Sadiq tried to work it out in dollars, dividing by three. “Find me one for forty,” he said.
The backpack with the laptop lay safely on his thighs, the small suitcase with wheels on the seat beside him. He pulled his baggage closer.
The taxi pulled up at a narrow doorway. The sign above read SEKER PALAS—Sugar Palace. Sadiq paid the driver and clambered up a steep flight of stairs. At the top he came to a pay window, behind which a man sat sleeping. Sadiq knocked at the glass. The hatch was opened.
Room. Bed. Now. He did not place great demands on the receptionist’s language abilities. He was handed a key.
So this is where you’ll stay, he said to himself as he lay down on the bed. Outside, the sun was rising, but he had to sleep, just for a little while.
He awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. It was Monday morning, eleven o’clock. He called Sara, who was impatient for an update.
“Have you found them?”
No, he told her dejectedly.
“You were asleep? You’re not a tourist! Get outside and look!”
Back home, the media had laid siege, at least that was how it felt. Neither Sara nor Ismael could face going out the front door. As a result, the boys had not gone to school.
Sara had been berated over the telephone, even by people she scarcely knew, calling to say the family had brought shame upon Somalis.
You shouldn’t have contacted the Norwegian authorities, we’re Muslims and you’re not going to get any help from them.
You’re crazy! Cooperating with the media! With the police! Naïve!
On Somali online debate forums and social media, the verdict was harsh. The family had lost control over their daughters because the mother had not brought them up properly and the father had neglected them.
Sara’s friends tried to console her. “They will soon come back of their own accord, you’ll see. How long do you think they’ll be able to stick it out in a war zone?”
Not long, Sara thought.
Sadiq had to stop them before they got that far.
He listened to his wife. He needed to hear her voice. They had to be together on this.
“I’ll find them,” he promised.
* * *
Do not lose your way. That will only make things worse.
Sadiq walked as far as he dared in one direction, turned, then went back toward the hotel and walked as far as he thought he could risk in the opposite direction. Back and forth, farther and farther afield. He made a note of places before turning around, then took a different route, always using the hotel as his starting point. In this slow, laborious manner he gradually increased his familiarity with the city.
My objective is invisible, my objective is unknown. Lines of verse tumbled through his mind.
It was hot. He needed to drink something. He bought some water. His head whirled. He ate lentil soup with bread. Drank more water.
He began approaching passersby.
Girls?
Here?
People shook their heads. Somali girls? In niqabs? No …
A photocopy of their passport pictures was the only visual aid he had found at home. Leila had been looking into the camera in a pink hijab. Ayan was wearing a black one.
In the photocopy everything was gray.
He focused on women in niqabs. Some walked alone, others in groups. In the early evening, when the worst of the heat abated, more of them were out on the streets. There, there, there! His daughters might be in the crowd, but they never were. Could he have passed them without noticing? No, he would have recognized them by their gait, their height and posture, the way they held their heads, high and proud, like him. They were different from the women here, who either scurried along almost nervously, or puffed and panted underneath the black folds of material.
He walked toward the high mountain bounding the city to the east. Finding two girls in a city was … impossible. He turned, walked back to the hotel, and sat down at the nearest bar, which was called Gulp. He drank strong Turkish coffee. The flavor was so sharp he felt it cut him in his mouth. He collapsed onto the bed at midnight. He needed a change of strategy. Searching haphazardly was a waste of time.
* * *
There were several taxi drivers who hung around outside the hotel, one of whom had given him a card when he had arrived. “I’m Mehmut. If you need a car, call me.” After a humid, oppressive night, Sadiq rang the number on the card. They arranged to meet.
“Why are you so stressed out?” Mehmut asked.
Sadiq shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Let’s go find a table in Gulp and I’ll tell you everything.”
The taxi driver had the build of a boxer, with powerful upper arms and a bull neck. His front teeth were false and he had a gold implant. He sat silently while Sadiq told him his story.
When he had heard everything, he said, “I’m here for you. You’re my friend.”
Sadiq liked what he saw in his eyes.
Mehmut drove him around all day, and although more effective than walking, it seemed equally aimless.
Sara rang a number of times.
“Have you found them? Have they called?”
The next morning Mehmut suggested they go to the police. “You won’t find them the way you’re going about it.”
Mehmut drove him to police headquarters, a stately redbrick building with tendrils of pink flowers climbing wild up white railings. Turkey’s flag, red with the white star and crescent, flew on the roof.
The two men went inside. Sadiq recounted his story. Mehmut translated.
“My daughters have traveled from Norway and are planning to cross into Syria. Can you help me?”
The local police were forthcoming, but they needed to be officially petitioned, they said. They required a request from the Norwegian police.
“The girls are on Interpol’s missing persons list,” Sadiq said.
“They haven’t committed any offenses here, so there’s nothing we can do. Ask the Norwegian police to get in touch with us, and we’ll keep our eyes open.”
It was
