“What is your question?” asks Waliya.
“How much did you know of, and how much hand did you have in, the suicide that ended my brother’s life? I’ve heard it said that you were the one assigned to perform the job and you refused, because you didn’t want to leave your children motherless, and so he agreed to do it. Is there an element of truth in this?”
“No truth in that,” says Waliya.
“Did you keep his suicide belt hidden for days and, because he had misplaced the instructions, showed him how to detonate it?”
“I had nothing to do with suicide vests.”
“One final question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you a member of a jihadi cell operating in Europe?” says Timiro.
“I am a widow with two children.”
There is a very long silence.
Waliya breaks it when she says, “No wonder Dhaqaneh never had a good word to say about you all his life.” Then she excuses herself, saying, “Give me a minute, please,” and walks out of the room. She does not reappear. Eventually, Gacalo and Timiro leave in silence.
A sense of agitation dominates Gacalo and Timiro’s travel home, with the younger woman muttering all sorts of maledictions until Gacalo says, “Why didn’t you speak of any of this before?”
“What was the point?” says Timiro. “You were determined to bring her here whatever the cost and whatever the inconvenience, because you made a promise to your son that you would care for his widow and her children.”
When they reach the house, Timiro heads upstairs, tired and looking sick, and Gacalo walks into the kitchen, her head hanging as if in shame. Mugdi hugs her with warmth and then makes her tea the way Somalis like it, with at least two spoons of sugar. He serves it to her along with digestive biscuits without speaking a word.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Gacalo decides that she is well positioned to invite Saafi and Naciim out on the pretext of buying them clothes. She has wanted to purchase several dresses, undergarments, shoes, and other items for Saafi; also Naciim’s first brand-new pair of jeans, shoes of his choice, a couple of shirts, socks, underpants, and tops, and then bring them to her home, where she and Mugdi will have a chance to talk to the children away from Waliya. She is determined to help them settle in. And with the apartment rent paid for a year, new clothes and shoes, a weekly allowance for the mother, and a little pocket money for the boy and the girl, surely Waliya’s worries will be lessened.
To this end, she phones Waliya’s apartment. The phone rings for quite a while until Naciim finally answers. Gacalo identifies herself and chats with him for a bit, then asks how everyone is at home. When he hesitates, she requests that he put his mother on the line. Then, because she is rather keen on being on the right side of Waliya following yesterday’s set-to, she rehearses the words she will use to calm the widow’s nerves.
“Mum can’t come to the phone,” says Naciim.
She pauses, suspecting either the phone is on speaker or the boy is holding the receiver away from himself. She searches for the right question to ask that will prompt the boy or his sister, who is surely listening in on the conversation, to open up.
Gacalo says, “We talked, your mother and I, the other day, about my taking you and your sister shopping for clothes, seeing that you both very badly need new things to wear. I am thinking of coming around in a short while and taking you out shopping, then perhaps going to McDonald’s. Then I will bring you here to see where we live.”
In the background Gacalo can hear Saafi’s words, but she can’t make out what she is saying. “My sister says, and I agree with her, that it will be okay with Mum if we go out with you today to buy clothes. So please come. We will talk to her, in the meantime, to let her know our plans.”
Naciim is waiting for her in the parking lot when she arrives. As he leads her by the hand into the lift, he says, his voice bouncing with eagerness, “I can’t wait to go shopping, but Grandma, we must go up to the apartment first, in order for you to say hello to my mum and also because Saafi will be comfortable only if we are with her when we come back down. This is the first time she is setting foot outside the apartment since our arrival.”
“How is your mum?”
“She is unwell. She says she has a most terrible headache, like hammers on a metal drum.”
They enter the apartment. Saafi knocks on the door to her mother’s room, announcing that Grandma Gacalo is here. Through the door, they can hear Waliya’s muffled voice saying, “I have a headache and am not properly dressed and so I can’t come to greet anyone.”
Naciim barges in on the conversation between his mother and sister. He says, “Can we go with Grandma, Mum? I need jeans, Saafi needs dresses, underthings.”
“Of course,” she says. “Please go.”
A determined young fellow for one so young, Gacalo thinks. She permits him to run ahead with the car keys and open the car by pressing the button before they reach it.
This being their first drive in the city, Saafi and Naciim listen as Gacalo serves as their guide, naming the streets they are on, pointing distantly in the direction of the tram or Metro or bus, and explaining how they will need to learn to move around in this place which is now their home.
As they approach the main entrance to the department store, Gacalo senses a hint of fear in Saafi and Naciim. Saafi tightens her facial veils and recoils from any physical contact with the hordes of eager shoppers, while Gacalo observes how the boy’s fingers rest assuredly on his sister’s spine, speaking to her in a low voice. Saafi nods her head and walks forward, Naciim’s hand still on her back, guiding her. Then Naciim points out to Saafi the presence of a young Somali-looking woman with a niqaab working the cashier’s till, ringing up purchases and exchanging a few words with the Norwegian customers in their native tongue. Gacalo feels their closeness as they communicate with each other in a secret code whose meaning evades her. But when they spot a man in uniform moving in their direction, they freeze, fear again crossing their faces, and appear helpless as he speaks to them first in Norwegian and then in English. “Can I help you?”
Gacalo rescues them, saying to the children in Somali, “He works in the department store as security,” and then saying to the man in Norwegian, “They are with me. Thank you.”
Then Gacalo leads them farther into the department store, repeating to Saafi, “No reason to panic, I am with you.” She advises Naciim not to move ahead too fast; she is worried they might lose each other.
Gacalo, with Saafi willingly following and Naciim tagging along despite his wish to slip away and do his own thing, follows the signs to the junior women’s section. She wants to get Saafi several sets of underwear, half a dozen pairs of socks, a skirt or two, but is determined not to force her. She would like to show Saafi the items, let her feel their softness, and then leave it to the young woman to choose.
Saafi appears delighted with almost every undergarment shown to her. But when it comes to going into the fitting room alone, fresh panic sets in. To allay her worry, Gacalo goes in with her. Still, Saafi finds it embarrassing to disrobe and waits until Gacalo turns her face away.
“Do you like shopping?” Gacalo asks.
“I haven’t done much shopping in my life.”
“Grandma, can I go and get my own things?” Naciim calls from outside.
“Patience. I’ll come with you in a minute.”
Naciim makes a long face but waits. As Saafi tries on the various items, Gacalo entertains her with amusing tales, telling her about Mugdi’s attitude toward clothes shopping—or any shopping for that matter. He will walk into a store, hands empty, grab the first items he sees, and within a few minutes head straight for the till, without ever stepping inside a fitting room.
When they are done, Gacalo and Saafi go with Naciim—she makes a point of extolling the virtue of patience—so he can mak
e his choices: two pairs of jeans, a Levi’s jacket, and a pair of canvas shoes that light up in the dark.
He says, “See, I am done in two seconds.”
Saafi and Gacalo laugh and give each other a high five. Naciim is annoyed that he does not know why they are slapping their palms against each other.
He says, “I’ve always meant to ask someone. Why do women take ages to make up their minds?”
“Do you play chess, Naciim?” Gacalo asks.
He says, “I do and I’m good at it.”
“Did you bring along your set?”
“I never go anywhere without a travel set.”
“Can you name the most important chess piece?”
“The queen, of course,” he replies.
She lets this sink in for a moment.
“And what’s the least important piece?”
He answers, “The pawn or the foot soldier.”
Again, she allows silence to do its work.
“When you pack the chess pieces, don’t the most important and the least important pieces go into the same box, with the king, the queen, the knight, and the castle all fitting together?”
He takes his time before answering. “Yes. I am sorry. I won’t speak like that ever again, I promise. Please forgive me.”
She pats him on the shoulder. She asks, “By the way, where did you learn to play chess? Or rather, who taught you to play it?”
“Stepdad Dhaqaneh,” says Naciim.
“Naciim was good at it. At his school in the refugee camp, he was the junior chess champion,” says Saafi, with pride.
After driving for a hundred meters, with Naciim in the front, Saafi in the back, Gacalo takes a furtive look in the rearview mirror and decides that there is a newfound degree of self-awareness in the way Saafi carries herself. The girl leans backward, her eyes closed, as though she has already taken a good measure of who she wants to be. Then she adjusts the positioning of her facial veil, pushing it ever so slightly aside so she has more of a peripheral view. Gacalo turns her head away just before the girl’s eyes can meet hers. She does not want to be accused of planting the idea of dispensing with the veil into the girl’s head.
Naciim, the first to break the silence, asks with the bravura of someone who knows what he wants, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going home,” says Gacalo.
“Whose home, yours or ours?”
“Where would you like me to take you?”
Naciim says, “Yours, please.”
“Can we find out what Mum thinks?” asks Saafi.
“What objections can Mother raise?” he says.
Gacalo says, “Would you like us to call the apartment to find out what she thinks?” When Saafi nods her head, Gacalo brakes and parks by the side of the road. Turning to Naciim, she says, “Please allow Saafi to have her opinions and please no bullying.” Then she gives the girl her mobile phone to make the call to her mother.
As Saafi dials the apartment number and it rings on and on, Naciim says, “I look forward to putting my new clothes on.”
Gacalo knows from her conversations with Dhaqaneh that her son often took special care of the boy, pampering him with visits to restaurants where he could order a hamburger and chips, two of his favorite foods, of which Waliya did not approve, and buying him everything he needed. Waliya would tell Dhaqaneh, “You are spoiling the boy,” and Dhaqaneh would retort that he was delighted he had a boy to spoil.
Gacalo is sure that Dhaqaneh would approve of the way she is looking after his family.
Saafi finally says, “There is no answer.”
“I know Mum won’t object.”
Gacalo says to Saafi, “What would you like us to do?”
Saafi replies, “I don’t mind if you take us to your home first,” even though she does not sound at all enthusiastic at the prospect.
Gacalo starts the car and drives. Then after a while, she asks Naciim, “Have you and your sister explored your neighborhood yet?”
“Mum advises us against going out in the area.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“Mum is worried for us,” says Saafi.
“Worried? About what?”
“She thinks we will be beaten up by the white gangs who rape black girls and do not like blacks or Muslims. Though I think she worries more for Naciim than for me. She says that Muslim boys are always suspected of being up to no good, when all they do is roam about.”
Gacalo thinks that Waliya’s fear is not unlike that of parents living in areas notorious for drug turf wars. There, the parents advise their children to take all precautionary measures to stay safe. It is understandable that Waliya would assume such a stance, given what the children went through in the refugee camps.
Gacalo parks the car close to the gate.
Mugdi warmly greets Saafi and Naciim, bowing his head, his hands behind him. Timiro stands at the lowest step of the stairs and says, “Welcome,” in their general direction. After which she zeroes in on Saafi, smiling and asking, “What have you bought?”
Mugdi engages Naciim in similar talk, saying, “Now let’s see what you’ve got.” The boy leads the old man into the living room and shows off his purchases.
Gacalo is happy that Saafi and Timiro are engaged in a tête-à-tête in a corner on their own, separate from the men, and that the girl is finding it easier to open up. In the right mood, Timiro exudes an air of authority, balanced by empathy, and Saafi seems to benefit greatly from this healthy mix.
Gacalo offers the children a choice of food, including fish, salad, and a variety of cheeses. Neither shows interest in the items offered. Then Gacalo asks, “What about T-bone steaks?”
Saafi asks what that is and Gacalo brings a steak to show to her, still wrapped in its foil. The girl asks if it is halal. An amused look passes between Gacalo, Mugdi, and Timiro, since they had not given that aspect much thought. Naciim says he has no problem eating the T-bone and Saafi stares at him with disapproval.
The thought of describing Saafi as “a religious bore” to her mother in Norwegian crosses Timiro’s mind. But on second thought, she says aloud, “Mum, didn’t you get that from the Pakistani butcher?”
“Yes, I did, because halal meat is healthier.”
Saafi doesn’t seem convinced and doesn’t want it.
As an alternative, Gacalo takes half a dozen frozen chicken drumsticks out of the freezer and puts them in the microwave to thaw.
Soon after eating, Naciim goes to the TV room to change into his new clothes and he is back in a flash, eager to display them in sequence, as if he were on a catwalk. Mugdi is having fun applauding and Gacalo comes out of the kitchen and joins in. Naciim then makes as if to dump his old clothes and his worn sneakers in the garbage. Mugdi is about to put them instead into the recycling bin when he asks, “Have you checked if you may have forgotten something in your trouser pockets?”
Quick on the uptake, Naciim retrieves the trousers and out comes a five-dollar bill he has saved from his share of the travel money Gacalo sent them before they left Africa, which he wants changed into Norwegian kroner.
“What will you buy with that kroner?”
“A lottery ticket.”
Saafi says, “He is very tiresome, my brother.”
Timiro says, “Lottery tickets, eh? But you must be eighteen to buy a ticket.”
“I’ll work on the means to make a fortune legally.”
“I want to win a fortune.”
Saafi speaks a warning firmly. “In Islam, games of chance are on par with wine drinking and pork eating and both are forbidden.”
Naciim says, “If I win, you’ll get your share too.”
There is a term the residents of the refugee camp use to describe young boys like Naciim: buufis, thinks Mugdi—a p
erilous type of protracted daydreaming, in which the dreamer confuses the real with the imagined. It’s clear the boy has much promise—his charm and ambition attest to that. But he must be guided with caution.
“Do you own a chess set, Grandpa?”
“Why? Are you good at it?” asks Mugdi.
“I’ve won games against many adults.”
“Bet I’ll make your five-dollar bill ten?”
“Too early to bet with you, Grandpa.”
Mugdi brings out the chess set and Gacalo and Timiro watch them play with interest. Soon enough, Mugdi is in trouble, but he is lucky not to lose his queen in just seven moves, as Naciim lacks the attentiveness the game requires. Shortly, Mugdi checkmates him. In spite of this, the old man believes that with more training, Naciim can do very well.
As Mugdi and Naciim begin a new match and Gacalo washes the dishes, Timiro turns her full attention to Saafi. She asks the girl, “How do you feel here?”
“I’m not sure about Oslo yet, but I am comfortable in this house. More comfortable than I believed I would ever be in your parents’ home.”
With the knot in her niqaab undone, Saafi seems to relax, her new purchases spread out on the floor in front of her as if to be admired, not worn.
Timiro asks, “Would you like to go to the bathroom and model them for me?”
“Can we close the door please?”
“Of course we can.”
“Can we lock it with a key? Please.”
Timiro grunts in frustration. She says, “We’re not used to locking doors in this house and I don’t know if anyone even knows where the keys are.”
Timiro has known people who have keys in every door, who lock themselves in when they are in the shower, the toilet, or the bedroom at night, not because they are worried about an intruder, but because they do not trust those who share the house with them. In their own home, they have never locked doors. Does that define who they are? But Timiro wants to gain the girl’s confidence. So she asks her mother to locate the key to the bathroom, and to bring it along. When Gacalo hands her a bunch of keys, Timiro, choosing to speak Norwegian, tells her mother that she wants the men out of the house for at least an hour.
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