North of Dawn
Page 22
“I know nothing you don’t,” says Kaluun.
Mugdi had looked forward to the day of Gacalo’s retirement, in two or three years’ time. They had often spoken about making similar trips as Birgitta and Johan, and simply enjoying life together in old age. Now there is no such possibility of that. The thought of her no longer with him is incomprehensible; even more so if her absence was deliberate.
It takes him a moment to realize that his brother is still speaking to him.
“Are you coming with us? Wouldn’t you rather not be here when the coroner arrives?”
“Where to?”
“For a walk in the park.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Timiro with Riyo, you, me.”
For a moment, Mugdi seems not to remember who these people are, or how they have come to be in his home. What is more, even after he decides to get to his feet and join them, he is unable to move; he feels as if his feet are stuck in quicksand and he can’t stop sinking.
“Life is a sham,” says Mugdi.
“So you’re not coming?”
“I would like to be alone with Gacalo and to think things through, before she’s taken from me.”
Alone with Gacalo’s body, Mugdi is initially at a loss for words. However, rather than grieve in silence, he makes every attempt to talk to her, as if she were alive. He tells her how much he will continue to love her and that he regrets every mishap he has caused, and apologizes for every ill-conceived plan he came up with to stop her having her way. At a certain moment, he is sure her eyes are open, her breathing is back, even if feeble, like an ailing person’s. He pauses between his words and focuses on her face, convinced that she is responding to his monologue and maybe nodding her head in agreement.
His outstretched hand touches her wrist and for a moment he feels as though there is a faint pulse, but he loses it in the second instance. As he considers whether it is worthwhile insisting that perhaps she is still alive, he hears footsteps approaching and then sees men carrying a stretcher walking in.
One of the men introduces himself as the coroner. And when two of the other men indicate that they want Mugdi out of the room, he does so with the obsequiousness of someone with nothing to say.
They take away the body and he feels very lonely, wishing that he had someone to talk to, now that Gacalo is no longer there.
Mugdi welcomes back Kaluun and Timiro after their walk. Himmo, who has just heard the sad news from Saafi and Naciim, joins them. Still grieving the loss of Mouna, Himmo seems completely undone by Gacalo’s death. Her weeping sets off Timiro again, and their crying becomes more jarring when Riyo adds hers to theirs. Mugdi cringes at the dissonance of the sounds, sadly aware that there will not be many mourners at Gacalo’s funeral unless he hires paid moirologists to swell the numbers. Unlike the dozens and dozens who mourned with Himmo, they do not have many friends among the Somali community, nor have they cultivated a sufficient number of friends among the Norwegians.
Mugdi says, “Please,” and both Timiro and Himmo take a pause in their crying, with no guarantee that they will not resume. Soon the landline starts ringing. First it is Birgitta in an uncontrollable state. Johan takes the phone and announces briefly that they are coming. More phone calls follow, many of them Gacalo’s coworkers ringing to condole the family, men and women who praise her character and her work ethic and say they will miss her friendship and sense of humor.
Johan and Birgitta arrive at a moment when Mugdi is busy taking these calls, many from people whom he may have met casually at this or that reception but whose names mean nothing to him; he has never known them personally. As his friends stand close by, waiting to offer support, they listen to his formal conversation and are struck by the interregnum into which they have walked, with Gacalo’s body now in the morgue. They will have to wait three or four days for the pathologist to perform the autopsy and release the findings.
Now that he is done with the phone calls, Mugdi is on his feet, his arms open wide, ready to receive his friends. Johan pays his respects and the two hug, neither speaking. Then Birgitta takes Mugdi in a long, hard embrace, determined to cry her heart out as if that would bring Gacalo back. Her husband pays her no heed.
Johan says, “It is the intervening period between her dying and her eventual burial that will no doubt prove most difficult.”
“I dread the thought,” says Mugdi.
“You know the origin of the English word ‘wake’?” asks Johan, and then without waiting for an answer, he goes on, “Vaka is the term from the Old Norse.”
“The dourness of our funerals!” says Mugdi.
Johan silently interprets this Mugdi-speak as, “How I wish we could organize a boisterous wake!” Alas, he knows he will not.
In Norway, sudden deaths require certification from the authorities before the corpse can be buried. Johan recalls that with people of the Muslim faith, burials are simple and occur within hours of death, hordes of visitors and well-wishers arriving at the home of the bereaved family. Meanwhile the corpse is bathed and then wrapped in lengths of white cotton or linen, after which the community offers its collective prayer—the Janaaza prayer ritual. Mourning lasts only for a few days, and takes the form of more frequent devotions. Grieving is done with dignity.
Johan also knows of wakes among the Irish and the Yoruba, where the vigil is celebrated with wild dancing, a junketing fit to wake the dead. Timiro and Himmo have resumed their sobbing, until Kaluun censures their behavior, saying, “You sound like paid mourners in Rajasthan, you are so loud.”
Himmo is upset, but says nothing.
Mugdi goes on, “Imagine if we continued crying like that for three or four days while waiting for the body to be released.”
The silence, prompted by Mugdi’s plea, becomes protracted. Himmo, her eyes red, whispers, “Why do they die, the people I love most? First Mouna and now Gacalo, alive one minute, dead the next.”
Mugdi wishes he could impose total silence on everyone present.
Johan says with concern, “From your current expression, it seems as if there is something bothering you terribly—besides the obvious. Can Birgitta and I be of any assistance?”
It takes Mugdi a long time to air his thoughts. “Gacalo and I were so self-contained as a couple,” he says, “that we allowed only family members, Himmo and her children and yourselves into our small, private circle.”
“What are you saying?” asks Johan.
“I am wondering if this is because we’ve been in exile for a long time and so had no problem severing all ties with Somalis, including those who are here, or whether this is because Norway, which we’ve chosen as a home, is a country in which it is difficult to make friends.”
“All of the above.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A traditional Muslim funeral is held at a mosque four days after Gacalo’s death and the day after the pathologist’s verdict that Gacalo died of possible overdose. Himmo made the arrangements once the hospital confirmed that the body was ready for collection, first with a Pakistani-owned funeral parlor specializing in preparing Muslim bodies for burial and then with the imam of the mosque where she attends Friday prayers.
“Very sweet of Himmo to set all this up. Thanks to her,” says Eugenia.
“Y’know what has surprised me most?” says Kaluun. “That Waliya has provided the incense that’s burning. Incense burning is traditional in our culture and it lends an odiferous liveliness to the burial process.”
Gacalo’s casket now rests on a stand in the anteroom of the mosque, having arrived in a funeral van in time for the midday prayer. Himmo, Kaluun, Timiro, with Riyo in a toddler carrier backpack—Waliya absent for reasons not given—catch their first sight of Gacalo in the mosque’s antechamber. Eugenia, Johan, and Birgitta stay behind, because they are not Muslim and have no idea how to comply with the ritual demand
s of a mosque; and because somebody has had to volunteer to look after Riyo. Being local, Birgitta smooth-talked two girls Riyo’s age, the granddaughters of a friend, to come and play with her. So while the girls play, Eugenia and Birgitta prepare finger food for the guests, who may come after the burial.
It surprises both women that Johan, on his authority and against her objections, has removed the liquor and wine from the drinks cabinet in the living room, hiding them in Mugdi’s upstairs study in case Somalis or other Muslims express disapproval—though not before serving himself two tots of whiskey on the rocks and a generous glass of wine each for Birgitta and Eugenia.
Birgitta says to Johan, “Are you sure Mugdi will like what you’ve done in removing his drinks?” Eugenia listens to the conversation in silence.
“I can’t think why he won’t,” Johan says.
“It’s presumptuous of you.”
“Think, darling. Where is he now, as we speak?”
“He is at the mosque, of course.”
He says, “Let’s ask Eugenia for her view on this.”
Turning to Eugenia, Johan says, “Would you agree that Mugdi is culturally a Muslim in the way that you and we are culturally of the Christian faith?”
“I would,” says Eugenia.
“We were baptized as infants, confirmed during our teens, attend weddings, funerals, and the odd Christmas mass. However, we are Evangelical Lutherans only by name. And just as we are secular religiously, so are they. Any guests they may have with them are another story.” Birgitta, to switch topics, says to Eugenia, “It’s strange that Waliya has not called or otherwise bothered to condole with the family.”
Saafi, standing close by, gently corrects Birgitta. “Mum has not stopped praying for Gacalo’s soul, from the moment she received the sad news, and we are sure she will be here.”
When Saafi is out of sight, Birgitta murmurs, “Waliyatitis indeed,” seeming to like the sound of the undiagnosed ailment. She continues, “How does one explain that woman’s perverse resolve to cut off all ties to Gacalo and the rest of the family?”
“Perhaps one reason is that Waliya became aware that no amends are possible when your closest associates—in her case, Zubair and Imam Fanax—label your in-laws ‘apostates’ and you defend their name,” Eugenia says.
“Why would it matter to Gacalo and Mugdi that Zubair and Fanax called them apostates? Surely there are worse things.”
“Kaluun has explained to me that by calling them apostates, Zubair and Fanax turned them into vulnerable clay pigeons, fair targets that jihadi terrorists could take potshots at.”
Johan says, “I had no idea.”
Birgitta, who is deeply upset, says, “What can Mugdi do to counter it?”
Eugenia says, “This is why Mugdi has agreed to let Himmo organize the funeral service at the mosque and have a highly respected imam speak at the burial.”
At the sound of voices at the door, they all fall silent. Kaluun is the first to enter, looking as weak as a plant deprived of sunlight. No one says anything until he has poured himself a glass of water and drunk it. Eugenia then wraps her arms around him and asks, “How did it all go?”
“Death is the new great reality,” says Kaluun.
Eugenia exchanges looks with Birgitta and Johan, then waits for Kaluun to hug them with equal warmth.
“What was the attendance like?” asks Johan.
“There were far more mourners than we had hoped for,” he says. “At the mosque, the attendance was mostly Somali, with a trickle of Arabs and Pakistanis. And at the cemetery, there was a mix of Somalis and Norwegians. A number of Gacalo’s fellow Norwegian workers said they would come to the open house.”
Birgitta says, “I’m glad to hear that some of them will come, as Gacalo was much loved, she really was.”
Kaluun nods his head in agreement and says, “Some of the women asked why you weren’t at the cemetery, and I told them you were helping out at the house.”
“Where are Mugdi, Timiro, and Naciim?”
Kaluun says, “They’ll be here shortly.”
Birgitta takes him aside and informs him that Johan has commandeered the drinks to a room upstairs. “Do you think this will please Mugdi?”
Kaluun says, “I’ve been meaning to do just that.”
“How do we go about serving guests who might actually want a drink?” she then asks.
“You serve the wine in coffee mugs, not glasses.”
“The way they serve liquor in Saudi Arabia?”
“So no one knows the contents of a mug.”
“What hypocrisy!”
“In any event, you’ll see that, on arrival, the mourners will separate into groups, Somalis forming a clutch of their own, and the Norwegians likewise feeling more comfortable among themselves.”
Now Mugdi arrives, appearing unsettled, perhaps from his near accident at the cemetery. As Gacalo’s corpse was being lowered into the grave, he spotted Waliya among the women. The unexpected sight of her made Mugdi unbalanced, and he would have fallen right into the tomb had Kaluun not moved fast to take hold of his arm and help him regain his equilibrium.
Kaluun asks Mugdi, “Where is Naciim?”
“He is with his friend Edvart, who was also at the cemetery,” replies Mugdi. “The two are coming together by bus, as there was no space for them in the cars, with all the mourners.”
Mugdi turns to face the ten or so mourners who have come with him. He cuts the figure of a confused elder. Kaluun says, “Why don’t you go upstairs and let me take over? You deserve a bit of rest after all you’ve been through.”
Kaluun feels a deep anxiety about his brother. He thinks of how during the funeral, as Gacalo’s face was turned toward Mecca and the men recited one religious solemnity after another, all the while repeating, “We commit you to earth, in the name of Allah and in the religion of the Prophet,” Mugdi, as if out of a momentary madness, leaned forward and almost fell right into the open grave. Perhaps he could not imagine his beloved wife buried without him.
“Welcome, my friend,” Kaluun now greets Suudi, a Somali man he has known for a long time. The woman by his side is Ingrid, his Norwegian wife. Suudi is very dark, large and plump, a jovial character given to rolling with laughter at his own jokes. He is buckle-kneed from the immense weight of his paunch and waddles as he walks. For some reason, Suudi puts Kaluun in mind of the bottom of a huge cauldron used for cooking food in a smoky lean-to kitchen. Ingrid, by contrast, is a very slim, flat-chested blonde, taller than her husband and much quieter, rarely speaking in front of company. The couple lives in Bergen, with a much-loved dog that shares their bed at night and eats its food off their plates. Kaluun believes this to be a tall tale that Suudi is fond of repeating to his fellow Somalis to demonstrate that he is no longer a member of their community. There is nothing wrong in stressing how he has struck out on his own, but what good has Suudi done for other Somalis, culturally, politically, or in any other way? None.
Kaluun points Suudi and Ingrid in the direction where he knows like-minded mourners are congregated, and where nearly everyone is drinking wine or liquor from mugs.
“You and Ingrid belong in this room,” he says.
“As long as the drinks flow,” Suudi replies.
“Less cracking of jokes, please,” says Kaluun.
“Who do you think I am?”
“The occasion demands that you behave.”
“Fear not. I will behave,” vows Suudi.
As Kaluun circulates among the guests, he comes upon a Somali woman who asks for wine and refuses to drink it out of a mug, insisting that wine consumed from a mug will taste different.
“Besides, it’ll be dosed with a sizable shot of hypocrisy and I don’t like it one bit,” she says.
“Fair enough,” Kaluun says, pouring her wine into a glass and moving on.
Meanwhile, the Norwegians are having a ball, drinking rowdily as though at an Irish wake. Suudi stands in the center of those gathered, Ingrid by his side, arms locked with hers, maybe worried she will walk away and he will never set eyes on her again. Kaluun greets many of the Norwegians, but he does not linger in conversation. Then he goes upstairs to Mugdi’s room, finds the door ajar, knocks and waits for an answer, which does not come. Craning his head inside to get a better view, he sees his brother is lying on his back, his face covered with a pillow, his breathing faint.
Mugdi, meanwhile, is deep in thought, comparing the death of his wife to that of Beret’s husband Per Hansa, who meets his death in a fatal trek; his corpse never recovered, it perishes unburied. At least, Mugdi tells himself under his pillow, they have given Gacalo a decent burial.
Kaluun is worried by Mugdi’s ominous stillness and calls his name. The old man replies in a muffled voice without removing the pillow from his face.
Mugdi says, “Are there any more recent disasters that you have come to report? If so, please be quick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What about?” Mugdi asks.
“I must apologize for disturbing you,” Kaluun says, advancing into the room.
Mugdi sits up and pushes the pillow to one side. “Have you noticed how the sick, the ailing, the very young, and the very old have no right to privacy? So please do not apologize on my account. It is not necessary.”
Kaluun has a flash of an image of Mugdi as a lonely old man, refusing to commune with friends or family or to answer his phone or emails; an agoraphobic recluse.
Mugdi says, “I am recently bereaved and I’m more than aware that I’ll require time to get used to the great loss I’ve suffered.”