The Sound of Language (8 page)

Raihana was trying to glance at her watch when he suddenly pulled up a frame and then looked at her.

“Take your hood off,” he said, pointing at it.

Raihana looked around at the bees. She didn't want to get stung but he seemed to think it was okay. He asked her again to take her hood off. Despite being scared, she finally took the hood off. The Danish man stuck his finger into the lush hive, breaking the intricate cells the bees had made, and pulled out some honey. He held it up to her mouth and Raihana looked wide-eyed at his finger covered with the golden and sticky liquid around it. Did he think she would lick his finger?

As if suddenly realizing what he had done, he pulled his finger back and stuck it in his mouth. He held up the frame toward her and she gingerly took a glove off, now wary of both the hive and the bees buzzing around them. What if they saw her take their food and destroy their home, wouldn't they get upset and sting her?

“Try, come on,” the Danish man encouraged.

Raihana put a finger into the hive as he had and the warmth inside shot through her finger. It was wonderful. Her finger was floating in richness and as she pulled out a sticky glob of honey, she smelled its rich and unique perfume. She put her finger in her mouth and the flavor exploded. It was like waking up, she thought giddily.

Greedy for more, she dipped her finger in again, and as she pulled it out a bee stung her on the cheek.

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

1 JUNE 1980

We have been keeping bees for two years now and I have never been stung. Bees sting because we are not careful, not because they are aggressive— that is beekeeper fact. Today we had record temperatures. The weather was beautiful and in the afternoon I lay down on the terrace to soak up some sun. The kids were with Gunnar's parents for the weekend and it was just us and the bees.

Gunnar came home after dropping off the kids and started to talk about the weeds and the way the hedge was growing outrageously. We had had constant arguments with our neighbors about not cutting the hedge properly. Their side was always too high and I like it trim and proper.

It happened right outside the garage. A bee was resting on one of my Karen Blixen roses. I was trying to wrench out a hoe from its hook to start work in the garden, and I don't how the bee got hit, but it spun around and stung me on my hand, right below my thumb. It hurt, but not as much as I always feared it would. And I had no allergic reaction, which was a relief. It wouldn't do for a beekeeper to have a serious reaction to a bee sting.

It was all in all quite an eventful day. My first bee sting and the neighbors actually cut their hedge properly for the first time in ten years.

F
or days after, he remembered how the Afghan girl had winced and tears had filled her eyes when the bee stung her. But it could have been worse: she could have been allergic to the sting. As it was there was only a little pain, some irritation, and some inconvenience.

The rest of her face had looked so pale compared with the harsh redness of the sting. She said nothing when he grabbed her cheek to force out the venom. She looked suspiciously at the onion Gunnar raced to get from the kitchen and then held to her cheek.

“It's good for the sting,” he said, letting go of the onion so she could hold on to it. After a while she put the onion away and told him uneasily that her cheek was feeling better.

He suggested that he drive her home instead of her riding back on her bicycle but she had refused, saying that she was fine.

He felt horrible because he was the one who made her take off her hood and veil. But he'd wanted to share that first taste of honey in the spring with her. It was a taste he used to crave in the cold winter, the warmth of it, the freshness of the honey. There was nothing quite like it, he and Anna had agreed. But now the Afghan girl had a big bee sting and a swollen, red right cheek.

By the next week, the swelling had gone down and only a small brown mark was left behind. She said she was fine but didn't suggest they go out to the bees. Instead she cleaned the house like she used to in the early days of her
praktik.

He didn't press her. The Afghan girl cleaned up the kitchen, living room, and dining room. She even folded the clothes that lay in the washroom. She did some basic gardening—pulling weeds and sweeping out the leaves—but she didn't go to the backyard where the bees were.

Gunnar had not gone back since she had been stung either. There was no joy in going back alone. He wanted to go with her and show her everything, teach her about harvesting honey and making heather honey. She was so interested in everything he had to say; it made him feel good to have someone hang on to his words so carefully.

But the house was sparkling clean, which even Peter noticed when he came for a visit on the weekend. He also remarked that it was a pleasure to see Gunnar sober after so long.

“It's that girl Christina hired through the
praktik
program. She cleans. She isn't supposed to but she does anyway,” he told Peter.

“What girl?” Peter asked.

Gunnar had been sure that either Ole or Christina would have mentioned something to Peter and their other beekeeping friends. So he explained about the Afghan girl and her
praktik.

“You have some Afghan girl here all day? Are you mad?”

“She comes just three times a week and she's not here all day,” Gunnar said, feeling a little defensive and surprised that Peter was reacting this way. First there was Christina, who had made him feel guilty for not helping the girl, and now Peter was making him feel guilty for having her here.

“Don't you know anything about these refugee types? All they want is EU citizenship and to gouge money out of our welfare system,” Peter said vehemently. “What will you do if she says that you treated her improperly?”

“Why would she do that?” Gunnar asked.

“To get money out of you, to blackmail you,” Peter said in exasperation. “These people are depraved. See what they are capable of? They fly airplanes into buildings. They kill people in the name of rehgion.

Gunnar looked at Peter as if he had gone mad. “Are you saying this Afghan girl is a terrorist?”

“She could be,” Peter said. “You can't trust them. The coalition government of Radikale Venstre and Socialdemokratiet allowed too many immigrants into Denmark—now, with the new government, things are getting better. Immigrants don't get jobs, they don't learn Danish, they wear their stupid clothes … what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Gunnar was shaking his head. He used to think the same way. Hell, he had voted for the Danish People's Party, commonly known as the anti-immigrant party. He had supported the party for their policies regarding care for the retired people. The fact that they passed laws to stop immigration into Denmark hadn't concerned him.

“You feel the same way,” Peter said. “Admit it: every time you see one of those women dressed up like that you think it is strange too.”

He used to, maybe still did, but this Afghan girl didn't wear those strange clothes. And did clothes change the person beneath?

“She seems like a nice girl,” Gunnar said quietly.

“What was Christina thinking? This is crazy,” Peter said.

“I don't think so,” Gunnar said quietly.

He enjoyed having the Afghan girl in his house. He liked her silent company and he was enjoying teaching her about the bees. She was full of questions and even though she didn't seem to understand what he was saying half the time, it was a pleasure to have someone to talk to about bees. With Anna it was different because she knew as much as he did and he wasn't the teacher. They were more like competitors. With the Afghan girl there was no competition. But he couldn't tell this to Peter, he would laugh at Gunnar.

“If people like you and me won't help these immigrants then they will never learn Danish and never be able to get jobs,” Gunnar said.

“They should not be here in the first place,” Peter said. “Denmark is for Danes—”

“Your grandmother was German,” Gunnar interrupted.

“She was from Flensburg, she was almost Danish,” Peter said.

“No, she was German. She didn't even speak Danish until after your father was born,” Gunnar said with satisfaction.

“That was different,” Peter said. “She was European. You should think again about letting her come into your house. What if she steals something?”

“So now she is not just a terrorist, she is also a thief?” Gunnar asked.

“Anna would not have liked this,” Peter said.

“Anna would have been happy to help this Afghan girl,” Gunnar said firmly. “You don't know anything about Anna if you think she would have begrudged someone the opportunity to make a new life.”

Peter was taken aback. “I don't understand why you're being so difficult about this,” he said wearily.

Gunnar realized that neither did he.

“She is just some dark-skinned girl looking for a handout,” Peter continued. “Get her out of your house before she does any permanent damage. That refugee girl is nothing but trouble; I can tell you that now. That girl —”

“Her name is Raihana,” Gunnar cut him off, suddenly aware that he knew her name but never thought of her as Raihana. He always thought of her as the Afghan girl.

“What?” Peter asked, confused.

“You keep saying Afghan girl and refugee, but she has a name, Peter. It's Raihana,” Gunnar said.

Raihana wanted to go back to the bees but she was scared of them and worried that the Danish man was angry with her about being bitten. Layla and Kabir had been frantic when they saw the sting and had even taken her to the doctor in Skive. The doctor had examined her, given her some antihistamine tablets, and had assured her there was nothing to worry about. Raihana never took the medication and watched the swelling on her cheek with fascination.

“At least now you must quit this nonsense,” Khala Soofia said when the women were preparing dinner two nights after the incident. “Good girls do not go about getting stung by bees like this.”

Both Layla and Raihana looked at Khala Soofia in bewilderment. What nonsense was the old bat spouting?

“My Deena never got stung by bees,” she continued.

“Your Deena never worked with bees,” Raihana said, annoyed by the woman's constant showing off about her daughter who lived all the way in America. Layla and Kabir and her Afghan friends took care of Khala Soofia, went shopping for her, cooked for her and her husband when she was sick, but Deena was so much better than them. If Deena was so great why on earth had she not visited her mother in five years?

“My Deena is too smart to have to — ”

“Your Deena, your Deena,” Layla said in irritation. “You know, Khala, all we hear is how wonderful she is but she doesn't even write often to her own parents and doesn't care that they live alone in some foreign country. If my children treated me like that I wouldn't think they were so wonderful.”

Raihana wanted to hug Layla in gratitude. Finally someone had spoken up against the old lady. No one had ever said anything of this nature to Khala Soofia. But Layla had had enough. Raihana was struggling to do something with her life and instead of encouraging her everyone seemed to want to pull her down.

“My daughter is not disrespectful like you,” Khala Soofia said, enraged.

“Then you should be with her at her home,” Layla said.

“But she doesn't want you either,” Raihana said and immediately regretted it. Why couldn't she allow this poor old woman to have her fantasies? She knew what Khala was doing. Raihana was doing the same in many ways, pretending everything was fine and getting on with life, always expecting that everything would work out when she had ample proof that nothing worked out, not the way you hoped.

“I am leaving.” Khala rose from the chair in the kitchen. Her large frame seemed suddenly weary. Layla and Raihana stood up as well, abandoning the vegetables they were chopping at the dining table. “This is a dishonorable house and you are shameful women,” Khala added with tears in her eyes.

They didn't make a move to stop her, but they both felt ashamed as soon as they heard the front door close behind Khala.

“We were not right to insult to her like that,” Raihana said. “She's our elder.”

“She is,” Layla said with a sigh. “But enough is enough. How can we respect her when she doesn't respect us?”

“I know,” Raihana said. But knowing that Khala was in the wrong didn't make what they had done right either. “I'll make
badava kheer
for her.”

“With lots of saffron,” Layla said.

“And we'll go there tomorrow and apologize.”

“Yes,” Layla said unhappily. “I'm just tired of everyone going on and on about your
praktik.
And I'm not
really
sorry about what I said. It was all true anyway. But I didn't like hurting her.”

Raihana grinned mischievously. “Did you see her face when you said
your Deena, your Deena?”

“Yes,” Layla said, grinning back.

“Maybe now she'll stop telling us how wonderful Deena is and how terrible we are in comparison,” Raihana said.

“And maybe now she'll stop complaining about your
praktik,”
Layla said.

If Khala Soofia had been critical about the bee sting, Christina assured Raihana that it was a badge of honor. Sylvia Hoffmann also asked questions about the sting and said that she was very impressed with how quickly Raihana was learning Danish and believed it was because of her
praktik.

Wahida wasn't so generous.

“This is what happens to whores,” she said loudly in Danish. Later she had explained to the class that she hadn't meant to say
whore
but fallen woman. But the explanation came too late, as many of the students in the class were upset by what Wahida said.

Marika, the girl from Bosnia who sat with Raihana, and Suzi, a dark girl from Mozambique, told Wahida it was insulting to call Raihana a
luder.

“It is my wish,” Wahida responded.

“Then you are stupid,” Suzi said, rubbing her seven-month-pregnant belly.

“What shit you talk,” Marika said. “She got stung by a bee and you say she is a
luder?
You're mad.”

“She must have done bad thing, that is why bee stung her,” Wahida responded.

Raihana felt a surge of gratitude for Marika and Suzi. They had always supported her
praktik
, which they thought was much better than theirs, bottling marinated herrings in the nearby factory in Glyngøre.

Afghans like Khala Soofia and Wahida made Raihana even more adamant about continuing to work for the Danish man. This stubbornness was new to her. In the past she had easily molded, not caring so much about what was right, only what was easy. Aamir hadn't been like that. He had fought the Taliban the best he could.

In the early 1990s, at the beginning of the Taliban regime, there had been a sort of relief that there was some law and order in the country, but that quickly turned bitter when the
shariah
was enforced.

As bad as life became for many Afghans, Raihana's life, which had revolved around home and family, didn't change much. She had to wear a
burkha
and Raihana accepted it without protest. There were worse things, she decided. But Aamir had been furious, and he'd started going to underground meetings with his friends who were preparing to fight for democracy and equal rights for women. He had continued to teach science and math against the Taliban laws even after he was arrested for it. He was let out from prison after being beaten and threatened. Raihana had raised bail money by selling his old truck.