no good for you, insofar as I am concerned, is that she has no tolerance for the Koranic tapes to run when she is around you. Besides, if she stays in the hotel, she is only a couple minutes’ walk from here and you can visit each other often.”
Waliya reaches for the nearest object she can lay her hand on. She finds a slipper, which she throws at Naciim in anger, and he ducks his head low to avoid the missile. She bursts into tears and storms outside.
In the taxi, he gets a call from Saafi, who asks him to fetch her from work. He says, “Is there a problem? It’s not yet midday.”
She says, “I’ve just been fired.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“The manager called me into her office half an hour ago and she sacked me, no reason given. So please come and maybe we can do a bit of shopping for food and other stuff.”
Saafi and Naciim do the necessary shopping with the money Grandpa Mugdi has given him. He suggests that they do not tell their mother that she has been fired. She fusses a little, arguing that there is no point postponing the inevitable, since their mother will find out as soon as tomorrow that she no longer has a job.
“That’ll buy us time,” he says.
“I want Mum to know I’ve been fired,” she says.
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing,” he says.
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