“People get drunk and cause a ruckus. The Crazy Daisy gets a lot of high-profile people in,” Jon said, leaning over the desk. “Prince Joachim is there quite often, and not with the princess.”
No one said anything and there was silence for a while until Marianne suddenly started to speak.
“My father says it's because we're too easy on the boys, we don't punish them enough,” Marianne said. “But they're my boys and I love them. I love Anders and I know he did a bad thing but I can't be really angry with him.”
“I'm angry,” Mogens said. “I am angry enough to wring his neck, the little bastard. Hurting someone like that. At this rate he's going to end up in jail.”
“He isn't going to become a criminal,” Marianne said firmly. Gunnar could see she had convinced herself that her son hadn't really done anything wrong and this whole police station scene was unnecessary.
“Yes, yes he is,” Mogens said. “He threw a stone at that Afghan girl. What if he throws something else?”
“Oh, Mogens, he's just being—”
“Stop,” Mogens thundered. “This is why we're unable to discipline either of them, because you keep letting things go. But enough is enough. It stops now.”
Marianne's face flashed with rage. “Well, why shouldn't he be angry with immigrants? I am. They're all criminals anyway and my son is being punished — ”
Jon raised his hand. “If you two want to fight, please do it in your house, not in my station. And Marianne, if this is the kind of nonsense you're telling your son, it's no surprise he's throwing stones at innocent women.”
Marianne gasped. “I'm telling him no such thing.”
Jon's phone rang then and he spoke for a moment and put the receiver into the cradle.
“They are here,” he said and stood up, rubbing his hands together.
Marianne fell silent and Mogens looked as if he were being led to the guillotine.
Anders came into the office and the officer who brought him in stood by the door, his hands locked behind him, his legs slightly apart.
Anders looked up at his parents in confusion and then at Jon. “What's going on?” he asked. “Why am I here? Mor, Far?”
Marianne was about to say something but Mogens put a hand on her shoulder to silence her. He cleared his throat. “You threw a stone at a girl and — ”
“Whoever said that is lying,” Anders said, cutting his father off.
“Really?” Jon said, smiling slowly. His bald head glistened with heat and his eyes were menacing. Gunnar thought that when he was sixteen, a policeman like Jon would've scared the life out of him, but Anders was nonchalant.
“I didn't do anything,” Anders said and walked back to lean against the wall.
“Stand up straight,” Jon said coolly and banged his fist on the table.
Marianne flinched, Mogens seemed pleased, and Anders, well, Gunnar thought happily, the boy did as he was told.
“I shave my head because I don't have much hair left,” Jon said. “I hear you do it because you think you're a neo-Nazi, are you?”
Anders's Adam's apple bobbed for a moment. “I believe that Denmark is for Aryans, for us, not”—he seemed to pick up his courage to look at Gunnar and say—” the scum some people are bringing into this country.”
Jon stood up and Anders took a step back. “It isn't for you to decide, you little punk. Raihana Saif Khan has lodged a complaint against you. We take complaints of assault seriously and racially motivated ones, we take especially seriously.”
“She's lying,” Anders said and turned to his mother. “I didn't do anything. She … her type … they always lie. I didn't do anything … Mori”
Marianne stared at her shoes, her lips quivering.
“Don't lie, son,” Mogens pleaded.
“What the hell do you know about anything,” Anders said. “You never believe anything I say anyway.”
“Watch the way you talk to your father,” Jon said. “Mogens, Marianne, thanks for coming in. Please step outside. I need to speak with Gunnar and Anders alone now. Palle, please take them outside and give them a cup of coffee, maybe some cake?”
The police officer who had brought Anders to the station walked Mogens and a very reluctant Marianne out of Jon's office.
“Look here, you shit-faced liar,” Jon said just as the door closed behind the police officer. “You think I will believe some spoiled teenager over a respectable woman who is working hard to become a productive member of the community.”
“That bitch is a Muslim,” Anders said.
Jon turned to Gunnar. “Could you please wait outside?” he said.
Gunnar stood up, unsure, and then quietly walked out of the office. Jon shut the door behind Gunnar.
There was a sound of something crashing and then Gunnar heard Jon say, “She's a respectable woman and we don't go around calling a respectable women names.”
Gunnar heard Anders cry out, a tremor in his voice. “I will report you, you asshole, you can't do this.”
“Report what?” Jon demanded and then there was another crashing sound.
Gunnar got nervous but stood outside, waiting to hear Jon or Anders say something.
Oh God, had Jon just slapped the boy? This was Denmark, cops didn't slap young boys—slapping of any kind was not acceptable. Even in a riot situation, cops could get into trouble for hitting someone unnecessarily. In Denmark, spanking your own child was against the law.
“Report what you want, no one cares. You think they'll believe you over a respected police inspector?” Jon asked.
The door opened then and Jon gestured to Gunnar to come back inside. Anders's face was red and he looked frightened.
“We were just getting a few things straight,” Jon said and sat down. Anders was shaking slightly now.
“Now, your friends will be picked up as well and they'll be informed that you told us that they threw the stone. That you're escaping punishment for ratting them out,” Jon said.
“I didn't say their names. They had nothing to do with this,” Anders said.
“Yes you did,” Jon said, looking at some papers. “Karsten Rasmussen and Henrik Jensen. What do you think your friends will say about this?”
Anders just stared at Jon.
“Right,” Jon said. “Now, I'm going to let you go because I know your father and I owe him some favors. But the other boys will be punished.”
“No,” Anders said, now scared. “You can't do that. They didn't do anything.”
Jon nodded. “I know, but what do you want me to do? One of you threw the stone and the girl got badly hurt.”
“I threw the stone. It was just me,” Anders said, panic now lacing his voice.
“So you threw the stone? Why should I believe you? No, no, I need to speak with Karsten and Henrik,” Jon said implacably.
Anders turned to Gunnar. “Look, I'm sorry, okay Gunnar? I'm really sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean … look … they had … the stone … I threw it. Can't you do fingerprints or something? You will see, I threw it.”
“The boy sees too much American television. I don't need fingerprints to put you away; I have Raihana Saif Khan, who will identify you. I can put you all away, but for now I'll be happy to put those two away,” Jon said.
The fight visibly drained out of Anders.
“What can I do? Whatever …,” he began helplessly, his hands held up in submission.
Jon raised his hand. “Stay away from that woman. Actually, stay away from all women. Give Gunnar five hundred kroner for fixing Ms. Saif Khan's bicycle and another five hundred kroner to replace the clothes you tore. I'm hoping you jokers can find this money by the end of the month without committing a crime?”
“We can't get a thousand kroner just like that,” Anders protested.
“Yes, you can. It's summer, go get a summer job,” Jon said. “And I want a written apology. The woman's name is Raihana Saif Khan. Here, let me write it down for you. Write a note to her apologizing for wh
at you did and give it to me. I will read it and then I will give it to her. You can give me the money at the end of the month, but the note comes next week. On Monday. Am I clear?”
Anders picked up the yellow sticky note with Raihana's name and looked at Gunnar. There was anger in his eyes, not remorse.
Once a month, Kabir drove to Bazaar Vest near the immigrant area in Århus, an hour and a half away from Skive. The bazaar was in a huge building with stores everywhere. There was a vegetable market and row after row of stores run by Iranians, Iraqis, Indians, Afghans, and Turks.
The smell of Turkish coffee, freshly baked baklava, and cigarette smoke permeated the air of the crowded bazaar.
Raihana had been surprised to see quite few Danes at the bazaar on her first visit. Even Christina had talked about the bazaar and how she went there at least once a month to buy meat.
Kabir didn't go to the bazaar to shop, but to meet other immigrants like himself. He always spent time with Faisal, who had the best meat shop in the bazaar; Qadir, whose café served oily pizza and Turkish coffee; and Khaled, whose clothes, DVD, and video store was thriving.
Layla, Shahrukh, and Raihana would start at the vegetable market where the vegetables were always fresh, in abundant varieties, and cheap. After vegetable shopping they would eat at the small Indian place at the other end of the bazaar. A couple, Azhar and Tasnim from Hyderabad in India, ran the restaurant. Tasnim spoke fluent Dari because she had Afghan relatives who migrated to India from Afghanistan when she was young and she had picked up the language from them.
Tasnim chatted with Layla and Raihana as they ate lamb curry or chicken tikka masala with freshly made rotis.
“What happened to your face?” Tasnim asked as Raihana had expected she would.
Before she could explain, Layla launched into a tirade about the incident, explaining how Raihana had gotten hurt.
“So did they take the boys to the police?” Tasnim asked, sliding a plate of samosas in front of the women and handing a laddoo to the irritable Shahrukh, who didn't like being strapped in his pram.
“Well, the man she works for told Kabir they would take the boys to the police,” Layla said with a sneer.
“And he will,” Raihana said in Gunnar's defense.
“Terrible,” Tasnim said and sighed when Shahrukh let out a wail. “Layla, get him out of that pram and let him walk around.”
Layla looked at Shahrukh, whose face was scrunched up. She unstrapped him and pulled him out.
“Arrey, Azhar, take him into the kitchen,” Tasnim called out in Hindi and pushed Shahrukh toward the kitchen, where her husband would keep him fed and entertained.
“So what else is going on?” Tasnim asked.
Layla looked at Raihana. “Rafeeq, you know that Afghan who lives on Mors, he made a marriage proposal for our Raihana.”
“Arrey wah! What good news!” Tasnim said. “So, when is the wedding?”
Raihana shifted uncomfortably.
“Well, she hasn't said yes yet,” Layla said.
“What's to say, arrey, Raihana? Rafeeq comes here every month, handsome man and well mannered,” Tasnim said. “I know he's looking for a wife and he makes good money. He's almost a Danish citi-zen.
Raihana nodded politely. “Yes, he seems like a good man.”
“So will you marry him?” Layla asked.
“I just got hit by a stone,” Raihana pleaded.
Layla put her hand on Raihana's. “Is that a no?”
“No, no,” Raihana said, shaking her head.
Tasnim grinned. “Then it's a yes, isn't it.”
“Maybe,” Raihana said. A part of her wanted to just say yes and be done with it.
“Have children, be happy,” Tasnim said. “You deserve it.”
“Yes, she does,” Layla said.
“This is all very strange,” Raihana said. “The first time I got married … it was different and now …”
“The first time was in Kabul, this time is here,” Layla said. “You are lucky to have come here, now make something of your life.”
“I really want to work,” Raihana said and then looked at Tasnim. “You like it don't you, running your own business.”
“Oh yes,” Tasnim said. “Without this… I don't know. I don't abide by those career women, always away at work and whatnot. But here, I raised my children and worked and helped the family.”
“I want to do the same,” Raihana said. “I am learning to be a beekeeper.”
“She knows a lot about beekeeping,” Layla said proudly.
“I would like to become a beekeeper,” Raihana said.
Tasnim nodded appreciatively. “You can have your own bees, make your own honey,” she said.
“But won't that be expensive?” Layla asked, peering into the kitchen as she heard Shahrukh's laughter. He ran past the open doorway with a sweet in his hand.
“The Danish government will pay,” Tasnim said. “You need a small-business loan, it's quite simple.”
“A loan? You mean borrow money?” Raihana asked. “That doesn't sound right.”
“You're not in Kabul anymore. Here everyone borrows money to make their life better,” Tasnim said.
Azhar brought their food out and went back into the kitchen to play with Shahrukh. As the women ate, the topic swiftly changed to the latest Hindi movies and what Azhar had brought back with him from his most recent trip to India.
After they left, they found Kabir at the Qadir's café smoking a cigarette and drinking Turkish coffee. While Layla talked with Qadir, Raihana stood in front of a clothes store, window-shopping.
Clothes hung on the glass wall of the store and at the center was a green Afghan wedding dress. Could she be ready to wear a wedding dress again? She was getting used to the idea of getting married, especially after the incident with the boys. A part of her wanted the security that marriage and a man by her side offered. That was a good reason to get married.
There were beautiful salwar-kameezes hanging by the wedding dress. Raihana wished she had the money to buy pretty clothes. She had been saving up ever since she came to Denmark, wanting to go back to Afghanistan. There was nothing to go back to, she knew that now, and she knew she couldn't go back. This was her home; it had become her home. She had made friends, Afghan, Indian, and Danish; she had become someone here.
And what was there to go back to? Aamir was dead. She had always known, but she had hoped so desperately. Kabir had called his friends in Pakistan just a few days ago and confirmed that Aamir was dead. He had done that for her.
A small hand pulled at her kameez and she smiled when she saw it was Shahrukh, licking a lollipop. “Raihana Chachi,” he said and then grinned. “Catch me,” he cried out and ran from her. Raihana ran behind him. When she caught him he shrieked with laughter and then laughed even harder when she tickled him. His lollipop fell from his mouth, but he didn't care.
“Tickle me again, Raihana Chachi,” he insisted, giggling.
Raihana was breathless with happiness as the vibrant body of a child wrapped up against hers, warming her all the way to her soul.
Right then, Raihana decided she would marry Rafeeq. He had proposed and she would say yes and she would have children, a family, and a life.
She hugged Shahrukh close to her as he caught his breath.
She kissed him on his hair and left Afghanistan behind.
SIXTEEN
ENTRY FROM ANNA'S DIARY
A Year of Keeping Bees
23 JULY 1980
My daughter gave me this beautiful poem about bees by Emily Dickinson. She read it on a trip to Istanbul and she sent me a torn page from a book of poems, along with a postcard.
THERE IS A FLOWER THAT BEES PREFER
There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—
And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
&nbs
p; Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—
Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—
She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—
Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—
And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—
Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—
The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—
Julie always came to Denmark for a week in July. Gunnar and Anna would rent a summer house and stay there for two to three weeks. With the bee season in full swing in the summer, it was hard to get away. So it was nice when Julie came to visit, because when she came, Lars, Maria, and the grandchildren came—and that one week in summer became a family affair with the kids running around the house and Lars and Julie arguing over everything under the sun.
Without Anna, Gunnar hadn't wanted to rent a summer house, but both Julie and Maria insisted. Lars didn't care one way or the other but his wife had convinced him that it would be good for Gunnar.
Julie flew to the Århus airport, which was an hour-and-a-half drive from Skive. Gunnar liked going to pick her up alone because then they got time together before Anna monopolized every conversation.
The Sound of Language Page 18