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  Mugdi waylays the two women with a question. “Did you not say to me that Saafi is suffering from terrible nightmares?”

  “Yes, I did,” replies Gacalo.

  “What shape do they take—the girl’s nightmares?”

  “In the dream,” says Gacalo, “it is all pitch dark and she is chased by a bearded man carrying a torch and he lusts after her.”

  “What do you plan to do to help the girl?”

  Timiro interjects, “I’ve been in touch with a psychologist friend of mine, Qumman, who’s agreed to see her. You remember Qumman, Dad, don’t you?”

  “I thought Qumman was based in Stockholm,” says Mugdi. “Has she moved base, come to live in Oslo, where she now consults?”

  “She consults in both cities, given the frequent need of Somali-speaking therapists in Scandinavia,” says Timiro.

  “Have you thought of how Waliya might react to her daughter consulting a psychologist?”

  “That’s Mum’s concern, not mine.”

  Mugdi says, “It seems to me that the only acceptable cure to Waliya would be the one Saafi might receive from a reading of the Koran. Which brings me to the question as to how you will go about arranging consultations, if Qumman wants to see her regularly, once every month say or something?”

  “I’ll find a way,” says Gacalo confidently.

  Just before Timiro and Gacalo leave to walk to the tram, Mugdi comes down to the kitchen to top up his coffee. Before he heads back upstairs, he says to Gacalo, “I would be curious to know what the widow and Timiro make of each other.”

  He remembers Timiro describing Waliya as “a victim of circumstances.” He wonders if their encounter will change Timiro’s perception of the woman. He hopes that their conversation will be civil, and that there are no fireworks that Gacalo cannot cope with.

  Timiro and Gacalo derive great pleasure from sauntering toward the tram, their arms locked, the daughter happy in the company of her mother. After they reach Central Station, they decide to walk the rest of the way, rather than take another tram. There is no need for them to rush. Their outing gives more joy to Gacalo than she assumed possible. After all, she has fulfilled her promise to her son in enabling Waliya’s safe arrival in Oslo. And it delights her that Timiro, who is pregnant with her grandchild, is with her, visiting a woman who mothered Dhaqaneh’s stepchildren—the closest her son came to siring his own offspring.

  When Timiro suggests that it might be a good thing to call the widow ahead of their arrival at her door, Gacalo gives the impression that there is no need. She says, “They’ll be there, for they have nowhere to go and are even unlikely to take a walk in the neighborhood.”

  Timiro whips out her mobile phone and says, “No harm in alerting them to our coming, Mum. Just in case.” But no one answers the phone.

  Finally, they are at their block. Gacalo presses the four-digit code on the apartment complex entrance pad from memory. In the lift, they meet an elderly woman who does not return Gacalo’s warm greetings. Timiro, notorious for her quick uptakes, says to her mother in Somali, “What an unfriendly lot, the residents of the block, if this woman is a representative of them.” Gacalo pleads with her daughter to be amicable toward the widow and not to say anything that might be construed as provocative. “No showdown, please, as is your wont.” Gacalo recalls Mugdi’s warning that Timiro will pick a fight with Dhaqaneh’s widow, as though guaranteeing that there is still life in their sibling rivalry.

  The lift stops on the third floor and the old woman gets out. Gacalo and Timiro stay on until they hear the whumph noise the lift makes when it arrives at Waliya’s fourth-floor apartment.

  Gacalo knocks on Waliya’s door, first gently and then harder, as Timiro stands uncertainly behind her. When a few minutes pass and there is still no answer, Timiro says, “Enough waiting, Mum. Let’s go. Very wise of Dad not to come.” Eager to depart, she calls the lift.

  Unprompted, Gacalo says, “Lately, many Muslims are practicing a different Islam from the one you and I have been raised on. Whereas in former times, Somalis were relaxed about the genders mingling and spaces were not necessarily allotted to specific genders, our people have recently adopted the more conservative, stricter Wahhabi tradition, which stipulates that different entrances are assigned to the two genders.”

  “And so what happens in a situation in which there is only one door? How are the comings and goings managed?”

  “Well, when there is only one entrance, as is the case here, only a male may let an outsider in.”

  “I don’t like it,” says Timiro.

  Gacalo says, “Just keep in mind this is the first time that groups of Muslims numbering in the millions have come into contact with other faiths. It’s become fashionable to talk of preserving Islamic culture in its purest form. This is why more and more Muslims have opted for the Wahhabi strain of conservative Islam, in which the sexes aren’t allowed to mingle, and women require male guardians.”

  “Is this why Naciim thinks he is a prize asset, because Islam says so, according to some of the sheikhs?”

  “Yes. And according to conservative Islam, neither Waliya nor Saafi will be able to open the door to let us in, in the absence of Naciim, the stand-in guardian.”

  Timiro says, “The mind boggles.”

  The lift takes ages coming and Timiro presses the button persistently and continues cursing. Gacalo’s eyes are trained on Waliya’s apartment door, hoping it will open.

  Gacalo says, “I can understand Waliya’s sense of caution, a mother whose daughter has suffered rape. Besides, in much of Somalia, old men your father’s age have lately been marrying girls even younger than Saafi.”

  Timiro, tired of waiting for the lift, kicks at its door and then at Waliya’s apartment door. The sudden, aggressive movement brings Naciim, who opens the door and apologizes. “I was showering and had no idea you were outside.”

  The sense of occasion clearly overwhelms the boy. Visibly happy to meet Timiro and welcome Gacalo, he is of two minds as to whether to shake hands or wait until they decide whether he is worth a hug. Then Gacalo discerns a slight frown on his face: can it be that he is trying to work out how his mother will react to Timiro, who is dressed more like a Norwegian than a Somali?

  After a moment, a broad smile settles on Naciim’s face once more and he says how pleased he is to make Auntie Timiro’s acquaintance. But to Gacalo’s displeasure, Timiro’s rage flies at the boy. “Why did you make us wait at the door, when we knocked and knocked and waited and waited?”

  Timiro adds extra insult by passing up the chance to shake Naciim’s outstretched hand. She walks past him into the living room, her forehead creased with anger. She takes the couch closest to her and makes herself comfortable. Looking about her, she spots bare walls everywhere, two threadbare rugs, cheap furniture on display, an empty potato chips packet, and naked light bulbs dangling from the ceiling, one of them directly above her head.

  Gacalo tells Naciim, “Go call your mum and tell her she has visitors.”

  Naciim is back before long and sits in a chair not very far away. He says, “I’ve told them you are here.”

  Still angry, Timiro says, “Something doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Let the boy be, darling.”

  Timiro asks him, “At least, could you tell me who designated you as the one and only person to answer and open the door?”

  He says, “It falls to me, as the only male in the household, to protect the womenfolk against anything that might bring dishonor to the family name. This is the correct way, the Islamic way.”

  “How do you guard them?”

  “I decide who comes in and who doesn’t.”

  Naciim remembers the maxim his stepdad often repeated: that, in his absence, he, Naciim, is the Mahram to his mother and sister, and therefore their boss.

  Eventually, there is t
he shadow of a movement and Saafi reveals herself: a sweet thing delicately put together, doll-like. Prim and proper and discreetly veiled only with a headscarf, she touches Gacalo’s and Timiro’s hands to her lips in turn and then sits down on the chair farthest away from the women, her legs pressed, feet facing forward, and hands resting in her lap. The girl is blessed with breathtaking beauty and alluring eyes. A pity she has to hide all her beauty from the world’s view, Timiro thinks to herself.

  Waliya, meanwhile, times her entrance, conscious of how important it is to make a good impression on one’s sister-in-law on first meeting. Though thick around the waist, her gait is dainty, and her veil is made out of gauzy dark-colored material, with her eyes peeping through, prompting, or rather subtly insisting, that you give her a second look. She is barefoot. As she moves farther into the room, wrapped in the hush surrounding her, she addresses her words to Gacalo, purposely intending to charm her. She stands a good distance from Timiro, nods her head and then mumbles a few words of welcome.

  Waliya and Timiro size each other up, neither saying anything for a long while. Waliya sits on the edge of the chair farthest from Timiro.

  Waliya asks, “What will you have? Tea?”

  “I can also make coffee,” offers Saafi.

  Gacalo says, “We’ve just come to find out how you’re doing. We should be having you over for a meal at our place.”

  Waliya says, “We are doing very well.”

  “The stove is working, you can make food?”

  “Naciim has figured out how to make it work. He doesn’t tire until he gets the hang of how devices like a stove or a fridge or a mobile phone work. Dhaqaneh has taught him well.”

  As she speaks, Waliya keeps Naciim under her observation. Finally, she decides she has had enough of his gawking at Timiro, and she says to him, “What are you doing sitting among the women? Please go to your room and make sure you commit to memory the verses of the Koran your instructor has suggested you learn by heart.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he says begrudgingly, and leaves.

  Gacalo is impressed that Waliya has found the boy a teacher who can help with his Koranic education, and she says so.

  Timiro surveys the scene, looking from Saafi to Waliya before saying, “Now that we’re on the subject, perhaps you can speak a little more about Saafi and Naciim’s education.”

  “Saafi has had homeschooling,” Waliya says. “We withdrew her from the certificate-based school system in Kenya.”

  Timiro can’t help having a go at Waliya. She says, “What you’re telling us, plainly speaking, is that you’ve kept your daughter at home and chose not to send her to school, like the other girls at the refugee camp?”

  “I am not saying that,” says Waliya.

  Timiro says, “So what’re you saying?”

  Because Waliya does not answer immediately, Gacalo steps in and countermands her daughter’s insistence that Waliya elaborate her statement. Gacalo advises, “Let us move on, darling,” and then turns to Waliya, whom she asks, “What about Naciim?”

  Waliya changes tack by pleadingly looking at Saafi and suggesting, since Timiro’s way of questioning is making her hot under the collar, that she answers the question about the boy. Saafi, obliging, says, “He is twelve years of age and is in grade seven.”

  “Let me rephrase my question. What kind of education do you want for both your children now that they are here in Norway?”

  Waliya motions for Saafi to leave the room.

  “I want a good education for both of my children and we would appreciate any help,” says Waliya. “My priority is to make it possible for them to master the blessed, sacred language of the Prophet and the Koran and then take courses in Islamic theology.”

  Timiro says, “I am afraid you are in the wrong country for the type of ‘good education’ you have in mind for your children.”

  Gacalo is in some distress, and wishes that she and Timiro had spoken about the topic before it came up here.

  Waliya asks, “Why do you say that Norway is the wrong country? Aren’t there in this land Muslims who teach the Koran and the Prophet’s traditions to their children?”

  Her voice almost failing her, Gacalo explains to Waliya, “You see, the state schools here do not provide the kind of ‘good education’ you have in mind for Saafi and Naciim.”

  “How do other Muslims do it?” says Waliya.

  “Mosques and Islamic centers offer such courses, but only as part of their extracurricular after-school activities, not as main subjects of study,” says Gacalo.

  “Are there no other options?”

  Timiro says, “Their best option would be to wait until their first degree at university and then to take a degree in theology at master’s level.”

  From the expression on her face, Timiro suspects that Waliya has no idea what first degrees or master’s are or where you acquire them.

  Changing the subject altogether, Timiro asks, “Why did you expose yourself and your children to so much danger to come to Oslo in the first place?”

  “What’s this, darling?” Gacalo cuts in, as Waliya repeats that she wants the best for her children.

  “The education you have in mind, if it were available, would qualify them only to belong to a large underclass in Norway,” says Timiro.

  Gacalo and Waliya are silent, as Timiro charges on. “Why did you not go to a Muslim country, like Saudi Arabia, where your children would receive the benefit of the ‘good education’ you desire?”

  Finally, Gacalo interjects more forcefully. She says to Timiro, “You sound to me as if you are reading from some right-wing manifesto intended for the undecided voters in a marginal constituency.”

  “You stay out of it, Mum.”

  Waliya, appearing visibly uncomfortable, but still defiant, says, “We came here at your mother’s invitation.”

  Timiro, fired up, begins to interrogate Waliya. “How old were you when you fled Somalia and sought refuge in Kenya?”

  “I was fifteen, sixteen.”

  “Did you ever work outside the house?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Aside from being a call girl?”

  “Who said I was a call girl?”

  “My brother, in one of his rare phone calls, told me what you were like, both when your kids were younger and you were a party girl at the camp, keeping the top brass entertained, and later when they were a bit older, and you came to many a lavish shindig with the expats who party every weekend in Nairobi. My brother assured me that it was he who made a good woman of you. So don’t come here acting hurt and veiled and pretending you are a saint, because you are not. My brother was no fool and didn’t share these details with my parents, but he and I were closer than we let on.”

  Gacalo tells Timiro, “I think we should go.”

  “We’ll go when I am done, Mum.”

  Gacalo falls quiet, as Timiro says, “You never held a job as such until you met and married my brother?”

  “That is right.”

  “Then you lived for two years and a bit in Nairobi in relative comfort, thanks to the remittances my mother sent to my brother.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You are now my brother’s widow, in a country that has offered you and your children sanctuary. But because of the illicit manner in which you arrived, you do not qualify for the state welfare benefits that refugees are entitled to. Not immediately. So tell me. What is your plan? Are you going to register for one of the adult courses that Oslo offers?”

  “I am too old to study.”

  “Will you look for a job, then?”

  “Depending on the jobs that are available.”

  “My mother, who is much older than you, is still working, and I too put in many hours of work every day. Let me ask you again. Will you look for work?”

  �
��I am not qualified to do any work.”

  “You can work as a saleswoman at a supermarket or as a carer at a home for the elderly.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?

  “I am not good at that sort of work.”

  “What do you mean, that sort of work?”

  “I can’t work where they sell liquor, nor where I have to deal with the needs of elderly men in their natural state,” says Waliya.

  “Would you work as a dishwasher?”

  “I’ve always been a stay-at-home mother.”

  Timiro says, “You know that we know this not to be the case. My brother told me there were times when you went out to work after dark and returned home in the small hours, your pockets bulging with cash. We are not asking you to do anything as degrading. But what is wrong with earning half of what you will cost my mother to keep you and your children in this apartment until your refugee papers come through? Then we know that your children will qualify for state welfare benefits.”

  Gacalo chimes in. “Not to worry, darling. I’ve set aside sufficient funds for them to live on for a year.”

  “Still, it’s our family’s money, not hers.”

  Waliya is unmoved and stays silent.

  Timiro says, “When I was in New York and taking my second degree, I worked as a dishwasher and cleaned other people’s toilets and dealt with men in their natural state when I bathed them and changed their soiled bed sheets, all to support myself. If I, the daughter of an ambassador and a senior administrative official of the Norwegian government, was humble enough to work in such menial positions, why not you too?”

  Waliya stays silent.

  “As I see that you’re unprepared to speak of this any further, would you be willing to tell me something about Dhaqaneh’s death?” asks Timiro.

  “We agreed not to go there,” says Gacalo, alarmed.

  “Mum, he is dead. She’s alive and I want to know. I have the right to ask her questions, the right to demand that she answers them.”