One Secret Summer (12 page)

She submitted to Hamid that evening just as she’d done on her wedding night, waiting only for it to be over. Fortunately for
her, he was tired from the long drive … the whole thing was
finished in a matter of minutes. He rolled away from her with a satisfied sigh and fell asleep almost immediately. Niela lay
in the dark, listening to the sound of his snores, trying to summon up memories of happier times. If she didn’t, she seemed
to understand instinctively, she would succumb to the silent lethargy that had gripped her ever since her parents had announced
what they intended to do. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the image of an aunt, one of her father’s younger half-sisters,
back in Mogadishu, who’d almost died of despair when her husband took a second wife. She no longer remembered the details
… she’d been too young to properly understand what had happened or the significance of her sorrow, but there was something
about the still, despairing sadness that had overtaken the normally vivacious girl that brought her own circumstances to mind.
Her aunt had once been a lively, pretty young woman with a temper and a strong, confident laugh. She’d seen her in the living
room one day, sitting in silence, her face turned away from the others, drawn against some private grief that only she could
see. ‘What’s the matter with Aunt Soraya?’ Niela had asked her mother. ‘Why is she crying?’

‘Shhh! Don’t disturb your aunt, poor thing. See what happens when you love someone too much?’

It was too much for a twelve-year-old to understand. But now, lying next to the stranger who’d overnight become her husband,
Niela couldn’t shake the image of the young woman sitting for hours alone in the living room or out on the veranda, her lips
moving to a sentence only she could hear. If she wasn’t careful, she too would wind up like that – though not for the same
reasons. If her aunt’s misfortune had been to love someone too much, Niela’s was the opposite. She barely knew Hamid but she
hated him already.

In the morning when she woke, Hamid was gone. She got out of bed and ran to the bathroom. She stood under the shower for a
long time, washing away every last trace of sweat and semen from her body, trying to rid herself of his touch. She shuddered
as she dried herself on the towel she’d brought from home. She wanted nothing of his to touch her. Absolutely nothing.

She finished dressing and opened the bedroom door. From the kitchen came the sound of pots being cleaned. Clearly, Fathia
was already up. Niela walked down the corridor to the kitchen. From Fathia’s disapproving expression as she entered, it seemed
as though she’d been up for hours. There was a place laid for her at the dining room table. ‘Have your breakfast,’ Fathia
said grudgingly. ‘But hurry up. There’s a lot of cleaning to be done.’

She wasn’t joking. As soon as Niela had finished her coffee and washed her plate, Fathia appeared in the doorway with a broom.
For the rest of the morning, Niela swept every inch of the house. It was as though the two of them had been saving up the
dust. She swept the rugs, mopped the tiles, moved furniture, polished the endless tables, wiped the chairs and picture frames,
rubbed the brassware until it shone like a mirror … and still Fathia’s demands kept coming.
The bathrooms need cleaning. The wardrobes need airing. The sheets need washing. Have you forgotten the ironing?
By lunchtime, Niela’s arms were aching. Back in Mogadishu she’d barely lifted a plate. In Vienna, under her mother’s watchful
eye, she’d quickly learned how to clean a small flat, but Fathia’s demands were of an entirely different order. They ate lunch
together in the kitchen at a small table, neither speaking much. Niela answered her questions about whether or not the bathroom
mirrors had been wiped or whether she’d remembered to starch Hamid’s shirts with a curt ‘yes’ or ‘no’. She refused to rise
to Fathia’s bait. What did she think? That Niela had never swept a floor in her life? She felt a small thrill of satisfaction
when, after the day was finally over, Fathia was unable to think of a single thing further for her to do. Niela had done everything
she’d asked, and more. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be had, anywhere. Niela folded away her apron and stowed the cleaning
supplies underneath the sink with a faint smile of bitter satisfaction lurking around the corners of her mouth. She walked
back down the corridor, conscious of
Fathia’s eyes on her back. She held it very straight until she’d closed the door. Then she leaned against it and finally gave
vent to the tears that had been building inside her for what seemed like a year.

Slowly, against her will, a kind of order began to impose itself on her life. She missed Korfa and Raageh more than she could
put into words, but aside from the short, stilted telephone call that took place twice a week when she answered her mother’s
endless questions with a brusque ‘fine’, Vienna began to recede from her memory. She could no longer recall the exact layout
of the flat – did the bookcase separating the dining room from the living room face inwards or out? What colour were the kitchen
tiles? Mogadishu was still as clear in her mind’s eye as if it had been days since they left rather than years, but Vienna
was fading fast … as if she’d never really been there or intended to stay. Hamid worked long hours. During the week he was
up long before her. He prayed in his study at the end of the corridor. Saira’s relief at hearing there was a sister in Munich
to keep her daughter company was misplaced. Fathia required a servant, little else. Certainly not a friend. She was in her
late forties, unmarried, with no prospects of ever being so … the private disappointments that surely must have been hers
had long since hardened into the pursed lips and tightened expression that greeted Niela every morning across the kitchen
table.

Hamid wasn’t unkind. In his own distant, unfathomable manner, he behaved in the only way he knew how. He went to work, he
prayed, he was a stalwart member of the small Munich Somali community … he provided food and shelter for his young bride as
he should … what more could the girl want? He performed his side of the bargain – now so should she. Niela sometimes heard
him arguing with Fathia.
Why does she go about with such a long face? Can’t she produce a smile every once in a while? What have we done to her?
Fathia’s answers were always the same.
It’s the way they are, these young girls nowadays. Spoilt, every one
of them. Don’t worry, she’ll learn
. Niela turned away, her heart sinking. How anyone could think she was spoilt was beyond her.

Twice a week she and Fathia went by bus to the supermarket. Niela looked out of the window at the suburbs sliding past. Once
or twice she caught a glimpse of her own face – a tightly held mask of contained emotions. Seeing her face as a stranger might,
it surprised her. She’d never given much thought to her own appearance. She supposed, in a kind of distant, disinterested
way, that she was pretty enough. In high school she’d been as much sought after as her two best friends, Sally-Anne and Helga.
The three of them had made a striking trio – blonde, blue-eyed Helga; Sally-Anne with her green eyes and curly auburn hair;
and Niela, dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned. Charlie’s Angels, some of the other kids called them. For a brief summer,
Niela had yearned for long shiny blonde hair like Helga’s, but that was more out of curiosity than anything else. Her own
hair had to be washed, conditioned and braided once a week by a hairdresser; Helga and Sally-Anne simply stood under the shower
and ran a brush through theirs. She’d heard her mother’s friends exclaiming over her –
look how pretty she is, Saira. Lucky you. You’ll have no trouble finding a husband for her, none at all
. She’d listened to the comments with a smile on her face. Her mother’s friends were wrong. There would be no traditional
arranged marriage for her. She was going to university when she finished high school.
She
would have a career and be independent in the way Saira had never been.
That
was her future. Not the one her mother’s friends dreamed up.

So much for those dreams now, Niela thought to herself miserably as she followed Fathia around the supermarket, pushing the
trolley. What sort of a career was
this
?

One morning about a month after her arrival in Munich, she walked into the kitchen to find it strangely silent. She looked
around her. Fathia wasn’t yet up. She set the breakfast table, wondering what was wrong. Her sister-in-law was always in the
kitchen before anyone else. She made the tea, wondering if she ought to go on and prepare breakfast itself. She stood there
uncertainly for a second. Perhaps Fathia had overslept? She made a cup of tea and walked down the corridor. She hesitated
for a moment, then rapped on the door to Fathia’s room.

‘Come.’ She heard Fathia’s voice. She opened the door and stepped inside. She’d only ever been into her room to clean it.
Now, with the curtains drawn and the faint, sour smell of sweat in the air, she resisted the temptation to turn away.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, setting the cup of tea down on the dressing table.

‘Sick. I’m sick. My throat.’ Fathia’s voice was a painful croak. ‘You’ll have to go to the pharmacy for me. I need medicine.’

Niela’s heart jumped. Alone? She would finally be able to leave the house on her own? ‘Of course,’ she said in what she hoped
was a solicitous tone. Her heart began to beat faster.

‘Bring me paper.’ Fathia pointed to a notepad on the desk by the window. Not even a ‘please’, Niela thought crossly as she
handed it over. Not a single ‘thank you, Niela, for bringing me tea’. Or ‘
please
go to the pharmacy for me’. No, with Fathia everything was a command.
Bring me this. Bring me that. Fetch this, fetch that
. But the thought of going outside the house on her own for the first time in four long, miserable weeks was enough to push
the irritation out of her mind and she left the room excitedly. ‘Don’t delay,’ Fathia croaked out as she shut the door. Niela
didn’t bother to reply.

Muffled in clothing that added another dimension to her body, she ignored the frost on the ground and almost ran all the
way down the street. It was only early December but the trees were already stripped bare. She kicked her boots in the sludgy
pile of frozen leaves that had settled between the edge of the pavement and the road, breathing in the icy air, tasting the
scent of the first moment of freedom at the back of her throat. The bus trundled into view; she boarded it and smiled widely
at the driver. He smiled back, momentarily confused. Her face felt strange – it had been weeks since she’d had a smile on
her face.

She stopped at the bakery at the entrance to the small shopping centre and bought herself a cream bun. She bit into its soft
creamy centre hungrily … Fathia favoured the sticky, sickly-sweet baklava and dates that she bought in industrial quantities
and which Niela hated. She stood in the cold until she’d finished it, licking the last dollops of cream off her fingers in
pleasure.

‘You look as though you enjoyed that.’ Someone spoke to her. Niela jumped. She hadn’t even noticed the young man standing
behind her in the line. She swallowed the last bite and quickly wiped her mouth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He
smiled down at her. His face was partially hidden by his woollen hat and the scarf tucked up around his chin. His eyes were
blue, she noticed. He looked kind.

‘I … no, I was just …’ she stammered, not knowing quite what to say.

‘You’ve got a bit of cream … here …’ He pointed to the tip of his own nose.

Niela immediately put up a hand to her face. ‘Here?’

‘No, just there … yes, that’s it.’

‘Er, thanks.’

‘Not at all.’

They stood for a moment in slightly embarrassed silence. ‘Cold, isn’t it?’ he said finally.

Niela nodded. ‘Yes, yes it is.’

He looked down at her and smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you’re from round here, are you? Originally, I mean.’

Niela hesitated. He was the first person she’d spoken to in
Munich other than shopkeepers and checkout girls. She was starving for conversation with someone –
any
one – but she was both shy and afraid. She looked around her quickly, as if half-expecting Fathia to appear suddenly from
behind one of the shop façades. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not from here.’

‘So where are you from?’

‘From Somalia.’

‘Have you been here long? You speak such good German. My name’s Christian, by the way.’ He held out a hand.

Niela hesitated again. Why was he so interested in where she was from or how well she spoke German? She risked a quick upwards
glance. He was tall, with dark brown hair, and blue eyes that crinkled at the corners and the shadow of a beard that showed
up beneath his skin. He looked to be a little older than she was … late twenties, perhaps even thirty. She looked back down
at her feet. Why had he suddenly decided to talk to her? ‘I was in Vienna before I came here,’ she said finally.

‘Ah, Vienna. That’s the accent I hear. Nice city,’ he said conversationally. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Niela.’

‘Nice to meet you, Niela. Do you work around here?’

Niela shook her head. ‘Look, I … I’d better go. I have to buy some things,’ she said quickly, casting a quick, furtive glance
around her again. ‘I … goodbye,’ she said abruptly, not knowing how else to end the conversation.

He lifted a brow. ‘Oh, sure … well, goodbye. Nice to meet you, Niela. I work in the bank on the corner.’ He lifted a hand
and pointed it out. ‘Maybe see you around one of these days?’

Niela nodded, anxious to get away. She raised a hand awkwardly in farewell and, without waiting for anything else, almost
ran across the square to the supermarket. Her face felt flushed – how long had it been since she’d seen or talked to anyone
other than Hamid and his dreadful sister?

‘What took you so long?’ Fathia demanded as soon as she walked in the door. ‘I’ve been waiting for
hours
. What were you doing?’