The Sound of Language (17 page)

“My parents live in fear all the time,” Olena said. “They had safety and security during the terrible communism days. They knew they would always have a job. But since democracy has come to Ukraine, nothing is for sure.”

Olena's Danish was at about the same level as Raihana's and they managed to communicate quite well.

“They want things to go back to the way they were, so that they can be safe again,” Olena continued. “But those were horrible times. We had no freedom to do what we wanted. We couldn't get the education we wanted. We couldn't go on vacation where we felt like. But they want those days back—because they don't want change. No matter the insecurities, I don't want to go back.”

“You're right, in Denmark things will never be as bad as Afghanistan,” Raihana said.

Olena nodded. “No, never that bad.”

They all agreed Christina's house, a refurbished farmhouse, was gorgeous, but the large garden was truly stunning. There was even a fountain and flowers of all kinds, roses in all colors. The vegetable garden was rich with peas, lettuce, sunflowers, and pumpkins. There was a greenhouse where chiles, tomatoes, and other vines grew. Two metal chairs and a table, painted in white, were in the greenhouse and Raihana imagined it would be nice to sit there on a sunny winter day, soaking in the warmth without being stung by the bitter cold.

Christina also had a huge herb garden with several types of mint, coriander, sage, rosemary, citron melisse, and some other herbs that Raihana had never heard of.

“It isn't easy but it's very satisfying,” Christina said when Olena asked how they managed to do all the work in the garden. “We work together but he is the botanist, not me.”

A husband did help. Raihana wondered what Rafeeq would say if she told him that she wanted to travel and have a pretty house, that these things were important to her. Would he care? Was he even supposed to? Shouldn't she just be happy someone wanted to marry her? The house was decorated with things from all over the world. Christina and her husband liked to travel and they had masks from Africa, dolls from Russia, carpets from Turkey. Raihana wished she could have Christina's life. She wished she could travel and have a house like this. She wished she could have a garden so bright and beautiful.

They had lunch on the terrace. Christina served bread with roast beef, chicken, and smoked salmon, as well as some cheese she'd picked up from Mønsted. They drank strawberry juice and talked about their plans for the summer holidays. Olena was going to Venice in Italy. She told them that she had always wanted to go there and since she and her husband had not had a real honeymoon when they married last year, this was their honeymoon. Christina was going to France, some place called Provence, where she and her husband had rented a villa with some friends.

It sounded very strange and very exotic. Raihana knew no one in France and she had no idea what Provence was. She didn't know how to garden. She knew nothing about the life Christina had. If she married Rafeeq would she get a chance to go to places like Provence and buy masks from China? She didn't know a single Afghan in Denmark who went on vacation to a strange place just to see it. Afghans only visited family on vacation, and usually ended up going to Pakistan.

As they drove back to the language school, Raihana felt like a complete failure. She couldn't even drive a car, like Olena and Christina. She would never travel like Olena and Christina, go on vacations to exotic places. Once she married Rafeeq and had children, what would their lives be like? They would probably go to Pakistan for vacation and then come right back to Denmark.

What kind of life would that be for her children? Would they have the opportunity to go to France and Venice?

Maybe she should ask Rafeeq a few more questions before she said yes. She could find out what he liked to do when he wasn't working and how he wanted to raise their children. No, that wouldn't be right, she told herself. Rafeeq would think it was an insult that she was asking so many questions before saying yes. If he was a Danish man, maybe the questions wouldn't bother him, but an Afghan man, he just wanted a quick answer. Already, she was trying his patience by waiting so long to say yes.

She'd just say no then. She'd tell him she couldn't marry him. And then next time someone was interested, she could ask all the right questions in the beginning.

Even as she made that decision, fear bloomed inside her. What if no one ever asked to marry her again?

FIFTEEN
ENTRY FROM ANNA'S DIARY
A Year of Keeping Bees

22 JULY 1980

Mite infestation is rampant in the wild and in apiaries. Beekeepers are always looking for advanced medical means to protect their bees from mites, but wild bees may be facing extinction because of the mites.

Mites move from one bee to another when the bees touch each other. Bees are very social creatures, and not just within their colonies. They meet up with strange bees on flowers and touch in greeting for a split second, just enough time for a pregnant female parasitic mite to change mounts and ride to a new destination.

A
politi betjent
, police officer, picked Anders up at school and drove him to the police station in a Ford Mondeo, nearly a week after the stone-throwing incident.

Mogens, Marianne, Gunnar, and Jon Vittrup, the police inspector, were waiting for them in Jon's office. The sun poured straight through the windows and the white curtains didn't do much to curtail the heat. Jon had a small table fan creaking away on his desk, but it didn't actually help with the heat either.

Gunnar had been to the police station to get his driver's license, the kids’ driver's licenses, their passports—for so many things. But he had always stood outside the main offices, at the counter, right by the glass door leading into the building. He had never been in the inner sanctum on the first floor. The police station also had a jail in the back that could accommodate fifteen to twenty prisoners at one time. Right now it was empty, Jon said, but he joked they usually got some action on Friday nights.

“People get drunk and cause a ruckus. The Crazy Daisy gets a lot of high-profile people in,” Jon said, leaning over the desk. “Prince Joachim is there quite often, and not with the princess.”

No one said anything and there was silence for a while until Marianne suddenly started to speak.

“My father says it's because we're too easy on the boys, we don't punish them enough,” Marianne said. “But they're my boys and I love them. I love Anders and I know he did a bad thing but I can't be really angry with him.”

“I'm angry,” Mogens said. “I am angry enough to wring his neck, the little bastard. Hurting someone like that. At this rate he's going to end up in jail.”

“He isn't going to become a criminal,” Marianne said firmly. Gunnar could see she had convinced herself that her son hadn't really done anything wrong and this whole police station scene was unnecessary.

“Yes, yes he is,” Mogens said. “He threw a stone at that Afghan girl. What if he throws something else?”

“Oh, Mogens, he's just being—”

“Stop,” Mogens thundered. “This is why we're unable to discipline either of them, because you keep letting things go. But enough is enough. It stops now.”

Marianne's face flashed with rage. “Well, why shouldn't he be angry with immigrants? I am. They're all criminals anyway and my son is being punished — ”

Jon raised his hand. “If you two want to fight, please do it in your house, not in my station. And Marianne, if this is the kind of nonsense you're telling your son, it's no surprise he's throwing stones at innocent women.”

Marianne gasped. “I'm telling him no such thing.”

Jon's phone rang then and he spoke for a moment and put the receiver into the cradle.

“They are here,” he said and stood up, rubbing his hands together.

Marianne fell silent and Mogens looked as if he were being led to the guillotine.

Anders came into the office and the officer who brought him in stood by the door, his hands locked behind him, his legs slightly apart.

Anders looked up at his parents in confusion and then at Jon. “What's going on?” he asked. “Why am I here?
Mor, Far?”

Marianne was about to say something but Mogens put a hand on her shoulder to silence her. He cleared his throat. “You threw a stone at a girl and — ”

“Whoever said that is lying,” Anders said, cutting his father off.

“Really?” Jon said, smiling slowly. His bald head glistened with heat and his eyes were menacing. Gunnar thought that when he was sixteen, a policeman like Jon would've scared the life out of him, but Anders was nonchalant.

“I didn't do anything,” Anders said and walked back to lean against the wall.

“Stand up straight,” Jon said coolly and banged his fist on the table.

Marianne flinched, Mogens seemed pleased, and Anders, well, Gunnar thought happily, the boy did as he was told.

“I shave my head because I don't have much hair left,” Jon said. “I hear you do it because you think you're a neo-Nazi, are you?”

Anders's Adam's apple bobbed for a moment. “I believe that Denmark is for Aryans, for us, not”—he seemed to pick up his courage to look at Gunnar and say—” the scum some people are bringing into this country.”

Jon stood up and Anders took a step back. “It isn't for you to decide, you little punk. Raihana Saif Khan has lodged a complaint against you. We take complaints of assault seriously and racially motivated ones, we take especially seriously.”

“She's lying,” Anders said and turned to his mother. “I didn't do anything. She … her type … they always lie. I didn't do anything …
Mori”

Marianne stared at her shoes, her lips quivering.

“Don't lie, son,” Mogens pleaded.

“What the hell do you know about anything,” Anders said. “You never believe anything I say anyway.”

“Watch the way you talk to your father,” Jon said. “Mogens, Marianne, thanks for coming in. Please step outside. I need to speak with Gunnar and Anders alone now. Palle, please take them outside and give them a cup of coffee, maybe some cake?”

The police officer who had brought Anders to the station walked Mogens and a very reluctant Marianne out of Jon's office.

“Look here, you shit-faced liar,” Jon said just as the door closed behind the police officer. “You think I will believe some spoiled teenager over a respectable woman who is working hard to become a productive member of the community.”

“That bitch is a Muslim,” Anders said.

Jon turned to Gunnar. “Could you please wait outside?” he said.

Gunnar stood up, unsure, and then quietly walked out of the office. Jon shut the door behind Gunnar.

There was a sound of something crashing and then Gunnar heard Jon say, “She's a respectable woman and we don't go around calling a respectable women names.”

Gunnar heard Anders cry out, a tremor in his voice. “I will report you, you asshole, you can't do this.”

“Report what?” Jon demanded and then there was another crashing sound.

Gunnar got nervous but stood outside, waiting to hear Jon or Anders say something.

Oh God, had Jon just slapped the boy? This was Denmark, cops didn't slap young boys—slapping of any kind was not acceptable. Even in a riot situation, cops could get into trouble for hitting someone unnecessarily. In Denmark, spanking your own child was against the law.

“Report what you want, no one cares. You think they'll believe you over a respected police inspector?” Jon asked.

The door opened then and Jon gestured to Gunnar to come back inside. Anders's face was red and he looked frightened.

“We were just getting a few things straight,” Jon said and sat down. Anders was shaking slightly now.

“Now, your friends will be picked up as well and they'll be informed that you told us that they threw the stone. That you're escaping punishment for ratting them out,” Jon said.

“I didn't say their names. They had nothing to do with this,” Anders said.

“Yes you did,” Jon said, looking at some papers. “Karsten Rasmussen and Henrik Jensen. What do you think your friends will say about this?”

Anders just stared at Jon.

“Right,” Jon said. “Now, I'm going to let you go because I know your father and I owe him some favors. But the other boys will be punished.”

“No,” Anders said, now scared. “You can't do that. They didn't do anything.”

Jon nodded. “I know, but what do you want me to do? One of you threw the stone and the girl got badly hurt.”

“I threw the stone. It was just me,” Anders said, panic now lacing his voice.

“So you threw the stone? Why should I believe you? No, no, I need to speak with Karsten and Henrik,” Jon said implacably.

Anders turned to Gunnar. “Look, I'm sorry, okay Gunnar? I'm really sorry. It was an accident. I didn't mean … look … they had … the stone … I threw it. Can't you do fingerprints or something? You will see, I threw it.”

“The boy sees too much American television. I don't need fingerprints to put you away; I have Raihana Saif Khan, who will identify you. I can put you all away, but for now I'll be happy to put those two away,” Jon said.

The fight visibly drained out of Anders.

“What can I do? Whatever …,” he began helplessly, his hands held up in submission.

Jon raised his hand. “Stay away from that woman. Actually, stay away from all women. Give Gunnar five hundred kroner for fixing Ms. Saif Khan's bicycle and another five hundred kroner to replace the clothes you tore. I'm hoping you jokers can find this money by the end of the month without committing a crime?”

“We can't get a thousand kroner just like that,” Anders protested.

“Yes, you can. It's summer, go get a summer job,” Jon said. “And I want a written apology. The woman's name is Raihana Saif Khan. Here, let me write it down for you. Write a note to her apologizing for what you did and give it to me. I will read it and then I will give it to her. You can give me the money at the end of the month, but the note comes next week. On Monday. Am I clear?”

Anders picked up the yellow sticky note with Raihana's name and looked at Gunnar. There was anger in his eyes, not remorse.

Once a month, Kabir drove to Bazaar Vest near the immigrant area in Århus, an hour and a half away from Skive. The bazaar was in a huge building with stores everywhere. There was a vegetable market and row after row of stores run by Iranians, Iraqis, Indians, Afghans, and Turks.

The smell of Turkish coffee, freshly baked baklava, and cigarette smoke permeated the air of the crowded bazaar.

Raihana had been surprised to see quite few Danes at the bazaar on her first visit. Even Christina had talked about the bazaar and how she went there at least once a month to buy meat.

Kabir didn't go to the bazaar to shop, but to meet other immigrants like himself. He always spent time with Faisal, who had the best meat shop in the bazaar; Qadir, whose café served oily pizza and Turkish coffee; and Khaled, whose clothes, DVD, and video store was thriving.

Layla, Shahrukh, and Raihana would start at the vegetable market where the vegetables were always fresh, in abundant varieties, and cheap. After vegetable shopping they would eat at the small Indian place at the other end of the bazaar. A couple, Azhar and Tasnim from Hyderabad in India, ran the restaurant. Tasnim spoke fluent Dari because she had Afghan relatives who migrated to India from Afghanistan when she was young and she had picked up the language from them.

Tasnim chatted with Layla and Raihana as they ate lamb curry or chicken
tikka masala
with freshly made
rotis.

“What happened to your face?” Tasnim asked as Raihana had expected she would.

Before she could explain, Layla launched into a tirade about the incident, explaining how Raihana had gotten hurt.

“So did they take the boys to the police?” Tasnim asked, sliding a plate of
samosas
in front of the women and handing a
laddoo
to the irritable Shahrukh, who didn't like being strapped in his pram.

“Well, the man she works for told Kabir they would take the boys to the police,” Layla said with a sneer.

“And he will,” Raihana said in Gunnar's defense.

“Terrible,” Tasnim said and sighed when Shahrukh let out a wail. “Layla, get him out of that pram and let him walk around.”

Layla looked at Shahrukh, whose face was scrunched up. She unstrapped him and pulled him out.

“Arrey
, Azhar, take him into the kitchen,” Tasnim called out in Hindi and pushed Shahrukh toward the kitchen, where her husband would keep him fed and entertained.

“So what else is going on?” Tasnim asked.

Layla looked at Raihana. “Rafeeq, you know that Afghan who lives on Mors, he made a marriage proposal for our Raihana.”

“Arrey wah!
What good news!” Tasnim said. “So, when is the wedding?”

Raihana shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, she hasn't said yes yet,” Layla said.

“What's to say,
arrey
, Raihana? Rafeeq comes here every month, handsome man and well mannered,” Tasnim said. “I know he's looking for a wife and he makes good money. He's almost a Danish citi-zen.

Raihana nodded politely. “Yes, he seems like a good man.”

“So will you marry him?” Layla asked.

“I just got hit by a stone,” Raihana pleaded.

Layla put her hand on Raihana's. “Is that a no?”

“No, no,” Raihana said, shaking her head.

Tasnim grinned. “Then it's a yes, isn't it.”

“Maybe,” Raihana said. A part of her wanted to just say yes and be done with it.

“Have children, be happy,” Tasnim said. “You deserve it.”

“Yes, she does,” Layla said.

“This is all very strange,” Raihana said. “The first time I got married … it was different and now …”

“The first time was in Kabul, this time is here,” Layla said. “You are lucky to have come here, now make something of your life.”

“I really want to work,” Raihana said and then looked at Tasnim. “You like it don't you, running your own business.”

“Oh yes,” Tasnim said. “Without this… I don't know. I don't abide by those career women, always away at work and whatnot. But here, I raised my children and worked and helped the family.”

“I want to do the same,” Raihana said. “I am learning to be a beekeeper.”

“She knows a lot about beekeeping,” Layla said proudly.

“I would like to become a beekeeper,” Raihana said.

Tasnim nodded appreciatively. “You can have your own bees, make your own honey,” she said.