On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

They regarded each other silently for a moment. The yellow ruffles of the strange girl’s dress, the glossy crimp of her hair, and the leather daisy on her shoe smacked of having, owning, ordering. Then the strange girl pulled a face and vanished back into her room.

  Firuzeh took two steps down the hall, and then Abdullah Khan was backing out of the door, effusive and firm. His smile did not quite reach his eyes. Even as Atay continued to protest, left hand gesticulating, his right hand descended on Firuzeh’s shoulder and steered her back inside.

  Behave.

  This is Agha Rahmatullah Shahsevani, Khanem Delruba, and Nasima. They’re also going to Australia. Firuzeh jan, what do you say?

  We were here first, the girl in the yellow dress said, folding her arms.

  Hello, Firuzeh mumbled. Then: Why doesn’t Nour have to say anything?

  Because I’m younger than you, stupid.

  I’m sure the girls will get along. No, Nasima is the youngest, we have three altogether. Jawed and Khairullah are in Perth already. Working. We’re going to join them.

  Do you believe what they say? How long will we have to wait?

  They’re honest men. They got our sons to Perth.

  Where did you work, Agha Rahmatullah?

  In the government.

  My father is very important, Nasima said, fidgeting with the cloth of her skirt. People ask him for permissions, stamps, and signatures. Is your father important?

  He’s like the stable keeper who brought Rakhsh to Rostam, Firuzeh said.

  He fixes automobiles, Nour said. Ow! Firuzeh!

  Are they charging us too much for our rooms? What’s the rate for a room in Peshawar?

  God knows, Delruba said.

  We’ve paid fortunes already, Rahmatullah said. This is a trifle. A sneeze.

  We don’t have any sneezes left.

  Is your family poor? Nasima said. You don’t look like you have much money.

  Look at them, friends already. Such sweet kids.

  I like your shoes, Firuzeh said, angry and shy and confused.

  Thank you. They are real leather. Made in Iran. And yours are—?

  The boys couldn’t keep their mouths shut, Rahmatullah said. If there was a petition, they signed it. If there was a movement, they joined it.

  The letters we would get! His head and beard went white, see?

  It cost us almost everything we had to send them to Australia. Now they send us back a little here, a little there—

  They are good boys. If dumb as oxen.

  Is your brother dumb too? Nasima said.

  Very.

  The two girls turned their heads to appraise Nour. He had abandoned their conversation to watch an ant march along the window, through slashes of sunlight, up the flowerpot and across the hardened dirt.

  It seems so, Nasima said, nodding sagely. But you and me, we know what’s going on.

  We do, Firuzeh said, not having the faintest idea.

  And when we arrive, my father will find a good job. An important job. My brothers will be kind to me instead of insufferable. And now that they don’t need to send their money home, they can buy me kilos and kilos of lollies—that’s what sweets are called there. They promised. And my mother will dye my father’s hair black again, so you can’t tell how much he worried, and I will wear the best clothes and go to the best school—

  She took a breath. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining.

  What about you?

  That’s a dream for rich people, Firuzeh said.

  Atay often said that when he came home, hands and face black with oil, before swinging Nour, then Firuzeh, around in circles. Someday silk for your mother, ice cream for you, a suit for me, and a palace for all of us—but who am I fooling? That’s a dream for—

  Well, you’re no fun, Nasima said.

  Chapter Five

  After nine days, Abdullah Khan returned with deep blue passports and plane tickets, which he doled out like largesse.

  You’re Hungarian now, he said. A little swagger in his step. A little smirk on his lips. O what a trick, what a trickster, to treat borders like jump ropes.

  This flight is to Australia? Atay said.

  Ha. If we sent you direct to Australia, you’d be caught and deported at once—no good. You’re going to Jakarta. I have a friend there who’ll take care of you.

  He’ll send us to Australia?

  Eventually, eventually. You must trust us. We would never let anything happen to those children of yours. Look at those beautiful smiles. Imagine them safe in Australia, writing a letter to Qaqa Abdullah Khan. Thank you so much Uncle for sending us here—

  Firuzeh, who had not at any point been smiling, pulled the corners of her mouth downward with her fingers.

  When are we leaving? Abay said.

  Now. The car’s in the courtyard.

  Can we say goodbye to that nice family—

  No time. Take your things, let’s go.

  Five minutes later, Abdullah Khan chivvying them along, they had swept everything together, wadding up clothes, cramming scarves and washcloths into bags—zippers pulled tight—a sleeve sticking out, forlorn.

  The same scarred driver that had brought them to the compound ten nights ago was waiting in the courtyard, honking at regular intervals. His sour expression had sweetened considerably.

  As Atay climbed into the taxi, Abdullah Khan clapped him on the back. Go, hurry up, or you’ll miss your plane.

  He waved at them as the taxi crunched out through the gates. As they turned into the alley, Firuzeh glanced back, thinking she might see Nasima’s inquisitive head hanging out a window. But the courtyard was empty.

  As soon as they were buckled into their seats on the plane, two on each side of the aisle, Nour began to kick the seat in front of him, singing, We’re flying, flying, flying!

  The elderly occupant of said seat swung his head around. Slow down, little donkey, we aren’t moving yet!

  When the engines finally rumbled to life, Nour yelped and shrank into a ball. Abay took Atay’s hand, then Firuzeh’s. Her palm was damp and slippery.

  Atay beamed. Australia soon, he said.

  The cabin shook, the engines thundered, and the brown and green patchwork of past-and-no-longer lives shrank to the breadth of a handkerchief and fluttered away.

  Then there was nothing to see but a pure, clear sky.

  The man who met them in Jakarta’s airport demanded their phones and forged passports—Atay hesitated, then meekly surrendered them—before rushing them into a car. As he drove, he fished a faded turquoise photo of an ocean liner out of the glove compartment and said, in halting English: Your ship. You get on ship like this.

  Atay took the photo and fingered its creases as thoughtfully as the beads of a tasbih. This ship?

  One like it. Wait, and you’ll see.

  Their contact brought them to a house in Jakarta, where a ceiling fan stirred the syrupy air. When brushed against, the walls flaked blue paint and plaster. Closing a door quickly flattened brown geckoes in the jambs. In the mornings and evenings, motorcycles churned down the muddy road in front of the house. Behind the house was the enormous concrete wall of a school. The high roar of children reciting lessons and laughing soaked into the cloth of their lives.

  Atay went out one afternoon and came back carrying all the colors of the sunset in his perahan.

  Here, he said, cutting pieces from a papaya. Try this.

  Firuzeh and Nour pulled apart branches of flossy, vermilion rambutan, sugar apples, creamy yellow scales of jackfruit. Nour scraped an entire mango to its pith with his front teeth without offering to share. Firuzeh, her cheeks full of fruit, did not complain.

  Zanam, just a little piece.

  This foreign fruit will give us stomachaches, Abay said, pushing aside the cube of papaya that Atay offered. Better to have one good orange from Jalalabad, or a clay shell of grapes from the Istalif road.

  I’ll have her stomachache for her, Nour said, reaching with sticky finge
rs for the cube of papaya.

  Our own little Mullah Nasruddin, Firuzeh muttered.

  Entirely in keeping with the general injustice of the universe, Firuzeh fell violently ill later that night, sweating and whimpering over the toilet, while Atay and Nour suffered no ill effects whatsoever.

  I told you, Abay sighed. This family’s women always suffer.

  Chapter Six

  As it had in Peshawar, the summons arrived suddenly at night. A truck’s headlights flared through the windows. Someone rapped hard on the door. Take your things, you’re going, nownownow.

  Our documents? Atay said. Our phones?

  Here. Hurry up.

  Two other families were already packed into the utility truck. Knees and elbows knocked together as Firuzeh’s family settled in.

  You! Nasima said, her grin a flash in the dark. Did you miss me?

  Nope.

  You missed me every day. Admit it, Firuzeh, or I’ll pull your hair.

  Firuzeh answered with decorous silence.

  Found other friends, did you?

  Thousands of them.

  And forgot about me?

  Down to your name. Who are you, again? Then Firuzeh, unable to keep her face straight, dissolved into giggles, and Nasima joined in. Abay hushed them, alarmed.

  They drove for what felt like hours, until the grit and stones beneath the wheels softened to sandy loam. They were let out into a forest not far from the sea. A crowd had already gathered there, murmuring in six languages.

  The sky was veiled and sequined with a quarter moon for an earring and a dowry of stars. Some of the lowest stars were blotted out by a black hulk that creaked and scraped on the sandbar. Nasima whistled softly, and Firuzeh was jealous for a moment, wishing she, too, had older brothers who could teach her how to whistle and spit.

  The man who had met them at the airport gave low and urgent orders.

  I don’t understand, Atay said.

  In you go.

  How many of us are you putting on that?

  All of you.

  Are you crazy?

  Relax. We’ve done this many times before.

  Three Indonesians waded into the waist-deep water and began to hand the passengers onto the boat. Firuzeh lost count around forty, when the fishing sloop began to list. Once she, Nour, Abay, and Atay were crammed aboard, the last of many, the boat was riding low enough in the water that a rogue wave might have tipped them over.

  The passengers arranged their feet carefully, trying not to kick each other. Etiquette was of the utmost importance with so many people in so limited a space.

  Ropes slithered and loosened all around them, and with a slap of water against wood, the boat drifted free.

  The driver and smuggler watched from the shore, smoking, two points of orange light against the darkness of the forest.

  The Indonesian archipelago loomed for a moment, dim and imminent, and then, more swiftly than Firuzeh thought possible, shrank to nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  Hassan’s house was filled with boys making noise at all hours: boys clattering bowls, crushing cans, banging the tin sides of their home. Anyone might think they had twenty-two, not three.

  Enough, Hassan said, flapping his hands. Go play in the graveyard.

  The oldest two snatched up the metal cans they’d fashioned into incense burners and skipped off. The youngest stood sulking and picking his nose until Hassan pushed him out the door after them.

  Have you heard from your brother? his wife said, flicking on the single bare bulb in their home. She opened her bag under the bulb and hunted through it.

  Najib? He’s fine, the new vines are strong and healthy—

  You know which brother I mean.

  Her hand closed on a small, grubby scroll of paper tied with white thread. She fished it out.

  Hassan said: The family’s probably halfway to Australia by now. Maybe he’s there already and waiting to call.

  He shrugged one arm into his coat, then the other. What’s that trash you’re playing with?

  Nothing.

  You better not be wasting our money on charms.

  When you stop betting on chukar fights, I’ll stop going to shrines to pray that you stop betting on chukar fights. She closed her hand, hiding the paper. Anyway, it’s a traveler’s charm.

  Eh?

  For safety. I wanted to give it to Bahar, but everything happened too fast. Maybe it will still work from here.

  Superstitious nonsense, Hassan said, going to the door. Don’t lose it.

  Pick up bread on your way home.

  Hassan walked down the mountain between houses that had mushroomed across its stony, tawny flanks almost overnight. Kabul was growing inexorably, grave by grave, office by wedding hall, swelling with the living and the dead. It was because of Omid’s success that Hassan had moved his own family here from Parwan, and not a day passed now when he didn’t curse Omid’s auto shop, which was now Gorg Agha’s auto shop, and utter heartfelt prayers for its ruination. A rocket would do, or an IED. Or, better, let an American soldier be shot in front of it.

  Omid had struggled until his heart broke. And for what?

  We’ll marry your daughter to my son, Gorg Agha had said, while Omid was fixing his battered Corolla. Success should be shared with one’s neighbors. And my son, he’s on good terms with the Americans. Sells them alcohol. They’d investigate if he said, Oh, this neighbor might be an insurgent. Understand?

  Can you believe it, Omid had said. It was Victory Day, and they were walking among the young and old trees in New City Park.

  Hassan said: What did you think was going to happen? Abdul Rahman took our grandfather’s rainlands in Ghor. Then there was Rabbani. Then the Taliban hunted us in the street. And you think you can rise up and be someone.

  You sound like a Marxist.

  You sound like a fool.

  Is it a crime to dream?

  You’ll have to leave, Hassan said.

  What? Why?

  Do you think that if you give Gorg Agha your shop, he will stop there? He’ll be back. He knows he can frighten your no into yes.

  But where will we go? Omid said, eyes wide. Once, he had been a scab-kneed boy, no heavier than a sack of wheat. Once, Hassan had carried him on his shoulders.

  I don’t know, Hassan said. Anywhere. Wherever those leaving Afghanistan go. It’s a country of exiles, of migrating swallows. They all must find someplace to rest. You will, too.

  Unlike Omid, Hassan was bitter and wise. He worked for an old Tajik in a shop that made fences, welding and cutting and polishing until the sections were ready for display. Out in the sunlight, their chrome finish stung the eye. This was the best life that Hassan could hope for, the best life that his sons could hope for, and he chewed that pebble until his back teeth hurt.

  Did you hear the news? the old Tajik said, as Hassan came in.

  No, what news?

  More schoolgirls poisoned. What’s this world coming to? Don’t leave your fingerprints on the metal. Wipe them off. Yesterday a customer complained.

  All right.

  No one wants grease on their shiny new fence. That’s what they buy, Hassan. The shine, not the fence. We shine them so bright you can see the future in them.

  Yes, Jamshed.

  The fence says, You can keep death and misfortune out. Away from you and your family. You’re rich, so rich you can have a fence like this, and you’re not just rich, you’re safe. You’ll live longer than people without fences. All you have to do is spend a few thousand afghanis. What’s money, anyway, when death comes knocking? Besides, I’m brighter than silver. If Hassan hasn’t covered me in fingerprints.

  I’ll be more careful.

  But you and I know that’s a lie.

  Sorry?

  The truth: we have no future. Not me, not you. Not anyone.

  Jamshed scratched his gray-haired ear.

  Maybe the politicians. Maybe the very, very rich. But apart from them? Death comes whe
n it wants to. Any day, there will be a bomb, or a bullet with your name on it, and you’ll go to God.

  But if you run far enough, Hassan said.

  Even if you run all the way to Pakistan, death will find you. My cousin says they’re kidnapping men right off the street. Better if I die in my homeland, he said. So he came home.

  But if you go as far as Australia—

  Where’s that? Jamshed said.

  Somewhere past India.

  No, no. Death will find you anywhere. This isn’t a fairy tale, Hassan. Pay a witch for a charm, say your prayers—save your money. Live realistically. And wipe your fingerprints off the finish.

  So it looks like none of us ever existed and God Himself created this fence.

  That’s it exactly. That’s what we sell.

  Chapter Eight

  The boredom, Nasima announced, was worse than the sharks. They had seen the fins at a distance the previous day, but now the water held only plastic bottles, chip bags, and snarls of seaweed.

  Firuzeh volunteered that she preferred boredom.

  Coward.

  They were trapped by each other’s legs and shoulders, prickly with splinters and stinging salt flakes. Atay and Abay took turns retching over the side from the boat’s rolling and pitching. They had eaten fruit and Indomie noodles for three whole days. Then the fruit was gone, and they ate Indomie noodles day in and day out.

  Firuzeh, promise me—

  No.

  At least hear me out!

  Fine. But the answer’s still probably no.

  Promise me that wherever you go, you’ll stay in touch.

  Will they split us up?

  I don’t know.

  Okay.

  Okay what?

  I promise.

  Even if we end up on opposite sides of Australia. Write, or call, or send a pigeon or something.

  We could end up as neighbors.

  If you come to Perth. Which you should. It’s the best place in Australia.

  You’ve never been to Perth.

  My brothers live there, stupid. And they told me about it. What do you know?

  That you don’t have many friends.

  I’m too smart, that’s why! Anyway, I have you. And I promise you won’t get rid of me. Even if you move to the worst place in Australia. Even if you move to Adelaide.