Exchange of Heart

by Darren Groth

  ‘I should go,’ I say. ‘Don’t suppose you want to come with me?’

  Caro scoffs at the unvitation and squeezes my elbow. ‘You better run if you’re going to catch the 12.57.’

  Caro sees through you.

  She’s a good person. She knows when people are really doing something to help others and when they’re only doing it to help themselves. She knows what you’re up to.

  You can’t hide, Munro.

  Not today.

  I settle back into the thin-cushioned seat of the 12.57 train, put my feet up opposite.

  A long line of freight cars fills the window, each one covered in graffiti tags: NEXST, SNAFU, DOOM, TRAGIC, GEKO! One detailed work features a hooded figure walking a tightrope; the pole they’re carrying for balance has a globe on one end and a miniature of the hooded person on the other. The caption underneath reads ‘You decide’.

  You haven’t answered me for days, Munro. Did Ollie tell you to do that? She’s stupid if she did. You can’t ignore me. I’m the Coyote.

  You can’t ignore the people at school either. You think you can run away and no one will find out? They will – of course they will. Then what will you say? Will you tell them why you’re running to Fair Go? How you’re terrified of the voice in your head? Especially today?

  Are you going to tell them?

  Answer me, Munro!

  ANSWER ME!

  It’s around 1.50 pm when I ring the bell on the reception desk. Kelvin wanders out from the back room, stapler in hand. We ask the same question of each other in stereo.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Kelvin responds first. ‘I’m covering the front desk for Laura while she’s on lunch. And you? You here for more hours?’

  ‘No.’ I lower my bag to the scuffed floor, wipe my hands down the front of my Sussex High shirt. ‘I’m here for school.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

  ‘I am. We have to do a series of interviews with a person of migrant background as part of our diversity project. If it’s okay with you, I thought I’d talk to Shah.’

  Kelvin puts the stapler on the desk, readies a thin stack of paper, smacks the stapler like he’s playing whack-a-mole. ‘Diversity project.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be in … Social Studies?’

  ‘Modern History, actually.’

  ‘And you have to interview someone of a different race or ethnicity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not a gay person? Or an elderly person? Or someone living in poverty?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not someone with a disability?’

  ‘I guess it’s two for one with Shah. But, yeah, the question was pretty specific.’

  Kelvin starts complaining about ‘hierarchies of difference’. I nod at the end of each sentence. This is going well. Kelvin’s on a rant that doesn’t include the crime of ditching school. I’m glad I didn’t go with the extra hours angle.

  ‘So, it’s okay if I talk to Shah then?’ I ask at the end of the speech, after a suitable, respectful pause.

  ‘You should know by now, Munro, it’s not my permission you need.’

  Kelvin picks up the front desk phone, dials a short number. He waits and waits. And waits. He starts singing the theme song to The Big Bang Theory.

  After at least a full minute, he says, ‘Hi, Shah, sorry to wake you … You have a visitor … Munro Maddux … Munro, your Living Partner … Well, he’s sixteen – I wouldn’t call him a “boy” … Yes, he’s here … Yes, it’s Wednesday … Yes, it’s not the usual time … He wants to do an interview with you … An interview … For school …’ Kelvin holds his hand over the phone. ‘He’s thinking about it.’

  I bend forward, rest my elbows on the counter. Not going quite as well now. The idea that Shah might not want to play ball – I didn’t really factor that in. How could he turn this down? Just the two of us, hanging out at home, no tourism in the way?

  ‘Tell him we could play chess,’ I say. ‘If he wants.’

  ‘Munro says you and him could play chess … You don’t want to play chess? … You hate chess? … You want to play checkers instead.’

  ‘We can do that.’

  Kelvin says ‘uh-huh’ four times in quick succession, then hangs up the phone. ‘He says you can visit, provided you don’t pretend to know anything about football.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’

  We exit Reception and follow the winding walkway that is Fair Go’s main artery. Flowers of many colours line the path. One looks like a red hair-brush and is attractive to the local bees. The path cuts through what Kelvin calls the business district: the Creative Arts Precinct, the Recycling Depot, the Digital Media Centre. In the windows of the buildings, I hope to see glimpses of my team in action. I’m disappointed. The beating heart of Fair Go is still a mystery to me. I got a sense of it at my interview and on my orientation, but it’s been all bus rides and Brisbane sights since then. Ironic, I think. I’m touring the city and beyond, but the place I’d really like to see remains under wraps.

  ‘So you’re missing a class to be here, correct?’ asks Kelvin, as we approach the boxy, red-brick townhouses.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Generous of Sussex to allow you to do that. Are there other students getting this deal, too?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He checks his watch. ‘Is there a form I need to sign? Or someone I need to call? You know, to confirm that you turned up and weren’t wagging?’

  ‘There’s no form.’

  We enter the Living Precinct and walk along the pavers-on-gravel path to the front door of House 4. Kelvin knocks, then cups his ear against the door. The welcome mat at our feet is turned over. We wait for ages, then finally hear footsteps. Locks are released. The door opens slowly, revealing Shah’s retreating figure. Before he disappears, I get a look at the back of his head. He’s had a haircut – a hair chop, in fact. The close shave highlights the dent in the lower part of his skull. It’s pink and stark and impossible to ignore. It’s like an unblinking eye.

  Kelvin extends an open hand towards the inside of House 4. ‘Best of luck with the interview, Munro.’

  Shah and I sit on either side of a small table, chessboard set up for play.

  ‘You don’t want to play checkers after all, Shah, eh?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Oh. Do you have the right pieces?’

  ‘These here, they are good.’

  ‘You want to play checkers with chess pieces?’

  ‘Yes. You have problem with that?’

  ‘No, no … I don’t. You want to get started?’

  ‘I am not ready.’

  ‘Okay, cool. No probs.’

  I look around the living space. It has everything a young resident could want: TV, sound system, couch and chairs. There’s even a foldaway treadmill in one corner. The contrast between here and what I’ve seen in the worker areas is glaring. The staff residences are pretty basic. The fridge in the break room has a loose handle. The furniture in Kelvin’s office – I’d bet on most of it being second-hand. The phone in Reception is one of those bricks they were making before I was born.

  ‘Sweet set-up you have here, Shah. You must like having all this good stuff.’

  ‘These things … they are not mine.’

  ‘Well, okay, you didn’t buy them. But you live here. This is your home.’

  ‘This is not my home.’

  I look around again, this time recognising what’s not here. The meaningful, non-material things – photos, artwork, maybe a flag or some cultural knick-knacks. There is a colourful mat – I’m guessing for prayer – spread out beside the armchair.

  ‘Do you always feel that way?’ I ask.

  ‘Is this the interview for your school now?’

  ‘Um, sort of. More just a chat at this point.’

  ‘You want to know why I like to sleep very much?’

  ‘Sorry?’

 
; ‘For interview. You want to know why I like to sleep very much?’

  I shrug. ‘If you want to tell me, sure.’

  Shah takes the white queen in a pincer grip and begins twisting the piece this way and that. His Adam’s apple shifts in his throat. ‘When I am awake, I think about my family. Are they hopeful? Are they sad? Are they even still alive? Were they killed because they help me to escape civil war and the camp? I think about them when I am awake in the back of truck that take me out of city and across Pakistan border. On the boat crossing ocean from Indonesia. In detention on Nauru. In Australia, after I finally processed as proper refugee after ten months. And I think about them today, when I am here at Fair Go.’

  He releases the white queen, aims and flicks the piece with his middle finger. It skitters across the board, falls over and rolls through a couple of black pawns. It comes to a stop beside one of the black bishops.

  ‘When I sleep,’ he continues, ‘I am with my family. We are together. I talk to them. They talk to me. And everything is good, everything is correct … until I am awake again.’

  I let Shah’s words take as much air as they need. For a while after Evie died, it was the opposite for me. I didn’t want to sleep. I would replay the whole scene in my dreams: the collapse, the panic, the compressions, the numb nausea as the paramedics took her away. There was always something different in the replay, some awful alteration of the facts. It might be her eyes being open or her lips being yellow or her chest disintegrating under the weight of my hands. One time, we exchanged places. It was the only dream where I woke up sweating instead of the usual shivering.

  Sleep got a bit better after the decision to come to Australia. Waking hours? They’re still hard, but the Fair Go effect is spreading. To twist Shah’s words, more and more I am without the Coyote. We aren’t together. I don’t talk to it. It doesn’t talk to me. And everything is good, everything is correct.

  Never thought I’d feel that way, today of all days. 8 March.

  I place the white queen in the palm of my hand and offer it to Shah. ‘I don’t want to stay too long, I want to let you get back to sleep. But before I go, let’s play some checkers, eh?’

  Our eyes lock – for how long, I’m not sure – then he reaches out, grasps the queen, returns it to its proper place on the board.

  ‘I knew how to play chess before I am in detention centre,’ he says. ‘I cannot remember anything about game now. It is too hard.’

  We begin playing checkers. Diagonal shifts, one space at a time, an occasional jump. We’re about a dozen moves in when I flip the script and use one of my knights to capture a white pawn two spaces across and one down.

  Shah gives a short, sharp shake of the head, like he just chugged some foul medicine. ‘What are you doing? You can’t do that.’

  I facepalm, move the knight back. ‘Ah, sorry. Forgot what we were playing there for a second. Been spending a tonne of time practising chess lately. Knights can move in an L-shape.’

  We continue. Take a piece here, give a piece there. Shah rides a bishop all the way to the end zone and crowns it with a bottle cap. A cheer from somewhere near the Rec Refuge comes through the window. Maybe our match is being broadcast to the rest of the village. I move a rook four spaces across and kick Shah’s other bishop to the kerb.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘I can do that, can’t I?’

  ‘No! You cannot!’

  ‘Sorry, dude. Totally thought that was allowed in chess and checkers. My bad.’

  Shah glares at me and, for a second, I’m worried he’s going to quit the game. Get up, storm off, tell me to leave and never come back. If he’s thinking of it – any of it – the thoughts are short-lived. He kings a pawn with a small rusty nut.

  ‘I have excuse for dumb play,’ he says, a hint of friendly teasing in his tone. ‘What is yours?’

  ‘Hockey hits,’ I reply.

  The contest marches to the finish line. Twenty minutes after we started, Shah has four pieces left, two kinged. I have three and two. It’s my turn. One decisive move will tip the balance in this checkers game, and I have one ready, but it’s not meant to claim victory. I grab the black king and send it in all directions, sweeping the board, leaving a single white pawn as the lone survivor.

  Shah bursts out laughing. ‘You had many hockey hits, yes?’ he asks.

  ‘Whassup?’

  ‘The king, he cannot move like that. Only the queen.’

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘The king cannot move everywhere. The queen, yes; the king, no.’

  I stare at Shah as I return his pieces to their previous positions. His laugh has faded into a smile and more of his first language. I wait for the puck to drop. It doesn’t. He has no clue what he just said, doesn’t get that he remembered. Should I tell him? I don’t want to jeopardise this afternoon’s progress. For now, maybe it’s best to let it slide. The fact that the memories are still there – that’s good enough.

  An image jumps to mind: the back of Shah’s head, whole, complete, no chunk missing.

  We play the game out. I stick to checkers the rest of the way. Shah wins (fair and square) and, after a rejected high five and a reset of the board, I tell him I should bounce so he can go back to sleep.

  ‘Same time next week, if it’s okay with you?’

  ‘For more interview or more checkers?’

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  ‘For hockey hits,’ he says. ‘And talking to you is good. It makes me want more sleep.’

  I grin and head for the door. On the way out, I sneak one last peek. Shah is sitting back in his chair, arms folded, surveying the chessboard like it’s something he built with his own hands.

  When I get home, Hyde husband and wife are on the front deck.

  ‘Hey, Munro,’ says Nina. ‘How was school?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You came home late today, yeah?’

  ‘I wanted to get some homework out of the way.’

  ‘Nice!’

  ‘Come inside, mate,’ says Geordie. ‘We’d like to have a quick word, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Um, sure.’

  We get comfortable in the living room. I glance at the phone, then zero back in on the Hydes. There’s no suggestion they’re aware of my bail-out. No vibe of anger or disappointment. Just sympathy and concern.

  ‘We won’t beat around the bush,’ says Geordie. ‘We wanted to talk to you about this Fair Go place.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘About the work you’re doing there.’

  The pair exchange a solemn look.

  Geordie leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands interlocked. ‘You’ve been talking a lot about one of the residents in particular. Zahd? Zar?’

  ‘Shah.’

  ‘Shah. Can you tell us a bit more about him?’

  I study Geordie’s craggy face. Still no alarm bells. ‘He’s from Afghanistan. He’s had a lot of problems since he had to leave his country, one of which is a head trauma that might have happened along the way. I can’t say for sure. Anyway, it’s the reason he’s at Fair Go. He’s sad and angry, and he wants to sleep all the time so he can dream about being back with his family. And he can’t remember things the way he used to, like chess, for example. That’s where I’m trying to assist him – helping him remember how to play chess.’

  Geordie gets up, begins pacing the rug. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his khakis. A vein has appeared on his forehead. ‘Sounds like you’re on a bit of a mission with him.’

  ‘I guess you could say that.’

  ‘One that you might want to continue after your fifty hours of volunteering is up?’

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I could.’

  Geordie stops, gives a look to his wife that says ‘your turn’ and sits on the coffee table.

  ‘Munro, it’s wonderful what you’re doing out there,’ says Nina. ‘This Shah fellow is lucky to have you taking an interest in him. But we’re bot
h a bit worried that, well, that you’re getting in a bit deep. We want you to go to Sussex State High, work hard, have fun and take home the best experience possible. We don’t want you to go home disappointed that … that Shah didn’t remember how to play chess.’

  ‘I won’t go home disappointed,’ I reply. ‘I’m going to a good school. I’ve made new friends. I’ve got a great family taking care of me. Fair Go is a bonus. It’s gravy. Yes, I like helping Shah and the other residents, but I’m not expecting miracles. I’ve got everything in perspective.’

  Liar.

  Geordie pats the coffee table and I sit beside him. He studies my face, top to bottom, as if it’s a map of a place he’s never seen. I wonder if he’s imagining me behind a car window, panic-stricken, water rising all around.

  ‘Helping a young man like Shah, that’s a good thing, Munro. A very good thing. No two ways about it.’ His voice is barely above a whisper. ‘But here’s the rub: you can only do so much to make things right.’

  He lays a hand on my shoulder. It’s heavy and stiff.

  ‘After that, you need to help yourself.’

  Ah, but it’s 8 March.

  You helped yourself just fine today, didn’t you?

  Louis talks through a FaceTime delay and a mouthful of breakfast poutine. ‘Sounds too easy. What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘The Hydes will eventually find out you’re cutting classes, man. Then they’ll tell your mum and dad.’

  ‘First off, it’s only Wednesday afternoons. Second, it’s not really cutting. Third, Mum and Dad said they’d support me, whatever I wanted to do.’

  Lou points a soggy fry down the line. ‘Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than me.’