by Lesley Lokko
12
‘Can you type?’ The middle-aged woman sitting opposite Niela looked at her suspiciously.
Niela nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. Quite well,’ she added with a confidence she certainly didn’t have.
‘And file?’
Niela nodded again. The woman looked her up and down, pursed her lips and made a sudden decision. ‘OK. I’ll take you on for a month and then we see how it goes. Gut?’
Niela felt a quick surge of relief. ‘Oh, thank you, Frau Henschler. Thank you.’
‘Nichts zu danken. Let’s see how you get on. You can start on Monday morning. Nine a.m. Please be on time.’
‘I will, yes, of course. Th … thank you again,’ she stammered, getting up as the older woman rose to her feet.
She left the small office, resisting the temptation to punch her fist in the air. She’d found a job! After five months of getting her head and tongue around the language, she’d found a job! She couldn’t believe it. She’d been walking down Simmeringhauptstrasse as she did every morning to pick up groceries for her mother when she’d decided on the spur of the moment to take a short cut through the cemetery on the other side of the road. It was strangely peaceful inside the cemetery; more like a park than a place to bury the dead. She strolled amongst the beautifully tended graves and flower beds, pausing every now and then to read the inscriptions and wonder about the lives behind the headstones. She’d emerged on to the main street on the other side, an area she’d hardly ever been through. There the buildings were mostly industrial, small-scale family-run businesses – the odd factory or two. She was walking past one such building when she noticed a sign in the window. Help Sought. Clerical Position. Must be able to type and speak English fluently. She’d walked straight in almost without thinking. Half an hour later, she had the job.
‘A job?’ her mother said, pausing in her task of peeling onions to look suspiciously at her. ‘What do you mean? What sort of job? What’ll your father say?’
‘What d’you mean? What does he have to do with it?’ Niela was genuinely surprised.
‘You should have asked him first.’
Niela stared at her mother incredulously. ‘Uma, we need the money. Besides, I can’t sit at home all day long.’
‘It’s your father’s job to provide money, Niela, not yours. And you’re not sitting at home all day long. There’s housework to be done. Meals to put on the table. You’re supposed to be helping me in the kitchen, not going out to work!’
‘Uma, I was meant to go to university,’ Niela protested, still incredulous. ‘I don’t want to spend my days cleaning and cooking.’
‘Things are different now, Niela.’
‘But I can’t sit around waiting for ever. It’s been almost a year since I had anything proper to do—’
‘You don’t call this proper?’ Her mother pointed with her knife at the dish she was preparing. ‘What do you call it then?’
Niela’s mouth opened, and then she shut it again. It was no use arguing with her mother. Since they’d arrived in Austria, she’d been aware of a growing distance between them; something to do with the way Niela had had to take over certain tasks – shopping, running small errands, dealing with the bureaucracy of their housing, dealing with the authorities. It wasn’t exactly as if her mother resented it, but something had changed in the balance of power between them. Nothing seemed to anger her mother more than the suspicion of patronage. Niela had no idea how to explain to her that just because she spoke German and her mother didn’t, and because she seemed more able to negotiate their new existence, it didn’t mean that Saira had lost any of her authority. On the contrary. She looked at her mother and sighed. ‘I don’t want to argue, Uma,’ she began, hoping her voice sounded more conciliatory than she felt.
‘Argue? Since when do you argue with me?’ Her mother was beginning to climb slowly and mightily into her anger.
Niela sighed again. Whatever she said these days seemed to strike the wrong note. She forced an apologetic smile to her face. ‘I’m sorry, Uma. I … I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘Tired? Try cooking and cleaning all day and then come and tell me you’re tired. I don’t know what on earth you get up to, gallivanting around the city all day. You and that cousin of yours. I don’t know what’s got into you, I really don’t. And I don’t like it, Niela, not one little bit.’ The resentment seemed to push up against her throat. ‘I don’t know what your father will say about this.’
It was on the tip of Niela’s tongue to say he probably wouldn’t notice, or care, but now was not the time for confrontation. She listened with half an ear for a further five minutes and then, as soon as she could, she mumbled an excuse and left the kitchen. She walked down the corridor to the tiny box room that was hers and closed the door. She lay down on the bed, fully clothed, listening to the faint sounds of the city outside the window. A bus chortled past; there was the distant drill of road works; a child cried out. After the steady thump of mortar and gunfire that had been the backdrop of their life in Somalia, the sounds outside their Viennese flat were soothing, even peaceful. A sign of normality in a world that had temporarily gone mad. The argument – if it could be called such – with her mother lingered in her mouth and mind; a faintly unpleasant, unsettling taste. She wished she could shake herself of the feeling that worse was about to come.
On Monday morning at 9 a.m. on the dot, just as instructed, she was waiting outside Bünchl u. Sohne, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. Frau Henschler unlocked the door and nodded at her approvingly. Herr Bünchl was already in his office, she said, walking briskly down the corridor to the office where Niela was to work. The smell of slightly burned coffee wafted through the air. ‘You can hang your coat up here,’ Frau Henschler said, pointing to a small cupboard. ‘Tea room is in there. We have a break at eleven each morning. Coffee and biscuits are provided.’ She opened the door to a small office. Two women looked up as Niela came through the doorway. ‘Lisel and Margarethe. This is Niela, the new girl. She’s starting today.’ Frau Henschler made the introductions. Lisel was in her early thirties, a cheerful peroxide blonde with a piece of gum wedged permanently between her lips. She waved cheerfully at Niela as she took her seat opposite. Margarethe was older, and more reserved. She greeted Niela pleasantly enough but it was clear that there would be no easy hand of friendship outstretched towards her. She had been working at Bünchl u. Sohne for almost twenty years and she ruled the roost. Niela didn’t mind. Her aunt Rawia, her mother’s oldest sister, was remarkably similar. Most of her life had been spent pandering to her aunt’s idiosyncratic behaviour; Margarethe would be no different.
Despite her mother’s objections, Niela’s job brought about a new kind of peace in the house. Saira no longer pursed her lips in silent disapproval when she walked through the door each day and Raageh and Korfa took it in turns to see who could hug her first. She’d taken a step away from the family; they both regarded her with something approaching awe. There was a tacit agreement between her and Saira that her father wouldn’t see the money this new venture brought in. Every week she handed her mother an envelope, which supplemented Hassan’s meagre salary and the amount given to the family by the government in a way that was unacknowledged yet welcome. It was indeed the Somali way of doing things – quietly, without confrontation, and most importantly, without loss of face. She was beginning to see how important it was, not just for her, but more significantly, for the family.
She’d been at Bünchl u. Sohne almost three months when, one rainy Thursday afternoon, Lisel stopped by her desk and asked her if she was coming with them to the annual company Oktoberfest party in Mistelbach. Niela looked up at her in alarm. ‘What’s Oktoberfest?’ she asked.
‘It’s the beer festival. It’s great fun. Herr Bünchl organises a bus for us … it’s a laugh. Come on, join us!’
Niela shook her head. ‘It’s very kind of you, but … I … don’t think so. I don’t think my father would agree to i
t.’
‘Why ever not? What’s wrong with Oktoberfest?’ Lisel asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘I mean, everyone goes. It’s a national holiday!’
‘Well, I’ll … I’ll ask, but I really don’t think he’ll allow it.’
‘Go on, ask him. We’ll make a day of it. You never come out with us!’
‘So you don’t think I should even ask them?’ Niela regarded her cousin doubtfully. Ayanna was applying silver eyeshadow to her eyelids. She stepped back and looked at the effect in the mirror. She shook her head firmly.
‘Absolutely not. Just say you’re staying here.’
‘But what if they call and want to speak to me? What if my dad speaks to your dad and—’
‘Niela, will you stop worrying! Have a good time for once in your life! Just call me when you get back to Vienna and I’ll come and meet you at the tram stop. No one will even notice you’re gone!’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Niela said reluctantly. Even as she spoke, however, a small thrill of excitement was running through her. ‘But what’ll I wear? I’ve never been to a party here before.’
‘It’s Oktoberfest. Wear what you want. How about this?’ Ayanna pulled out a black V-neck sweater with the word ‘Fame’ splashed across the front in sequins.
Niela looked at it dubiously. ‘Isn’t it a bit … well, low?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Low? It’s a sweater!’ Ayanna laughed at her. ‘Look!’ She held it up against her. ‘There’s nothing low about it. Wear it with a pair of jeans. It’s fine. Nice and simple. It’s Oktoberfest, not the opera. Here, try it on.’
Niela slipped her shirt over her head, pulled on the sweater and turned to face herself in the mirror. She looked like any of the young girls she saw every morning on their way to and from school, jobs, university. Except for her skin colour, she thought, she looked pretty much like everyone else.
‘You’ve got such a lovely figure,’ Ayanna said admiringly. ‘I don’t know why you cover it up all the time.’
Niela’s face grew hot with embarrassment. She quickly pulled off the sweater and put her shirt back on. She picked up her bag. She was about to tell a lie to her parents and the thought filled her with dread. ‘I’ll … I’ll call you later,’ she said, making a beeline for the door before Ayanna could question her further. ‘And don’t say anything to anyone … please. I’m still not sure I’ll go.’
‘’Course you’ll go. I’m going to a party at Pratern. If you get back in time, why don’t you come and join us?’
Niela didn’t reply. The thought of lying to her parents, going to Mistelbach and then possibly joining Ayanna at a party in Pratern was enough to make her feel ill. ‘See you,’ she mumbled and opened the door. She ran down the corridor. Her aunt was in the kitchen but she didn’t stop to say goodbye. She wanted to get back to the familiar atmosphere of the flat in Simmering, close the door of her bedroom behind her and bury her head in her pillow. Something was about to happen. She could feel it. Deceiving her parents was only part of it.
‘Here. Try it. It won’t bite, you know,’ Lisel giggled, handing her a tumbler of beer. ‘Or turn you into an alcoholic or whatever else it is you guys are afraid of.’
Niela took it cautiously. ‘We’re not all like that,’ she said mildly. ‘Some of us drink. My dad does. Occasionally.’
‘Just not you.’
‘Oh, I’ve had wine before. And champagne once.’
‘Ach, I’m only teasing,’ Lisel laughed delightedly. ‘You’re right. Alcohol’s bad for you.’ She lifted her glass and drained her beer in almost a single gulp. ‘Another one?’
Niela had to laugh. She shook her head. Whilst it was true that she’d tried wine before, she’d never even tasted beer – and she wasn’t sure she would ever again. It was definitely an acquired taste. Cold and sour. She looked on in astonishment as Lisel poured herself a fourth glass. She was still nursing the same tumbler one of the factory workers had handed her when they arrived. She looked around the enormous tent. It was hard to see why everyone was so excited about Oktoberfest. They’d spent the better part of the morning on a coach, Niela trying hard to suppress the knot of panic in her stomach at the thought of what would happen if she were found out.
13
The party went on for hours. It was almost eleven by the time the coach finally pulled into the square in front of Stefansdom in the centre of town. Niela was almost asleep, her head lolling uncomfortably against the windowpane. Her tongue felt as though it was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She glanced nervously at her watch. Fortunately it was only a short walk from Stefansdom to Uncle Raageh’s. She followed the others off the bus and made her way quickly across the park.
Ayanna’s bedroom light was on. She’d either arrived back from her party or was on her way out. Niela breathed a sigh of relief as she opened the front door. It took her a second or two to work out who was standing in the hallway, waiting for her as she came through the vestibule. Her legs suddenly turned to jelly. It was her father. They stared at one another for a moment. Behind him, Niela could just make out her mother’s silhouette. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
‘Come here.’ Her father spat the words out.
‘Hassan,’ her mother began, lifting a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘Hassan, I beg you—’
For a split second, Niela thought he would hit her there and then. Her aunt appeared behind him, looking in bewilderment from one to the other.
‘Whose bright idea was this?’ she asked Niela in German. ‘Ayanna’s?’
Niela shook her head, terrified. ‘No, it was mine. I—’
‘Shut your mouth!’ her father roared at her suddenly. ‘And don’t you dare speak that language in front of me!’
‘Hassan, please.’ It was her uncle this time, pushing his way past his wife. He laid a placatory hand on his brother’s arm. ‘This isn’t the time or the place. It’s nearly midnight. Come. Come inside. Let the girl explain herself. She’s—’
‘Whore.’ Her father shook his head in disgusted disbelief at her. ‘Whore!’
‘Hassan!’ Her mother cried. ‘Stop it, I beg you!’
‘Please! Come inside. Please!’ Uncle Raageh was just as distressed. ‘Let’s talk about it inside.’
‘Is this how we brought you up? To sneak around like a common streetwalker? No sense of decency? Of shame?’ Her father was climbing into his anger. Niela knew his rages. There would be no turning back, no going inside to discuss things calmly. She began to tremble. I’ve done nothing wrong. She spoke the words to herself alone. I’ve done nothing wrong. She hung her head and stood in silence, listening to her father’s wrath and threats. She was to come home immediately. She would be put under lock and key. She was no longer allowed to leave the house. That job of hers – he’d known it from the very start. Trouble. He could sense it. Walking out of the house one morning without so much as a word to anyone. He raged on and on. Somehow, from some depth of understanding she didn’t even know she possessed, Niela saw that his rage was not directed at her alone. She avoided her mother’s eyes and concentrated instead on the floor, waiting for the flood waters to recede.
Uncle Raageh took them home. It was almost one in the morning by the time they pulled up outside the flat in Simmering. From the way her mother hustled her out of the car and up the steps, leaving the two men to talk alone, she knew she was in for a lecture from her as well. She followed her into the sitting room, unsure as to how much more she could bear. But her mother surprised her. ‘Niela,’ she said, turning to her, gesturing to her to sit down. Her voice was soft. ‘This is not the way to go about it.’
‘Go about what?’ Niela was confused.
Her mother slowly unwrapped her veil as she sat down. She patted the space next to her. ‘I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for all of us. Especially your father. It’s not easy, you know … a man in his position. You’ve shamed him, and in front of his brother, too.’
‘But I haven’t done anythin
g!’ Niela cried, tears of frustration springing to her eyes. ‘All I did was—’
‘Lie. You lied to us, Niela. Is that not enough?’
‘But only because you won’t let me do anything. I’m not allowed out of the house! I can’t make friends. I can’t go anywhere, meet new people, get on with my life—’
‘Niela, Niela. In time. Y’ani … you want everything now. It won’t work that way. Not with your father. I should know. I’ve been married to him for twenty-five years. There are other ways to get what you want. It doesn’t always have to be a confrontation.’
‘What d’you mean?’
Her mother regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Niela, you’re nearly twenty years old. I know things haven’t worked out the way you wanted – the way we wanted. But that’s life. We have to make another life now. You have to make another life.’
