What happened? Will you be freed? you asked, but he pushed past you, shaking his head and gathering Mani inside, and shut the door to your hut. You waited your turn in the corner of the quadrangle where the queue lined the perimeter. When the guard called your name you were parched in the mouth, but not from the heat. The guard, like all the others, had AIDS emblazoned on his shirt and it had taken you weeks before someone explained it did not stand for the disease but for the immigration detention service of the country you yearned to go to.
The man two places before you in the queue began crying. I wanted my children to be free, he said. I only wanted them to go to school and learn as I had learned and not be frightened that the next lesson would come from the barrel of an automatic. He cried again, a sniffling noise that made the man in front of you turn around and snigger. And then they took my wife and daughters anyway, he said, and so I left with my sons. They have drowned.
The man in front stopped sniggering but now had a look of contempt on his face, as if to say to you, Only drowned? He should be so lucky. There was no room for compassion here in the camp.
When you went in, the looks on the faces of the three lawyers or officials were of profound boredom. In the corner behind them sat an oscillating fan. On the trestle-table desk, large pebbles held down folders of papers that protested in the breeze as the fan rotated back and forth, back and forth. The questions were fast. No, you had no papers, no passport, nothing that would prove who you are. They had all gone in your only backpack, lost when the boat capsized. You had even kept your indentured papers from Mr Kondappan.
Can I get another passport? you said. Can I get a visa? Can I leave this place? Please, sirs, when can I leave?
They looked at each other. The fan’s rotating head caught a flurry of papers in its wake. One of them, loosening his tie, said, Steady on, mate, where do you think you are?
Where? Somewhere that gave you a bed to sleep in, and shelter from the rain and the sun. Where there were beautiful meals, white bread and gravy mince, three times a day and bananas on Tuesdays. Where you could drink the water, which never ran out. Where men walked around rubbing their hands over their clean chins, wearing clothes that no longer stank of diesel fuel and rotting fish and salt water. Where there were no corpses of your mother, your sisters, your friends, to be hauled out and tossed away. Where the waves could not swallow you or worse: spit you out and let you live a little longer under the unblinking sun. Where there were no men to point their weapons at your groin, your head, your heart, simply because someone somewhere once decided that your corner of your country, your language, your religion were subordinate to theirs.
You did not care that this was the place where men threw themselves at the chain-link fence screaming, where men stitched their lips and were taken away for refusing food for more than a week; this to you was a place that had saved you from hell, and you told them so. Paradise, you said. I am in Paradise.
Parcels would come. From Red Cross, from Amnesty International, from the Coalition of Christians for Refugees. Allowed to help unpack and distribute them, you examined the labels, sounding out the strange names of so many worthy groups. The Asylum Seekers’ Action Group, Lions clubs, the Salvation Army, the Women’s Peace and Greens parties. An organisation called the Young Matrons’ Welfare Association of Ginninderra ACT, which you later learned was in the political heart of the country that sent you here, if heart was the right word. The parcels contained toiletries, handkerchiefs, snack foods. Once there was an entire box of Lux soaps chipped and dented but still okay. The men laughed at scents like Supreme Cream and Exotic Aromas, but took them from you anyway, to hide under their clothes or in their beds. Sometimes the parcels brought clothing: trackpants all the same colour with sporting names on them. Your first winter in Paradise, dozens of men walked around wearing maroon pants with Junior Pro League printed down the side of one leg. Everyone fought over the Bondi Breakers baseball caps, though no one cared for the sport. You were happy to unpack and distribute these parcels to help the numbing boredom before it got to you like it seemed to have hollowed out so many of the men, including the shitters who stared at you as they crouched and smoked as if their lives depended on it, and maybe they did.
But a week or so after the lawyers/officials departed, men were still walking around talking of their new lives, as soon as they would leave. Even the shitters were seen talking in huddles, with a look of expectancy in their eyes. One of them almost smiled. Another charity box arrived and by now you knew that the AIDS guards were likely to keep these parcels from you as punishment or for fun, their fun. But this time you were called over to the guardhouse at the gate. The box was already ripped open and the contents tossed about, most of the items out of their packaging, but that was normal.
Toiletries, the guard said. You’re the kid who likes shaving and that, aren’t you?
Barber, sir. Third-year apprentice, you said.
You take this and see if you want any of it. I reckon no one else will be interested, not with your hairy lot.
There was more Lux, this time only Exotic Aromas, and tubes of Colgate toothpaste, and other products squashed and split and out of their boxes: shaving gel and foam cream, aftershave balm. Vaseline hair oil. Gillette and Palmolive and a brand you hadn’t seen before – Fast, with a large signature across every tube. Fast Aloe Vera Shaving Gel, by Ross MacDowell, Master Shaver. Fast Shea Butter Face Balm, by Ross MacDowell, Master Shaver.
What is this master shaver? your uncle said when you showed him. He has some kind of award for it?
Don’t laugh, uncle, you said.
Mr Kondappan had taken you on as a promise to your father, before he disappeared. He wore a pale blue buttoned tunic and had a red-and-white striped pole outside the shop. He favoured sticks of Palmolive shaving soap, and hair waxes that came in tins, ordered from America. Mr Kondappan, who could have been a master shaver if there were an award for it, was in his shop on the wrong day, along with tens of others when white vans with missing numberplates tore through the town. The soldiers trashed the barber shop, smashing the window with the red-and-white pole before dragging him out onto the street and into the van. When you crept home, much later under cover of night, your mother opened up the box where she kept her valuables – wedding certificate, birth notices, your grandfather’s silver cigarette case, and your grandmother’s rings. Enough, she said, we have had enough, controlling her sobs in front of your wide-eyed little sister. This will be enough for three fares, she said, handing you a large sapphire ring, and when you reached out for it you realised you still held tight the badger-hair shaving brush.
Afterwards, you had an idea. The guard shrugged, though later you would wonder at his calculated indifference. You put up your sign, chalk on cardboard, propped at the doorway to your uncle’s hut. The Master Shavers’ Association of Paradise. Free Life Membership. Shaves and Haircuts. No Appt Necessary. At the bottom of the box, under the litter of packaging from toothpaste tubes and plastic combs, was a torn pack of razors, Gillette ProGlide, a six-pack, one razor overlooked. Gillette, the best a man can get. Overlooked, or ignored. You took this to your tent and hid it in the bottom of your bedroll, then took it out to the dark gap behind the step and the hut, and then put it into the pocket of your cargo pants. You would be responsible for this razor, and you had the right to it, of all the men in Paradise.
Mani and you were sitting at the doorway under your sign when your uncle appeared from mess hall duty, panting from having run across the quadrangle.
Are you crazy?
Maybe, you said, but at least I will not be bored.
Listen, he said, six men have just been taken away. It is said they had ropes, shaped as nooses, in their tents. There will be an inspection, he said, looking over his shoulder. Soon, before dark. Take down your sign.
No, you said. But you hid your razor, this time under the cement slab step.
&nb
sp; The Master Shavers’ Association flourished and you performed numerous excellent shaves and many beard trims until one morning your Gillette ProGlide was missing, and later that day a man was carted off with bleeding wrists.
And now it is the last day in Paradise. Your uncle and Mani were taken away some weeks before, and in all that time none of the remaining men have spoken a word to you. At least the men in their stalls no longer stared at you. There has been a report, it is said, several reports. The guards are doubled, and the clients are diminished. Clients, you are now called. You have not read these reports, naturally, but representatives of Red Cross have returned to discuss developments with you, part of your basic rights, you are told. You are now called clients and the Red Cross representatives report details. The clients are termed problematic. The clients do not cooperate with security personnel. Clients refuse to formalise their concerns in writing. Clients continue to be involved in voluntary starvation protests. Clients are being monitored. Termination of client services is imminent.
You, one of the last clients, wait at the doorway of your hut until a whistle will blow, after which you will be transported through the gates onto a truck and thence to the landing strip further into the island. After all this time, during which your beard has finally grown to something respectable, and you have attained your full height, or so your uncle claimed, you will leave still not having sighted the waves on the beach that you hear as you sit beside your carryall and wait, your cardboard sign in your hands.
THIRD
Carry Your Heart
The gathering was on the opposite side of the river, just out of her line of sight. Marion turned her head far enough to see without slowing down. She always walked at a brisk pace, too quick for most of the people she knew, so she usually walked alone, and this didn’t bother her. But this afternoon she had purpose. The 423 would be arriving soon and if she missed it there would be a forty-minute wait for the next bus. And then her Sunday afternoon would be gone, and then it would soon be dark and chilly, and then she may as well stay home and not bother treating herself at all.
Past the bridge over the river was a grassy section, recently landscaped, a new apron of lawn surrounded by a gravel path, a stand of callistemon protecting it from the wind that rose from the river. On the lawn were knots of people wearing bright clothes, lime green, aqua, orange, and more brightly coloured blankets or shawls – hard to tell at a distance – were pegged against the cyclone wire of the adjacent children’s playground. There was music, soft and flute-like, and she caught the scent of incense. A hippie party. She saw women and men busy opening wicker baskets, and handing around plastic laundry buckets, more lime green, purple and yellow, and prising lids off Eskies. A trickle of people led from the car park past a clump of casuarinas, whole families, with children in strollers and on pushbikes crunching over the casuarina needles that were thick on the paths. Everywhere were vibrant colours; even the browns and dark blues on the women’s skirts and men’s shirts seemed to shimmer. A pair of miniature dachshunds sporting matching tie-dyed jackets were tethered to the fence next to an enormous shaggy dog. As she passed, the shaggy dog glanced her way and then at the ground, beseeching forgiveness for his cerise neckerchief. The dachshunds maintained an erect pose of contemptuous overconfidence: they could wear anything and need not look at anyone. One side of a marquee slowly rose from the ground as four people pulled on ropes. Balinese flags were already fluttering at the perimeters of the party. But she would not pause and watch; she would get that bus.
Five-thirty at the latest she’d be at the bookshop. A good half-hour for browsing, then she would make her purchases, giving herself plenty of time before the shop closed. Depending on how busy Newtown was, she might eat at the cheap Vietnamese place, or wander down to the Indian diner on Enmore Road. Then take the bus back again, before it became too late to walk home along the river path. The council needed to install more lights to make people like her feel safe walking alone.
When Edward appeared at the doorway she was reaching up to replace a thick paperback on the top shelf. In an instant he took in her long hair under the LED downlight, the long neck, her long arms and legs, saw the whole lean length of her, dressed in black jeans and dove-grey shirt, something green knotted around her neck, and his heart, already racing from the quick scramble across the road against the traffic, skipped a beat.
Skipped a beat. He caught himself out before the cliché was fully formed. Still eyeing her under the downlight (she was looking at another title on the top shelf, the fingers of one long hand fanned out, brushing the shelf) he put a hand to his chest. Of course his heart had not skipped a beat. His heart was in excellent condition, confirmed at the doctor’s only last week. And hearts only skipped beats in the worst kind of stories. So what was it?
He realised he was staring and turned to the shelf on the right. Non-fiction. Our Staff Picks. Sidestepping a man in a bushranger beard and cloth cap steering a baby in a pram towards the door, he squeezed against the display of hardbacks on sale to let them pass. The pram was black, massive, bearing three inflated wheels with deep treads. A Panzer of a pram, designed to destroy and vanquish. The father looked grim under the cap and beard, asserting a right to occupy bookshop territory as if Edward, the regular book buyer – the book-buying nut, in fact, as his sons always said – were the invader. It had been different when his boys were little. He never considered taking them into a bookshop, let alone ploughing through narrow aisles and busy shoppers in such bulk. The stroller he and Anne had for the boys was a lightweight thing, yellow and blue stripes. Even so, they had avoided shops and cafés. Inner city bars were unthinkable. The inner city unthinkable.
A drink in a bar would be good now. A quiet bar, where he could read and sip a martini. It was on the cusp of martini season, in Edward’s view. Another few weeks and it would be too cold for martinis – it would be red wine and Irish whiskey season – but now, when the afternoon had been warm, and the cool of the evening was just laying itself down, it would be perfect. He glanced across at the woman. She was peering through gold-rimmed glasses, which were not even fashionably unfashionable, at two books in her hands, glancing from right to left as if she would buy only one. As he eased out of the wake left by the father and pram on his way towards Travel, he allowed his head to swivel right to take her in again in full. She was so tall. Her hair was long and thick, falling past her shoulders. She looked to be anywhere between forty and sixty. She struck him as a possible martini drinker. Anne had hated martinis. She had only drunk white wine, the fruity kind.
He would never know if it was a sudden stab of pain (or anger) at the thought of Anne, or something else, something the poets might have explained for him, but he dropped his hand from the Patrick Leigh Fermor title he was considering buying, turned away from Travel altogether and walked as directly as he could, stepping around Crime and Thrillers and past another pram, this time with two babies, to the shelf in front of her. He was so close he could have tapped her on the shoulder, said something unoriginal like, Don’t I know you? Followed by a laugh, and an apology, and then he could have initiated a short chat about the books she was buying, then suggested a drink. Possibly. He did not suppose she drank martinis after all.
Standing beside her, he glanced up to check the fat paperback she had been replacing when he walked through the door two minutes before, when dark was already settling on the street and throwing into soft relief the yellow warmth of the bookshop’s nooks and corners. When he first saw her and his heart skipped a beat, or appeared to. The Luminaries. He had heard of it. It had won the Booker. He rarely read fiction so probably wouldn’t bother, but he reached up and took it down anyway, trying to watch her without appearing to, hoping his glasses would disguise the effort his eyeballs were making to take her in sideways.
Marion stepped away but only slightly, the gesture intended as politeness, to allow the man more room. She registered the bulk of him, solid an
d tall in a black t-shirt, charcoal jeans, sensible shoes, black-framed glasses, curly brown hair. He looked like a poet. For a second she felt disorientated, Poetry being way down the back of the shop, past Children’s and Drama, on the way to the second-hand collection that lined the passage to the back door. Or maybe he was in the wrong section? But poets were entitled to browse Recent Fiction, surely? In fact poets probably never looked at the poetry section; they probably found it too depressing. These thoughts presented themselves so engagingly that she involuntarily turned her head to look down the shop towards Poetry – as if to check for herself that no poets were there, that no one at all was there – and in doing so saw him full in the face, staring at her, The Luminaries in hand, his mouth slightly open as if he had been caught out doing something wrong.
She glanced down at the book, then back into his face. His mouth pressed shut. Behind the glasses he had beautiful almond-shaped green eyes. She registered that his beard needed a trim before looking away again so as not to appear rude. But then they’d made eye contact, so it would be ruder not to say something, surely? But what would she say? She realised the most conversation she’d had with anyone all day was when she’d got on the bus and said good afternoon as she tapped her card, and even so the driver had merely grunted in acknowledgement and then ignored her when she had called out thank you before she alighted. Feeling too warm, trying to unknot her scarf with one hand, she fumbled with the two books and, as if some B-grade screenplay now dictated all her movements, the scarf slipped to the floor while she was still considering what to say. He bent and retrieved it and handed it over.
‘Lovely scarf.’
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