The Sound of Language (10 page)

“So what? What does she do inside? Gunnar says that she cleans but… I don't like it,” Maria said.

“You don't have to like it,” Christina said. “As long as Gunnar and Raihana have no problem with their arrangement, it's none of your business or mine.”

“If Anna was there she would never allow it,” Maria said bitterly.

“Anna would be happy to help someone in need,” Christina said. For all her flaws, Anna had not been spiteful. She had a big heart.

“Anna always thought you were a little crazy to help these people,” Maria said. “She told me she thought you were being foolish letting immigrants inside your home.”

Christina felt a chill run through her. “Anna respected my work.”

Maria laughed scornfully. “No, she didn't. She thought that only Danes should live in Denmark. I knew her better than you did.”

Christina sighed. It could be true, couldn't it? But how could Anna have hidden that for the past fifteen years? No, Christina thought, she would not let Maria poison her memories of Anna.

“It doesn't matter what Anna would have thought, Maria. Anna is dead,” Christina said.

NINE
E
NTRY FROM
A
NNA'S
D
IARY
A Year of Keeping Bees

16 JUNE 1980

The bees know when they need a new queen. The old queen gets ready to die and a new queen takes her place.

A new queen bee is being made in one of my colonies. It is remarkable to watch. The worker bees feed a batch of larvae royal jelly, and then they pick the larva that will become queen bee and continue to feed that one royal jelly. The one that gets royal jelly becomes the queen bee. It seems almost democratic.

Royal jelly is secreted by the heads of young workers and used to feed the baby bees until they develop to the desired rank. If a queen is needed, the larva receives only royal jelly as its food source, so that she becomes sexually mature and has the fully developed ovaries needed to lay more eggs for the hive.

We have a new queen in one of Gunnar's colonies. Usually queens are easy to spot, but this time we couldn't find her easily. After smoking the bees and frantic searching, we found her. Gunnar pulled her out and put her in a small container. I painted the bee's back yellow as this is a queen from 1980 while Gunnar added a new frame to the colony.

Some beekeepers name their queen bees; Gunnar and I decided not to. You get too attached and then when they die you feel bad. I am averse to getting too attached, especially to animals. A long time ago we had a dog and after the dog died we never got another one. With bees it is easier as there are so many of them and they usually live just six weeks. The queens are special though and live longer, so I do my best to keep an emotional distance from them.

R
aihana didn't want to go to the party. She was worried there would be Afghans who knew about her
praktik
, who disapproved of it and would be rude to her. Layla thought she was being foolish and self-conscious.

Layla and Kabir had done nothing but talk about the wedding in the city of Viborg for days. One of the Afghan families there was spending a lot of money to marry off their son.

Kabir knew the father of the groom, Elias, because they drove together to Hamburg to buy Afghan spices, Indian movies, and CDs. Layla didn't like Elias's wife, Najeeba, much because she acted too high and mighty.

“Her husband has his own kiosk and she behaves as if he owns the world. Makes hot dogs for people, touches all that pig's meat and we are supposed to think he is so great,” Layla said as she cleaned Shahrukh's nose for the fifteenth time since they had gotten into the car. She and Shahrukh were sitting in the back while Raihana sat in the front with Kabir, half turned so that she could talk to Layla.

“You behave yourself there, Shahrukh,” Layla said to her son and then turned to Raihana. “One engagement party last year Najeeba tells me that Shahrukh seems too badly behaved. He was ten months old; he cried a little. What, her children didn't cry when they were little?”

“Elias is a good chap,” Kabir said. “Just like me, eats and drinks and makes merry.”

“Just like you he's not a good Musalman,” Layla said, but there was no heat in her words.

For the occasion Layla wore her prettiest
hi jab.
The scarf and
abaya
were midnight blue embroidered with golden thread. Underneath the abaya she wore a red- and-yellow
salwar-kameez.
She had insisted that Raihana dress up as well.

“Widow or not you have to dress well. Our reputation is at stake,” Layla had said when Raihana told her she was worried what people would think if she wore something flashy. Finally she had relented and borrowed Layla's maroon-and-silver
salwar-kameez
with a shiny silver
dupatta
that had maroon tassels.

“A good friend of mine will be there too,” Kabir said.

“Who is he?” Raihana asked as Layla hummed, something she did when she was nervous.

“A friend,” Kabir said. “He is this close to getting citizenship … any day now,” he added, putting his thumb and forefinger together.

“He works in a factory on Mors,” Layla said.

“Mors is close to Skive, just twenty minutes,” Kabir said. “It's an island. But you don't need to take a ferry because there is a bridge.”

“He works for a factory that manufactures stoves, cast-iron stoves,” Layla continued. “He earns good money.”

“Almost twenty thousand kroner a month,” Kabir said. “He has a wife in Pakistan, in Karachi. She lives there with her parents. He has two children and they live with their mother.”

Raihana nodded as understanding dawned. They were trying to find her a husband. “How old is he?” she asked quietly.

“Just thirty-eight,” Kabir said. “A little older than me.”

“And he wants to marry again?” Raihana asked.

Layla cleared her throat. “It would be a good match.”

Raihana stared out the window at the Danish countryside pass by. She slowly turned back to face her hosts. “I can't marry anyone,” she told them. “I… I am not sure if Aamir is dead and … I…”

“What do you mean you're not sure?” Layla asked.

“I … I …,” Raihana stammered. “I can't marry anyone,” she finally said. “Please, I just can't.”

“I can find out if he's still alive in Afghanistan,” Kabir said, his tone clear that he didn't think Aamir was alive.

Raihana wanted to say that she didn't want to know, that as long as she didn't know she could pretend he was still alive.

“If he's still alive why did you come here alone?” Layla asked. “Why did you think he was dead?”

“I don't know,” Raihana said. “Look … I can't marry anyone.”

Layla sighed. “Raihana, you need to find out. Is Aamir alive?”

“I don't know,” Raihana said.

“But you told us he was dead,” Layla said.

Raihana shook her head. “The refugee camp people decided he was dead, that he died in a Taliban prison. And he … why can't we leave it? I don't want to talk about this.” She had tears in her eyes and she was just about ready to open the door of the moving car and jump out.

“Okay, okay, we will leave it,” Kabir said. “It's up to you, Raihana. You don't even have to think about it if you don't want to. Just forget what we said, okay. Right, Layla?”

Layla ignored her husband. “What exactly happened to Aamir?” she asked Raihana. “Why can't you tell us? You can't live like this anymore. Half in Afghanistan … is that why you keep talking about going back? Because you think he might be alive?”

Why wouldn't they leave it alone? Raihana wondered. She didn't want to talk about Aamir, didn't they understand?

“Layla, let it go,” Kabir said.

“Oh, Raihana, what are we going to do with you?” Layla said softly and patted Raihana's shoulder. “Okay, forget about this, but let me tell you about this woman you will meet there. Shafiqa has six children and is pregnant with a seventh. She has been pregnant so long that she has never gone to Danish class. Her husband just sits at home doing nothing … with six children they get so much welfare money that they can sit at home.”

Kabir grunted. “These types of refugees give us all a bad name. Sons of bitches should get jobs.”

“Hush, no bad language,” Layla said, watching Shahrukh to see if he had picked up the bad word. “And what about that guy who used to have a shop in Århus, at Bazaar Vest?”

“That fellow is completely useless,” Kabir said. “His wife now, she's something else. She runs the shop. Got a divorce, kicked him out of the house.”

“What else could she do?” Layla said. “He used to beat her. She ended up in the hospital, once with a broken wrist. There are just too many men out there who think women are punching bags.”

And so they left the matter of Raihana, her marriage, and her possibly dead husband alone. But they would eventually ask again, she knew, and she still didn't know what to say.

The wedding was taking place in a
forsamlinghus
, community center, in Viborg, where Elias lived and had a kiosk that sold magazines, hot dogs, beverages, and household supplies. It was not his only kiosk; he had two others in neighboring Ørum and one right outside Viborg. He ran the one close to Viborg while his two sons manned the others. Business was very good and Elias was one of the few well-off Afghans in the area.

Layla started to find fault as soon as they stepped into the wedding hall.

“Look at that,” Layla said. “Father of the groom, you would think he would dress in traditional Afghan clothes, but no, he's wearing a suit.”

Raihana smiled. “But so is Kabir, Layla.”

“Kabir is younger than Elias, different generation,” Layla said and gasped. “See that? Allah, what has the world come to?”

One of the Afghan men had his arm around a Danish woman dressed in a knee-length black skirt and white blouse.

“That is Walid Chacha's son, Uzra,” Kabir whispered. “He broke Wal id Chacha's heart by getting engaged to that Danish girl.”

Raihana had never heard of an Afghan engaged to a white person. It just wasn't done. In Kabul this would've been unthinkable, here, the white girl was invited to a wedding. Poor Walid Chacha, this was probably not easy for him.

“But they have been here for almost fifteen years now. Uzra is more Danish than Afghan,” Layla said, then grabbed her son close. “I will never let things get so out of hand that Shahrukh runs around with a white woman. We'll find him a nice Afghan girl, a nice Pashtun girl.”

Raihana didn't say anything but as she looked around it was obvious there were two main groups of guests. One was the older generation and the new refugees. The others were the younger generation who were born and raised in Denmark, those who spoke Danish more fluently than they did Dari, those who didn't mind having Danish girlfriends and spoke to one another in Danish.

Shahrukh would be like one of the young Afghans here, Raihana thought. He would be more Danish than Afghan and Layla would not be able to control him. Raihana wasn't sure if that was a bad thing or not. A part of her wanted to hold on to their culture and traditions, but another wanted to claim the world they were living in now. Denmark was not Afghanistan. Wouldn't an Afghan wearing Danish clothes and speaking fluent Danish fit in better than someone like Layla, who struggled with the Danish language and wore a
hijab
and
abaya
?

“As'salam alaikum
, Kabir
Miya.”
Elias carne up to them and hugged Kabir tightly.

“The wedding hall looks excellent,” Kabir said.

Elias grinned. “My oldest son, Kabir
Miya
, have to get him married right.”

“As'salam alaikum
, where is Najeeba?” Layla asked.

“Out there with the other women doing God knows what,” Elias said proudly. “Wedding rush you know, mother of the groom stays busy.”

“Maybe we can help,” Layla offered.

“You must be Raihana,” Elias said, turning to Raihana.
“As'salam alaikum.”

“Walaikum as'salam,”
Raihana said, “everything looks very beautiful.”

Elias thanked her and as she and Layla walked away, Raihana heard Elias say, “She is perfect for Rafeeq.”

So, Raihana thought, the man's name was Rafeeq.

This was very different from how marriages were set up back home. She and Aamir had gotten married in Kabul and that day everything had changed for her. She had moved from a small village to a big city—from being a daughter to a wife. But it had been remarkably easy in many ways because Aamir's father was her mother's cousin and she had grown up seeing Aamir, his parents, and his sister, Assia. His parents had died by the time they married, but Assia accepted Raihana with open arms.

Ismat, Assia's much older husband, was a doctor and he was horrified when the Taliban demanded he stop treating women. His nurses were not allowed to work and were sent home to live behind the
purdah.
His female colleagues were not allowed to work. Ismat had told Raihana how one of his colleagues, a widow and single mother, now had to beg on the streets to support her three children because she no longer had any income.

That last month had been chaotic, what with Aamir and Ismat trying to find a way out for all of them. But in the end Aamir had scrounged enough money for Raihana only. She was to go first as they had all decided that her need was the greatest.

Ismat and Assia were not in the refugee camp; Raihana had looked. It would have been easy to find an Afghan doctor in a refugee camp. The only doctor there was a retired old gentleman from Ghazni whose son-in-law had been executed in a football stadium. They had shot him in the head, the old doctor told Raihana. His daughter had committed suicide and his wife died of cancer shortly thereafter. He was the only one left and though he could get asylum in America or Canada he stayed at the refugee camp.

Ismat had been married before Assia, but his first wife had died. He had grown sons who lived in Pakistan and were not in close touch with him. Assia had told Raihana that she had always thought Ismat was special and when his parents proposed marriage, Aamir jumped at the idea. Ismat was respectable and came from an honorable family and Assia seemed to be happy about the marriage.

Assia and Ismat had dreams of renting a moving hospital to help the people living in villages where medical help was not available. Raihana thought their ideas were up in the skies. She was a girl from a small town and all she wanted was a home and family. But Ismat believed he could save the world, that he could save Afghanistan.

Then a few months after she arrived in Pakistan, Raihana found out that both Assia and Ismat had been shot in their home. Just like that. It had happened a few days after she had left. They never made it to Pakistan or to their dreams in the sky. Raihana knew she was lucky to be here. Lucky to be able to sit here at a wedding and pretend that the past didn't exist.

“My daughter-in-law, Farida,” Najeeba announced loudly, gesturing to the girl dressed in a green-and-gold
salwar-kameez.
Her hair was tied stylishly with ringlets falling around her made-up face. Her lipstick was bright red and jewelry bright gold.