There were three women with scarves and seven without in the flat in Gellerup.
On the coffee table in front of them at least six kinds of home-made cake fought for space on the lace tablecloth: sweet cakes of all shapes and colours, and savoury pastries with meat and cheese fillings that sent conflicting aromas out into the room. The coffee was strong and served in small glasses as the sun shone through the large windows, making the women’s skin glow. Their brown eyes sparkled and smiled. They were chatting even before they had sat down on the soft sofa and chairs around the coffee table.
‘So how are you, Aysenur? And the family? How is little Semse?’
‘Better, thank you,’ replied a young woman, taking a mouthful of cake. ‘After she’d kept us awake for three nights, her tooth finally came through. But she’s got more on the way so we have tough times ahead.’
‘Are you still off work?’
The young woman nodded. Rose guessed she had to be somewhere in her mid-twenties.
‘But I’m going back in two months’ time. I’m really looking forward to it and my mother-in-law will look after Semse, so that’s all taken care of.’
They spoke in Danish. Children and families and everyday life were the topics discussed at a Gün, as Nazleen had explained. Having a Gün was, as she had presented it to Rose, the way city women socialised in Turkey. They took turns to meet at each other’s houses. The hostess of the week would make sure there were cakes and börek, and during the couple of hours the get-together lasted all sorts of topics were discussed.
Rose watched the women as they talked. She’d been told that one woman only wore a scarf because she had made a pilgrimage to Mecca the previous year and that normally she didn’t cover up. A few strands of hair peeked out from under her scarf and this indicated that she was a modern woman. Only one of the women—apart from Nazleen—was covered according to the rules of modesty so that no hair could be seen at all. It was Ayse, Mustapha’s sister. Rose had been told that it wouldn’t be possible for her and Ayse to meet alone. But they could meet at a Gün. This was acceptable and Rose would have to snatch a conversation with her.
Ayse sat very still in a corner, following the conversation closely which, in Rose’s honour, had been steered in the direction of arranged marriages. Nazleen had told them beforehand that Rose had to write an essay on the subject. ‘That gives you a genuine reason for being curious,’ Nazleen had told her. ‘We’re happy to share our thoughts and feelings on a range of subjects, and we know that Danish girls don’t understand arranged marriages and confuse them with forced marriages.’
As the women warmed to the topic, they became more animated, gesturing, laughing and even shouting out loud. Everyone was keen to give their opinion, it seemed to Rose. Everyone except Ayse, who continued to sit very still and listen. The Gün was being hosted by Ayse’s cousin, Nuray. That was why it had been acceptable for Rose to attend, Nazleen had explained.
‘Danes tend to think that we’re forced to marry certain men, but that’s rare these days,’ explained Nuray who, according to Nazleen, was married to a Turkish man who had grown up in Denmark. They had two little girls. ‘That’s more a thing of the past. Now you can make sure they don’t get a visa too quickly and are sent back to Turkey.’
This resulted in a fit of giggles all around the table.
‘And if Turkish men really do come here to get married then they are under the wife’s thumb because she’s grown up here and she knows how life in Denmark works,’ said the woman who had been to Mecca.
‘It’s best to find your husband among the Turks already here,’ said one of the others, whose name Rose had forgotten. ‘Then they know the situation and that makes things less complicated.’
The discussion continued for a while; they debated marriages between Christians and Muslims, and whether marriages between Turks and Arabs might be preferable because Arab culture is far closer to Turkish culture. Another woman, whom Rose had been told was married to a Dane, talked about older women’s reactions when they found out about her.
‘They feel so sorry for me. They can’t understand it because I’m not that ugly,’ she laughed. ‘They think no men in Turkey wanted me.’
Cakes were passed round and more coffee was served. Every now and then the women would switch to Turkish and started talking in smaller groups. Rose leaned forward and caught Ayse’s eyes.
‘Nazleen tells me you’re Mustapha’s sister.’
She nodded, but said nothing, which spurred Rose to go on. She would have to force the pace.
‘I know that you’re not mixed up in this in any way, but Aziz and I would like to see if we could resolve our feud.’
Still no reaction. But Ayse’s eyes were watching her attentively.
Under the cover of the women’s chatting and laughter, Rose said, ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I didn’t think that I had something to offer. Something that might change the way Mustapha views the situation. I’d like to meet him.’
Ayse’s gaze was now quizzical. Finally her lips moved as if limbering up to speak. Rose leaned even further forward to catch what she said.
‘Mustapha’s in hospital. He fell down some stairs and has concussion and a broken arm.’
Rose wanted to ask how such an accident could happen, but something held her back. ‘Which hospital is he in?’
Ayse’s eyes averted hers, focusing instead on her delicate hands in her lap, agleam with gold rings. ‘I can’t tell you that just now.’
Rose found an inner strength. It was pointless giving up. Not now. Especially not now. ‘Where, Ayse? It might be a matter of life and death. You have to believe me.’
In Ayse’s eyes doubt battled with pride and the fear of reprisals. For a long time she sat forming the words with her lips until the answer finally came.