Where Have All the Young Girls Gone

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “Yes. You know Miro?”

  Tuomas flushed again. “We sometimes run with the same crowd when we watch the Blues’ matches. Have they. . . When is Noor going to be buried? Can I go when they do? I didn’t know how much I loved her until now. Really. I was such a fucking idiot.” Tuomas’s eyes were full of tears. He didn’t wait for me to answer, instead suddenly bolting off down the street toward his house.

  I walked across Tapio Square to the bus stop and got on the 19, which happened to pull up just at the right moment. Hopefully Aisha Muhammed Ali would be home.

  When I arrived, the yard in front of her building was full of children who could barely stay on their feet, running around in what was left of the snow in their squelching boots. The mothers were off to the side chatting, five or six different accents in their Finnish. There wasn’t a single father in the group. Back in the fall I’d heard of a study that said nowadays women in their twenties consider stay-at-home dads unmanly. Sometimes progress moves in unexpected directions.

  The elevator had been fixed since my last visit, but I still used the stairs. One floor smelled strongly of bergamot, but on the next one up it changed to lemon. I rang the bell at Ayan’s apartment. No one came. I decided that the police always ring twice and pressed the button again. I heard steps inside the apartment, and the peephole went dark. The door chain rattled, and then the door opened.

  “Hello, Aisha.” Somehow it was easier for me to call Ayan’s mother by her first name than to address her as Mrs. Ali. Hopefully she didn’t feel it was disrespectful. “Detective Maria Kallio, Espoo police. We met a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember?”

  Hope flashed in her eyes but then gave way to fear.

  “You find Ayan, my Ayan?”

  “We still haven’t found any trace of her. But you seem to know why she left. What was she running away from?” I stepped past Aisha into the apartment. She had a man’s white dress shirt in her hands, along with white thread and a needle.

  I took off my coat and after a moment’s consideration also my shoes, even though Aisha hadn’t invited me in. I walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Next to it was a well-organized sewing basket full of bright spools of thread, scraps of fabric, and lengths of yarn. Aisha hesitated for a few moments, then sat down on the other end of the couch, which was next to the window. She arranged the shirt in her lap and continued mending a tear under one arm.

  “I just saw Miina Saraneva,” I said. “You shouted at her in the supermarket at the Cello Mall, because you thought it was her fault that Ayan disappeared. Where did Ayan go?”

  Her needle was moving rapidly, and the stitches were so small that they were barely distinguishable. Aisha didn’t look at me when she began speaking.

  “I not know.”

  “Then why did you tell Miina Saraneva that Ayan’s leaving was her fault?”

  Her dark eyes glanced at me, uncertain, and then she turned her attention back to her needlework.

  “Ayan always talk about Miina. Adey so beautiful, skin white as cream. I not understand. It terrible crime be with another woman like that. Is that what they teach there in your club, I ask her. She say she not understand. I say that Ali kill, boys Gutaale and Abdullah kill, all friends kill if hear shame like that; whole family go shame and hell, whole family bad Muslim.”

  She stopped sewing and looked outside. The sun had fallen behind the tall apartment blocks, leaving long shadows, one of which partially obscured Aisha’s face. She shifted her position so the part of the shirt that needed mending was in the light again. The clean, even stitches continued. She didn’t even have to look where she was putting her needle. She’d probably done the same thing thousands of times.

  “I have beautiful amulet, got from Ali when we married. On it sura of dawn, Surat al-Falaq, our sura one hundred thirteen. It no sell, Ali say, no sell ever even if hungry. It always have hide when we come Finland, so no one take away, say sell jewelry first then get food money. I keep safe amulet. Many envy, neighbor Batuulo envy, want buy. They have lot money, somewhere they get lot money. I say give thousand euro, get amulet. Five hundred, say Batuulo. Eight hundred, I say then. Gave eight hundred. I give money Ayan, say go, go, go somewhere away here but write when there. Where I go, Ayan ask. Away from girl, far away. But the woman lie, Ayan say. Cry. I see how you look Adey, look wrong. I want you live. My other daughters die. Now you go.”

  The further Aisha’s story progressed, the faster her needle went. After the last word—“go”—it stopped, because the seam was finished. She took a small, sharp knife and clipped the thread.

  “Miina Saraneva swears that there wasn’t anything going on between her and Ayan. They were friends, nothing more, nothing less.”

  Aisha stood and folded the shirt carefully on the coffee table.

  “You want tea, coffee?”

  “No . . . or, yes, a cup of tea would be lovely.” Aisha went into the kitchen. I heard some jingling, and soon she returned with two cups and some small cookies. They were carefully arranged on a serving tray, which was covered with a decorative cloth. It was embroidered so heavily that the base white fabric was barely distinguishable.

  “Tea ready soon.”

  “Did you embroider that cloth yourself?”

  “Embroi—what?”

  “Did you make that cloth?”

  Aisha nodded.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  She nodded again and went back into the kitchen. I stroked the cloth with my fingers, thinking about how much time had gone into making it. The Girls Club had a sewing group, in which they taught traditional handicrafts from different cultures, but Iida hadn’t been interested in it. She did hem her own jeans, but, to her, sewing on a button was drudgery. When Iida had still been synchronized skating, Antti and I had taken turns sewing sequins on her costume, even though both of us hated doing things like that. Luckily Taneli was content with black pants and a white shirt for his competition outfit.

  Aisha returned with a teapot and a sugar bowl. She poured a rosy liquid that smelled like apples into the cups and offered me one of them. The tea was hot and sweet—Aisha had already put sugar in it. She took a sip from her own cup before continuing.

  “That woman say my Ayan love Adey like man love woman. Walk holding hands and kiss. That not way in Finland unless wrong kind friend.”

  “What woman?”

  “Woman at club.”

  “Miina?”

  “Not Adey! Big blond. Boss.”

  “Sylvia Sandelin? The older woman?”

  “No, no, no! Young woman! Not girl, woman. She in charge club.”

  “Heini Korhonen?” When I said the name, I could hardly believe my own ears. My mouth went dry. I sipped some more tea. Aisha looked at me again, straight in the eyes.

  “It was her. Came my house, say know Islam no like two women lie together. It good for me protect Ayan. Send Ayan away.”

  “And you believed her—and not Ayan?”

  Aisha nodded. I didn’t know who to trust. Someone was lying: Aisha, Miina, or Heini. Had Heini misinterpreted Miina and Ayan’s relationship and was so ashamed of her mistake that she didn’t dare admit it to the police? Or had Aisha’s imperfect command of the language made her imagination run away with her? I drank the rest of my tea but declined a second cup.

  “So where did Ayan go?” I asked.

  “I not know. She say hate me forever and leave. Not hear anything her after then.”

  I thought about the rumors about Ayan that had been spread around on the Internet. Had talk of a relationship with another woman gotten to her father and brothers? Had Heini told her story to them too? We would have to talk to her again first thing tomorrow, even if she wasn’t back to full strength. Or had Ayan been so distraught by her mother’s accusations that she’d taken her own life? Even though the water had been solidly covered in ice since the beginning of the year, there were still spots under the bridges that were melted enough to dive into. Sleeping pills a
nd a frosty night in the woods were also a fatal combination, and if Ayan had managed to find a secluded spot, she wouldn’t be found until spring, when people started wandering farther afield once again.

  “Did you tell your husband and sons why Ayan left?”

  “No, no, no! No tell! You not tell, right?” Aisha grabbed my wrist and squeezed. “Are you mother? You child?”

  “Two. A girl and a boy.”

  “Only two. What if no more, if all die?”

  The question made me shudder. I didn’t even want to let a thought like that into my head. I focused on Ayan instead. Koivu and Puupponen had contacted all of the women’s shelters in southern Finland after the young woman’s disappearance. It was common for immigrant women to seek refuge, to get away from domestic violence. However, they hadn’t found Ayan.

  Was it wrong not to tell her father and brothers that there was hope she might be found alive? Ayan was an adult. She had made this decision herself.

  “I know that you have been asked this before, but do you have any relatives or friends here in Finland to whom Ayan might have gone?”

  “No . . . friends small . . . few, Sudanese. They would tell. Relatives no. All die Darfur. I think Ayan afraid of all man, so like Adey. In Darfur so many bad man kill Ayan’s sisters. Gutaale come soon. Not like if here woman police.”

  I left my business card with Aisha and asked her to call me if anything else occurred to her. I wondered if she had a cell phone; I hadn’t seen a landline in the apartment. On my last visit, the neighbors had said that the family kept to themselves, that they seldom had visitors. Aisha probably hadn’t had anyone to talk to about Heini’s assertions. Maybe that was why she was ready to believe a stranger’s claims over her own daughter’s assurances.

  As I walked to the bus, I tried to reach Heini, but she didn’t answer her phone. It was only four thirty, and the book group wasn’t until the evening. I was completely exhausted and wanted to get my thoughts in order. The bus was full to overflowing—there were already two baby strollers in the aisle, and a woman dressed in a veil that only revealed her eyes was trying desperately to get a third in. I helped her lift the stroller and asked an antisocial-looking middle-aged man to move a little so we could fit.

  “Can’t she wait for the next bus? She can’t be in a hurry to get anywhere; they don’t work—they just breed more of their brats for us taxpayers to support,” the man said.

  “How about you just get out of the way and leave the political speeches for another time?”

  The man gave me a look like the next thing to come would be his fist. The driver tried to close the door, but I yelled at him that there were still people trying to get on.

  “C’mon, jerk-off!” It was a punk teenager, not much older than Iida. “You’re the problem here, not the stroller.”

  The man flushed and moved closer to the boy, who was wearing a leather jacket covered in pins, and combat boots that were almost worn through. The man was taller and broader than him, but the boy didn’t look afraid. I got the stroller in, and the mother crammed herself in too just as the doors closed again. Most of the passengers pretended not to have noticed the incident. Many had earbuds in, and one was immersed in a book. The man who’d been such a problem got off at the next stop, as did one of the baby carriages, and when a space freed up next to the punk, I went to sit by him. In Espoo it wasn’t exactly customary to talk with strangers on the bus, and the boy had turned up his MP3 player so loud that I could hear the rumble of the bass through the headphones. It sounded suspiciously like the Dead Kennedys. I flashed him a smile and gave him a thumbs-up. He smiled back.

  I leaned back and tried to relax. If the man had started to lay into the boy, of course I would have intervened, but luckily, I hadn’t needed to. I got off in Leppävaara, where I helped the same stroller out of the bus. The woman had a smile in her eyes, but she didn’t say a word. As the bus pulled away from the stop, the punk teenager gave me a thumbs-up through the window. Who said there wasn’t any hope for the younger generation?

  To my surprise my father was standing in the living room watching Taneli do practice jumps when I got home.

  “This is a lutz. It takes off from a back outside edge—you can’t really see without skates on—but on television you can pick it out because it’s almost like the skater sits in a chair before he takes off like . . . this!” Taneli pushed off and turned two revolutions in the air.

  “Mom, I’m trying to teach Grandpa to recognize jumps. The world championships are next month! Grandpa said he used to like a skater named Katarina Witt. Who was that?”

  “A two-time women’s Olympic champion,” I answered, although my father had probably admired more about Witt than her skating prowess. I turned to him. “So, it looks like you’re doing better?”

  “Looks that way. It’s so nice outside I think I may take a walk. Your mother says there’s still three feet of snow in Arpikylä and more on its way tomorrow. But I don’t think I should go any farther than the yard. Come out with me, Taneli. There’s more room for jumping outside.”

  Antti had made a salmon chowder the day before, so all I had to do was heat it up and set the table. My work phone stayed silent all night, and the only call I received on my personal phone was from my friend Leena. She was at a weeklong rehabilitation training course at the Spa Hotel Peurunka and needed someone to talk to. I traded gossip with her for half an hour. Leena had been in a car accident and would never walk again, but she was still able to work at the Adaptive Sports Association. Apparently, the best thing about the course so far had been a male lecturer’s candid talk on the mental health effects of becoming disabled.

  Ayan’s face showed up in my dreams that night. The cats were abnormally restless too—maybe there was a fox prowling in the yard. I woke up several times to their creeping about. In the morning I felt groggy, but sunshine and strong coffee helped. I was walking to the station when my work phone rang.

  “Kallio here.”

  “Hi, it’s Tuomas. Tuomas Soivio. I can’t take it anymore. I haven’t been able to sleep for days.”

  “Good morning. I’m glad you called, but if insomnia is your problem, I think a doctor will be able to help you better than the police.”

  “Nothing will help! There isn’t any doctor or medicine that will take away my guilt over Noor’s murder.”

  “Rahim Ezfahani killed Noor, not you.”

  “But the whole thing was planned. We meant for Rahim to kill Noor.”

  19

  Tuomas’s words awoke the same surreal feeling I’d experienced with Aisha. What was he talking about?

  “Where are you now?”

  “At home. I haven’t been able to go to school since Noor’s death. It doesn’t matter if I never get to go to college.”

  “So, you’re saying you have something new to tell the police about Noor’s death?”

  “I can’t take it anymore! I have to talk to someone or my head’s going to explode!”

  “Come down to the station. Should I send a patrol car to pick you up?” I asked, because he was so all over the place that it seemed like he might need protection from himself.

  “Mom’s car is here because she’s in Stockholm. I could take that.”

  “Ask for me by name downstairs, and I’ll come get you.”

  I picked up my pace and tried to get the pieces to fit into place in my mind. I remembered how Tuomas had burst into the Girls Club and rushed into Heini’s arms for comfort. It had seemed odd to me that they were so close, but nowadays some young people hugged more freely. Heini had criticized the girls’ families for trying to use culture and religion to restrict the Girls Club’s members’ activities. Had she encouraged Tuomas to date Noor in order to irritate her relatives? Had Heini seen rebellion where there wasn’t any, like in Ayan and Miina’s relationship, and tried to support it? Had she invited Samir in for coffee because she was trying to get him to admit that he’d been molesting his sister, Sara?

&nb
sp; I ran the last few hundred feet to the station. There wasn’t any sign of Tuomas in the lobby. Puupponen was in the case room.

  “Samir Amir is still psychotic,” he said as I walked in. “I just spoke with his mother. She said Samir was made crazy by the war, that he isn’t responsible for anything.”

  “What about the Ezfahanis?”

  “We interviewed Noor’s brothers again. They’re mostly just worried about whether their residency permits will be revoked. The boys have applied for Finnish citizenship. The mother is just grieving for Noor. They buried her last Thursday, immediately after the body was released to them.”

  Tuomas Soivio hadn’t made it to the funeral, but he likely wouldn’t have been welcomed by the men of the family anyway. I’d seen a funeral procession in Afghanistan. Four men carried the deceased on their shoulders, without a coffin. There were a lot of people in the procession, mostly men. It was important for Muslims to participate in funerals, because it was an expression of respect to Allah and his will.

  “We’re interrogating Rahim’s father, brother, and grandfather again today. Do you want to join us? I think it would serve them right to have a woman question them too. I can’t really comprehend their mindset, that they think any woman in any situation is so alluring that she has to be covered in robes and veils. With all the tits and bras and bare skin in ads these days, I don’t even register them anymore. And I’m just a regular guy who likes women,” Puupponen lamented. He took a ruby-red grapefruit out of his pocket and threw it in the air, then lobbed it toward me like a volleyball. I caught the fruit and threw it back to him.

  “I think the way they think degrades men even more than it does women. As if our brains were between our legs and we didn’t have any ability to control our desires. But that is how Samir acts. A woman asks him into her home, and he attacks her. I don’t want to think like a racist, because there’s absolutely no way to do this job right if you have too many prejudices. They can’t be that different from us. Religion is just an excuse for them, like it is for those Christians who won’t accept female priests. Don’t laugh, Maria. I’ve read the Quran. I really do want to understand. Would you recommend me for a language course if I wanted to study one of their languages, like Arabic?”