But when he went to read the story again that Saturday morning, it was no longer online. Yet he had read the entire thing the previous night, even seen the photograph of the beheadings. He thought it had been on Al Arabiya’s web pages, or maybe on Reuters. But it had disappeared from the net, as though it had never existed. He was confused. Had he imagined the whole thing?
He stared out at the gray morning. It looked chilly. Tomorrow was Constitution Day. People in Bærum were ironing the shirts of their national costumes. They were shining their shoes. Getting flags out. Placing sprigs of birch in vases. Shopping for the May 17 breakfast or buying flowers and champagne for the host. Final-year students were preparing for their last big party prior to exams.
Sadiq was not invited anywhere.
There were no small boys to accompany to the children’s parade. No one to cheer on as they hopped along in a sack race, balanced on stilts, or threw balls at tin cans. All that would still happen, as usual, only without Isaq and Jibril.
The life around him no longer concerned him. He used to be happy, for the most part. He thought about that now, how cheerful he had been. Even during the civil war, even when he lost his father and brother. Now he was mainly indifferent. Nothing had any effect on him.
At the same time, he was becoming forgetful, unable to remember things or words. Sometimes, like now, he wondered if he was imagining things; he believed he had read things he had thought up himself, things that really did take place, but only in his head, stories born of his own anxiety.
He decided to take a shower. It enlivened him a bit. While he was in the bathroom, his mobile phone on the living room table received a message.
“Abu Ismael, your younger daughter, the tall one, is in Atmeh.”
The hot water poured over him. He wondered if he was losing it. He pondered, had he read about the two girls or had he dreamed it? It had all been so clear to him: The Somali sisters from Bristol, Cameron making his statement, and now it was all gone. No sisters, no beheadings, no Cameron.
In Atmeh, Osman was growing impatient. “Abu Ismael, are you asleep? Wake up!”
The mobile phone emitted its peeps into the empty room. Sadiq dried off, dressed, put on water for coffee, and checked his phone, as he routinely did several hundred times a day.
“I need to drive to al-Dana, won’t have any signal, be back in two hours. Reply to me,” read the last message. Sadiq scrolled up the screen. And stiffened. Then everything loosened. Like an avalanche. Leila was rescued! A wave of relief washed over him. Tears ran down his cheeks. Then in the next moment he thought: Only Leila? Why only her? Where is Ayan?
He began frantically texting Osman. Tried to call him. But the Syrian had no coverage. Should he ring Sara? No, he had to wait.
So he waited.
Two hours passed. Leila was out! Three hours. A burden had been lifted off one shoulder. But the thought of Ayan still weighed upon him, casting a shadow on the news.
Osman finally got in touch again. “Abu Ismael. Good news. Your daughter with a child is in Atmeh. Your tall daughter.”
With a child? Had she already given birth?
Osman was overcome with joy at having saved Leila. She had come out onto the street outside the house they lived in, dressed in a niqab, with the child on her arm. Osman’s boys had driven slowly past her, pulled in, handed her the note, told her they could drive her out of Raqqa, whereupon she had jumped into the car and they had driven through all the roadblocks, all the checkpoints, just driven, driven, they had not been stopped anywhere along the way.
“A godsend,” Osman wrote. “He showed us mercy today.”
Sadiq asked to speak to his daughter.
“Wait awhile. She is tired, wants to sleep.”
“I can fly down first thing tomorrow. Do not send her to Turkey before I am in Hatay.”
On receiving no answer, he tried to call. Osman’s mobile phone merely made clicking sounds.
“This is good news, don’t worry,” Osman wrote.
“I’m worried about everything,” Sadiq responded.
“She says she is tired, that she doesn’t want to talk to you. Your grandchild is four weeks old.”
A four-week-old child? Leila had just written that she was due in four weeks. Had he misunderstood? Had she actually written that the child was four weeks old?
“I want to hear her voice.”
Was it someone else? Perhaps it was Emira, Bastian’s wife. She had a child. She was also tall. Her father had said she wanted to travel home but had not been able. But she was Pakistani, not Somali. Osman could not have been so mistaken. On the other hand, Osman had not seen her face, only written that she was tall. His mother and wife were looking after the runaway and her child now.
Hours went by. Finally a message came: “Dear brother. My best friend. The girl is in my house. Don’t worry. Please. Calm down.”
11:20 p.m.: “Eh…? Who is she or who are they? Let me speak to her.”
11:21: “Just wait, I don’t want to pressure her.”
11:22: “Have her send a recording on WhatsApp.”
11:22: “The girl says she knows your daughters.”
Do not crack now. He was floating in another dimension. It was over.
“She is the image of your daughter Leila. I’m sure it is her, she is just frightened. She told me lots of things at odds with one another. First she said she was from the UK, then she told me she was from South Africa.”
11:24: “A liar.”
11:25: “She says she is not your daughter. She also said your daughters are twins.”
11:25: “Tell God to send her to hell! She’s lying. I don’t care who she is. I won’t waste time. Or energy. You’ve kidnapped the wrong girl.”
How long had it lasted, the joy at Leila
