The Sound of Language

by Amulya Malladi

  “So, I have a boyfriend … I'm telling you because it could be serious,” Julie said as they drove out of Århus.

  She was such a delight, his little girl, all grown up now. He remembered her blond pigtails and shining blue eyes. Now she was tall, almost as tall as Lars, who was six feet two inches. Julie complained it was hard to find men to date because of her height. “Men are intimidated by tall women. They want a petite woman, not a Viking,” she would say to Anna, who would tell Julie she got Anna's grandmother's genes and she should be proud of them.

  Julie had the prettiest face. Gunnar knew that he would think that even if Julie were not his daughter. Everyone said she was beautiful, that she could be a model with her looks and height. Julie sneered at the idea.

  After studying journalism in Copenhagen she had taken a job with jyllands Posten in London and then several years later she started working for The Times.

  Gunnar was very proud of his daughter. “Learned English without any extra help and now she writes articles for newspapers in English in England,” he told anyone who would listen.

  Anna, of course, couldn't understand why Julie wouldn't live in Denmark. “We want you to be close; you can come and visit us often, we can come and visit you,” she would say and Julie would respond, “But that's what I want to avoid.”

  Gunnar didn't know why Anna and Julie had a tough time getting along. He and Lars got along just fine; hell, he and Maria got along better than Julie and Anna had.

  “So how are things with your Afghan girl?” Julie asked as they neared Skive.

  “Good,” Gunnar said. “I invited her and the family she stays with to come to the summer house.”

  “Will they come?” Julie asked.

  Gunnar remembered how Kabir had looked at him. “The man doesn't trust me. Not me specifically; he doesn't trust Danes.”

  “It happens,” Julie said. “Refugees often feel resentful of their host country.”

  “Why? They get money, a place to stay, why should they be resentful?” Gunnar asked.

  “Because we give it grudgingly,” Julie said. “No one makes their life easy. They are shunted from refugee camps to asylum centers and then when they think, ah I'm out, we ask them to learn Danish before they can go and find a job. No, no, we say spend three years learning Danish and then after that you can start looking for a job.”

  “Learning Danish in Denmark is necessary,” Gunnar said.

  “Sure it is,” Julie agreed. “But can't they learn the language as they work, make real money? An electrician, does he really need to know how to speak in Danish to fix wires? Does a construction worker?”

  “Yes,” Gunnar said. “How will they understand what needs to be done?”

  Julie was flustered. “Well, yes, they need to learn some Danish; why do they need to be fluent?”

  “I think it's important. For example, I don't want someone who doesn't speak Danish to work on the construction of my house,” Gunnar said. “Danish is vital in Denmark, Julie. No way around that one.”

  “Oh like all the Poles we've been hiring to do odd jobs in Denmark speak fluent Danish,” Julie said.

  “Poland is part of the EU,” Gunnar said and then added, “I wouldn't want the Poles to work on my house either.”

  Julie sighed. “But after they learn Danish do they really become Danish?”

  Gunnar looked at her, puzzled.

  “Do people accept a brown-skinned Muslim as Danish if he speaks fluent Danish?” she said.

  “But they're not Danish,” Gunnar said. “They're from wherever they are from.”

  “My point exactly, no matter what they do, they are never perceived as Danish,” she said vehemently.

  “How can you be so anti-Danish? Danes believe that immigrants should have a job when they live here, not live off welfare.”

  “Are you okay with a Dane living off welfare?”

  Gunnar nodded. “Sure, he's a Dane, that's his right. But people who come from the outside have to find a job. That's why Christina sent Raihana to me, to learn something and get a job afterward.”

  Julie smiled. “And has working with you been a real job for her?”

  “Yes, it has,” Gunnar said. “She is competent with the bees. But she won't go out without protective gear.”

  “She's scared of getting stung?”

  “Another two or three years and that fear will be gone,” Gunnar said.

  “Their summer house?” Kabir asked for the hundredth time.

  “Yes,” Layla snapped. “But like Raihana said it isn't theirs, they are renting it.”

  “You want us to go all the way to Vorupør? And what will we do there?” Kabir asked.

  “We don't have to go,” Raihana said wearily.

  “I want to go and so should you. Once you finish school you will need a job. It is good to have Danish contacts,” Layla said.

  “And he said we all could come?” Kabir asked once more.

  “Yes,” Raihana said. “Look, they are nice people. They have children Shahrukh can play with.”

  Kabir shook his head again.

  Layla glared at him. “Fine, we'll go alone. I'll ask Walid to drive us or maybe we can ask the Danish man to drive us.”

  “They don't want us there,” Kabir said. “I can't see how this will be a good thing.”

  “If you don't try, what will you find out? Nothing,” Layla said. “It will be good for Shahrukh. It's good for us to know some Danes.”

  “I don't know—,” Kabir began.

  “Okay, I will phone Walid and …,” Layla said.

  Shahrukh came into the room looking at his parents with impish eyes. Raihana picked him up and took him into the dining room so that he didn't have to hear his parents arguing.

  “Suiten,” Shahrukh said to Raihana. He was hungry. He spoke more Danish than Dari. Poor Kabir!

  “How about a banana?” Raihana asked in Dari, pointing to the banana in the fruit bowl on the table.

  He nodded eagerly and Raihana peeled the banana and tore off half for him. He walked around the dining room and kitchen as he ate, peeking into the living room once in a while.

  When Layla came into the dining room ten minutes later, the banana was all but a sticky memory on Shahrukh's hand and Raihana was wiping it with a wet cloth.

  “I didn't mean for it to cause a fight,” Raihana said.

  Layla waved a hand. “He's just being pigheaded. We'll go; he said he'll drive us. He can get directions from the Internet for the address the Danish man … ah … Gunnar gave you.”

  Raihana smiled. “His daughter will be there. She lives in London; she's a journalist.”

  Layla nodded, impressed. “So she's a smart girl.”

  “I think so,” Raihana said. “Gunnar is very proud of her.”

  “And how about the daughter-in-law; you think she'll like that we come there for a day?” Layla asked.

  “That's her problem,” Raihana said and kissed Shahrukh on the nose.

  Kabir had finally agreed to visit with the Danish man and his family so that Layla would stop nagging. Allah, but that woman knew how to nag. At least there was peace in the house now after the fireworks in the afternoon.

  “I spoke with Rafeeq on the telephone yesterday,” he told Raihana after dinner as they sat to watch a new Hindi movie.

  “He's very concerned about your accident,” Kabir continued. “He worries about you going to Gunnar's house.”

  Raihana's resolve to accept Rafeeq's proposal weakened slightly. “Gunnar didn't throw the stone at me.”

  Kabir raised his hand. “He doesn't want you to stop working. He's just concerned. He even talked about you starting your own beekeeping business.”

  “Tasnim said the same thing,” Layla said. “She said the Danish government gives loans.”

  “First become a citizen,” Kabir said. “First pass Prøve i Dansk 3 and then dream big dreams.”

  “She's learning so fast, she'll be speaking fluent Danish in another
year,” Layla said.

  “Yes, it must be our good influence,” Kabir said.

  “Must be,” Raihana said and laughed.

  “So have you decided what to do about Rafeeq?” Layla asked.

  “Yes,” Raihana said. “It's yes.”

  “Well then,” Kabir said, clapping his hands together. “What made you decide?”

  “I don't know,” Raihana said. “I see Shahrukh and I wish for my own children. I lost my baby and …”

  Layla gasped. She had never heard about a baby. A dead husband, yes, but a dead baby? That was news. “When? When did you lose the baby? How old was the baby?”

  “It wasn't born yet. It was all that traveling across the mountains, coming into Pakistan,” Raihana said. “I saved my life from the Taliban but I couldn't save the baby.”

  Sensing the conversation was of a feminine nature, Kabir snuck out for a cigarette.

  “How far along were you?” Layla asked.

  “Four months,” Raihana said. “Aamir was so scared. He kept saying what a bad world to bring a child into, so he sent me away first, so that I would be safe. He was going to come along as soon as he could. I wish I had stayed in Kabul. I wish I hadn't left him alone like that.”

  “And how would that have helped? They would still have killed him and you might have lost your life too,” Layla said.

  “And would that have been so bad?” Raihana asked.

  “Yes,” Layla said. “That would have been horrible. We would not have met. You would not have learned about beekeeping, seen a new country, eaten rye bread, married again, done so many things. Life is precious. Don't think it's nothing.”

  “I know,” Raihana said. “But still, somewhere inside it seems pointless. People killing each other and just when you think you are safe …”

  “Forget about those boys; the Danish man and the police will take care of them,” Layla said. “You think about your future. You think about Rafeeq and getting married. How about this September?”

  Layla was one of the bravest women Raihana knew. She so easily talked about the future, about moving on —and Layla of all people knew there was nothing easy about moving on. Layla had lost Shahrukh's older brother to a stray bullet in Afghanistan and that had convinced Kabir to leave Kabul. Layla had told Raihana about it just once when Raihana had first moved to Denmark.

  Nothing could be worse than losing your child, yet Layla was a positive person who was forcing change on Kabir and making a dignified life for herself in a cold and white country. Layla didn't talk about going back like so many other Afghans. She didn't hate Danes or Denmark. She wanted to get to know Danes, even though she was not entirely comfortable with them. She wanted to have Danish friends, even though the other Afghans laughed at her because they couldn't imagine Danes interested in being friends with an Afghan.

  “September sounds good,” Raihana said and then because she knew Layla liked to talk about clothes, she added, “I saw this wedding dress at the bazaar, it was beautiful.”

  Layla started to list the best places to buy clothes and what jewelry Raihana could wear. And as they made their plans, the past shed away just a little more.

  “That bitch,” Anders said as he paced Karsten's room. Karsten's mother had gone to Århus and they were alone in the house. Not that it mattered when she was there. She sat in front of the TV with a beer and a cigarette and didn't care what Karsten did anyway.

  “You should've slapped him back,” Henrik said as he rolled a joint. “You should've slapped that son of a bitch cop in his face.”

  Anders stood uncomfortably. He wanted to be macho, like Karsten and Henrik. He wanted to talk to his parents the way they did. Karsten barely noticed his mother and when she said something to him he told her to shut up. He actually said, “Hold koeft.” And the magic of it was, she did.

  Henrik's father talked to them about Hitler and how Nazism was rising again. It was time, he would say, for the white people of the world to take back what was theirs. Henrik's mother sat in the kitchen cooking or was cleaning or doing the dishes. She was always doing things around the house.

  Their parents were so cool while his had handed him over to the cops.

  “What did you do when the cop called you in?” Anders asked Henrik.

  “No one called me in,” Henrik said, proudly lighting a joint. “No one calls Henrik in.”

  “How about you, Karsten?” Anders asked.

  “Not me either,” Karsten said.

  “That bastard was lying then,” Anders said bitterly.

  “Man, your parents sold you to the devil,” Karsten said, and then took a long drag from Henrik's joint. “They just hung you out to dry.”

  Anders plucked the joint from Karsten and took a drag himself. “Son of a bitch, I can't believe this. My parents betrayed me for that brown bitch.”

  “That's what they do, this filth that we let come into our country, they turn white man against white man,” Karsten said. “That's how they beat us. We should stand united against them.”

  “We should do something,” Anders said.

  Karsten nodded. “Yeah, you have any ideas?”

  “Does anyone know where that bitch lives?” Anders asked.

  Henrik grinned. “No, but we can find out.”

  “I read something online that will be just perfect for this,” Anders said.

  He walked up to Karsten's computer and pulled up a website. The text was in English but the boys, raised on American movies with Danish subtitles, had no trouble understanding it.

  SEVENTEEN

  ENTRY FROM ANNA'S DIARY

  A Year of Keeping Bees

  25 JULY 1980

  I love heather honey! It has a unique and strong taste. Every year we rent a summer house for a week and find a nice place laden with heather to leave two of our colonies.

  This year we rented a summer house right by the beach. Gunnar and I used to joke that when we made a lot of money from the selling honey we could buy our own summerhouse. Of course, we have always known that you don't keep bees to make money; you keep bees because you love it.

  We took our colonies, picnic baskets, and the children to the west coast near a beach where we have been leaving our bees for two bee seasons now.

  We place the colonies next to each other in a clearing amid the heather and watch them for a while. Julie reads a book while Lars goes to sleep. The bees buzz around, landing on the heather. For me, these are the perfect moments.

  To Kabir's chagrin even the weather was good on Saturday. The sun shone brightly, the sky was blue, and there was no wind. It was a beautiful summer day.

  Layla was packing for a picnic, food in a wicker basket, tea in a thermos, packets of juice for Shahrukh, and blankets to sit on.

  “They probably have something for us to eat,” Kabir grunted when he saw the amount of food Layla was putting inside plastic containers. “And maybe they don't want to eat mutton biriyani.”

  “Then they don't have to,” Layla said.

  “Raihana got friendly and look what she got for her troubles,” Kabir said.

  Layla sighed. “Go out, do something, clean the car or whatever and stop picking a fight with me. Make sure Shahrukh puts on his new shoes.”

  “You want him to wear nice white shoes at the beach? They'll get ruined,” Kabir said.

  “I don't care,” Layla said. “They're new and the best he has.”

  “I don't know who you're trying to impress,” Kabir muttered as he walked out of the kitchen.

  Layla was determined this was going to be a good day. She would make a Danish friend if it killed her. Her Danish was steadily improving. Her pronunciation was often terrible, but she was able to communicate. Her Danish wasn't as good as Kabir's, but it was good enough to apply for a job at the local kindergarten.

  If Raihana could even think about starting her own business, Layla could at least make a Danish friend.

  It was not an impressive summer house, Kabir said when they got t
here. Raihana and Layla thought it was very charming with its white fence and blooming flowers. The house was right by the beach and already Brian and Johanna were making a sand castle with a man Raihana had not seen before.

  “Those are the kids,” Raihana said. “And that man is probably the son, Lars.”

  Lars came up to them as they got out of the car, which Kabir parked behind Gunnar's in the driveway.

  “Go’ morgen,” Lars said.

  All three of them said “Good morning,” and Shahrukh openly gazed up at their host.

  “Do you want to make a sand castle?” he asked Shahrukh, bending down to the boy's height.

  Shahrukh nodded and then looked at Layla for permission.

  “He can't speak much,” Layla said, suddenly uneasy. “He's only twenty-three months old.”

  “That's okay,” Lars said. “We just want to get him dirty.”

  “We have plenty of clothes,” Layla said nervously. She was frantic, unsure about her Danish, anxious that she was sounding like a fool.

  Maria came out then with a very tall woman whom Raihana suspected was Gunnar's daughter.

  “Hej.” Maria waved and came toward them. They all shook hands and introductions were made.

  “I brought some food,” Layla said.

  “Afghan food?” Julie asked. “I love Indian and Pakistani food.”

  “Then you'll like Afghan food,” Kabir said.

  As they walked inside the house Maria leaned toward Raihana. “She wears a scarf,” she whispered.

  “She does,” Raihana said.

  “Why does she and not you?”

  Raihana was learning that Danes looked at the hi jab as a symbol of Islam and of oppression.

  “She was raised that way,” Raihana said.

  “And you were not?” Maria asked.

  “I was too … but I don't like hi jab. I am not worried that my you can see my hair,” Raihana said. “Would you like to try a samboosa? I made fresh in morning.”

  Lars was more comfortable with having Afghans in his company than Maria, and Gunnar was proud of his son's acceptance of Raihana and her family. He was also relieved that they had agreed to visit as he now had a chance to show Kabir that not all Danes were untrustworthy.