On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

Firuzeh said: Nasima.

  I’ll tell you a secret, the drowned girl said.

  Nasima pulled a pearl from under her tongue and rolled it between her fingers.

  Your parents can’t save you. And you can’t save them.

  Liar.

  Tell me how you’ll save Abay. Tell me how Abay could possibly save you. When the waves are high and the boat is spinning, spinning . . .

  Just because your mother let go doesn’t mean—

  The sharks eat the bodies, Nasima said. So many boats. So many storms. For a little while the bodies float. Then they sink. But they never reach the bottom.

  But you survived, Firuzeh said. And Abay will get out. We’ll make it to Australia.

  Nasima said: Mothers, lovers, little boys, old men, uncles. All drowned. All falling. The storm water roils, rough and high, but below that you fall slowly. Flesh fraying. Traps of white teeth tearing and taking.

  Firuzeh said: You’re telling a story.

  I saw what I saw.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Breakfast, variously glutinous and stale, had no appeal for any of them. They went to the mess tent out of habit, Firuzeh thumbing the white pebble she’d found under her pillow.

  Atay sat like a stone.

  Firuzeh tore and mashed her bread and pushed the pieces around her plate.

  Nour rolled bread pellets and flicked them off his spoon. One bounced off of Firuzeh’s nose.

  Feery-zeery, what are you doing today?

  Catching a big beetle and pulling off its wings.

  Can I help?

  No, go catch your own.

  Nour swelled up. Then I’ll catch a turtle.

  What do you want with a turtle?

  All kinds of things. I can build a twig city on the back of its shell. Flip it so it kicks upside down in the air. Hide it in Atay’s clothes so he yells. And when you come asking if you can play with it too, I’ll tell you to go catch your own.

  You better hurry up and start looking, then.

  You watch. Hey, Khalil! Let’s find a turtle! Atay, can I go?

  Atay blinked. Half a nod. Nour shot off.

  Azad, whose beard was full of crumbs, leaned over the long table and said, Remember that God is merciful. To me and to you.

  Does this look like mercy?

  What is and isn’t mercy is determined by God.

  Tell that to Bahar. Do you dare? What they’ve done to her, what they’re doing now, I can’t imagine—I don’t want to. All night and all day I’ve been trying not to think.

  All God wants is for us to submit.

  Haven’t I submitted? Hasn’t my whole life been one punch in the mouth after another? At what point am I allowed to fight?

  Never, Azad said. But justice comes in its own time.

  You’ve gone mad, Atay said. It’s the weather. This heat.

  I’ll leave you alone. Only—Omid—please, don’t jump the guards. I can see it in your face. There’s a look a man gets. They’ll bring Bahar back, and you’ll be gone. What would be the good in that?

  There’s no good anywhere. Not in heaven. Not on earth.

  Firuzeh cleared her throat.

  Besides my children, Atay amended, ruffling her hair. Weren’t you going to find a beetle?

  Do beetles eat this bread, Atay?

  They’re all this bread is good for. So, why not? What’ll you do when you catch it, janam?

  Lock it up in Segregation.

  Atay stared. What?

  A plastic bag, maybe, or one of Nour’s shoes.

  Why?

  I need to know if it escapes. If Abay—

  I advise you to keep your mind off it, Azad said.

  Shit on your mother, what do you think I’ve been trying to do? Be a good girl, Firuzeh, and look after Nour.

  I’m always good, Firuzeh huffed, and went.

  Five beetles later, their lacquered shards and comb-toothed legs littering the ground around her, Firuzeh heard the rattle and wheeze of the bus. She left her sixth victim twitching three-legged in the dust and ran.

  Fast as she was, Atay was faster. By the time she reached the bus, he had Abay supported on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her.

  Nour careened into them, tripping Atay. He pushed his wet face into Abay’s skirt. Part of Firuzeh wished to do the same. But she was grown and good.

  Abay did not look at them.

  We’ve learned a lesson today, haven’t we, a blonde guard said with a smile.

  Quick as a snake, Nour lunged at her. His nails clawed at the coarse cloth of her uniform without finding purchase. He sat, sank his teeth in her leg, and held on.

  She screamed.

  Firuzeh laughed.

  Other guards came running, radios fizzing, nightsticks out. Firuzeh bent to Nour, who bounced and jolted as the guard kicked, and wrapped her arms around him.

  Let go! she shrieked in English, pretending to pull. In Dari, she whispered to him: Hang on tight.

  The first blow stung her shoulder like a wasp.

  The second thumped into her ribs.

  The third swing cracked against her skull. Her arms went slack, and she spilled sideways into the dirt.

  They pulled Nour off without their batons. One brown guard jammed his thumb under Nour’s jaw, and Nour let go, his eyes glittering with tears.

  The blonde guard would not stop yowling.

  Get me to Medical, I need an airlift!

  Let me see, the brown guard said, kneeling.

  Radio it in—these fucking monkeys—you saw that, you saw it.

  Yep, he said, inspecting the marks under her rolled-up pant leg. You’ve got some nice bruises.

  Bruises? He bit me! Like a bloody dingo!

  You’re lucky he didn’t break the skin. Want me to bite him back?

  He bared his big white teeth at Nour, who shrank away.

  Come on, Beth. Let’s get you some ice.

  Ice? Kiss my arse! I’m going to need stitches!

  She limped away, swearing, on the brown guard’s arm. Another guard spat at Atay. A fourth pinched Abay’s rear, good and hard.

  Think she’s a good root for a monkey? Seeing as the kids came out all monkey—

  What I think, Quentin, is that she’d be a good root for you.

  Aw, lay off! I’ve got Ella at home, you know that.

  Your loss.

  When they had walked out of earshot, Atay fixed his black, burning eyes on Nour.

  Next time, bite harder.

  Yes, Atay. I will.

  Abay was feverish and shivering when they got her onto her bunk. The Sri Lankan woman lifted the dividing sheet and scowled at them.

  Sick, she said, pointing.

  Yes, Atay said.

  Bad, she said. Get guards.

  No.

  She gestured again at Abay, then held up her own frail son, who was three years too young to be of interest to Nour. His bright, curious gaze danced over their room.

  She said: Guard. Sick.

  No, Atay said. Sorry.

  The sheet dropped, hiding them.

  This time you bite the guard, Nour said to Firuzeh.

  What did it taste like?

  Egh.

  She poked him, and he poked back harder. Now and then they snuck a glance over at Abay. Her presence was somehow worse than her absence. The sound she made was thin, high, and terrible.

  Sleep, Atay said, stroking Abay’s hair, but the sound went on and on and on.

  Puffy little mountains of mosquito bites covered Abay’s face and arms and feet, every inch of skin that was visible, down to her soles. Some had bubbled and wept golden pus. Some were crusted and caked with blood.

  After a while, the sound guttered to syllables.

  Hush, Atay said. There’ll be time to talk later.

  Abay said: Firuzeh.

  Yes, Abay?

  Twisting to reach behind her, Abay produced from the waistband of her skirt a pristine pair of white leatherette shoes. They were decorated with two p
ink punched flowers apiece.

  Thank you, Abay.

  Do . . .

  A long breath, indrawn.

  Do they fit?

  Firuzeh laid the new shoes in her lap. She stuck a hand in each and spread out her fingers.

  Yes, Abay, she said. They fit.

  Good . . .

  Abay turned her face away.

  You should sleep, Atay said.

  Firuzeh stuck out her right foot and made the old shoe’s split seam talk. Her toes waggled like eels in its mouth. Yes, sleep, the shoe said. It’ll all be okay.

  I don’t believe you, she told her shoe, and slung it off. It soared halfway across the tent, over the billowing sheet.

  On the other side, the Sri Lankan boy started to cry.

  That night, the monsoon rains began.

  Rain palpitated the canvas roof and seeped in through a thousand holes. Nour’s mattress poured a waterfall when he sat up on its edge.

  I’m wet.

  Firuzeh said: You donkey.

  My blanket is wet.

  Abay’s voice floated out of the darkness like words spoken in a dream.

  Omid, do you remember Istalif in the spring?

  Climb down, Nour, Atay said. It’s drier below.

  But I don’t want him! Firuzeh protested. Egh, Nour, you’re wet!

  That’s what I told you. Now who’s a donkey?

  The arghawan in blossom, that bloomed through the war.

  A brief, sodden struggle. Then her blanket was Nour’s.

  Hey, give that back!

  Atay said: Firuzeh.

  Nour said: Well, mine’s all wet.

  Purple on the hills and purple by the stream. And everyone picnicking on blankets.

  Atay said: Firuzeh, stop hitting Nour.

  Look! These are my hands! It’s him hitting me!

  I can’t see. Atay sighed. Is it wrong to wish for a headcount? It’s probably wrong.

  Those shitheads won’t come out in this stuff, Firuzeh said. They’ll tick off our numbers and say that they did.

  Where did you learn a word like that?

  From the shitheads, Atay. That’s what they say when they see us.

  She said it, Nour said. She said it. Not me.

  A longer sigh.

  The rain dripped down.

  If we all settle in, maybe some of us can sleep—

  Ow!

  Firuzeh said, indignant: You can’t punch me and say ow!

  Yes I can! I just did!

  Idiot!

  Ow!

  I remember the boys selling tulips by the road.

  Did I buy you a bunch? Atay asked the darkness.

  No. I wished for them, but the bus never stopped.

  Chapter Twenty

  Decisions arrived with a break in the rain.

  Here and there the dusty ground had turned to ankle-deep wallows of rainwater and mud. Coming back from the ablutions block, Firuzeh stepped barefoot into one such pool, new shoes in her hand. Above her, a white bird with a scarlet thread of a tail dropped the small fish it held in its beak, which fell twisting and gleaming into the pool. A swift silver thing it was, no longer than her finger, darting in and out of the clouds of silt that Firuzeh stirred up with her feet.

  She wadded up her skirt, squatted, and combed the water with her fingers. No luck. Her movements had turned the water opaque.

  Fish puddle, she told herself, measuring its distance to the camp’s single tree. The rows of dull tents pattering with rain were too uniform to mark her spot.

  The rains, they had heard, would continue for months.

  She’d put the fish in a bowl and feed it white bread. Little by little, the fish would grow.

  A fish clock, she thought. Or a fish calendar. How much time since. Until. And when.

  As Firuzeh approached her family’s tent, the migration agent passed with quick, sticky steps. His face was fixed forward with such firmness, he almost trampled her.

  Inside, Atay held a soft, sagging letter.

  Firuzeh, you read this.

  Nour said, The words are hard.

  She took the damp page and held it against the triangle of pewtery light admitted through the tent’s entrance.

  We’re Afghan, she said.

  What? Of course we are. What kind of letter is this?

  They’re saying they know we are Afghan now. And Hazara. And not lying.

  Did they think—?

  Abay said, All liars think others are lying.

  Atay said, Well. Some refugees might have lied. I could see a Pashtun lying. So this is a good letter. They know we told the truth.

  Firuzeh said, They’ll give us each two thousand dollars.

  Two thousand dollars!

  And plane tickets—

  Do you hear this, Bahar!

  —back to Kabul.

  For a long time, no one spoke.

  There were faint shouts outside. Other letters. Other slow and halting translations.

  This letter says that Afghanistan is safe. It says, go home. They’ll give us the money if we sign an agreement. Sign, go away, and never come back.

  Two thousand dollars, Abay said, won’t pay for one grave.

  Bahar—

  It’s the truth.

  Nour said, So when are we going to Australia?

  Never, Firuzeh said. We’ll die on this rock.

  There must be something, Atay said. I’ll speak to the agent.

  Outside, in the quicksilver, possible light, men and women held letters, comparing the words.

  We have failed to verify—

  Consider the probability of falsification high—

  Regret to inform you—

  No possibility of return.

  Some still had spirit enough to wail. Most were silent.

  Abay shuffled out of the tent, shading her eyes with one hand. Her hair was a jumble, her scarf stained and askew. She had not left her bed in days. All over her hands and face the bites had scabbed over with dry yellow crystals.

  Come, Firuzeh.

  Firuzeh followed, splashing from puddle to puddle, as Abay made her way between the tents.

  At least your Atay and I have you two. The Shahsevanis have nothing at all.

  Nasima said she had brothers. What happened to them?

  We don’t know. The phone numbers don’t work anymore. They haven’t been able to reach them for months. And now this—Delruba will go out of her mind. Don’t remind her of Nasima. Don’t speak. Don’t smile.

  So why am I coming?

  Abay’s shoulders slumped. Because I’m your mother. And Atay’s gone to find the agent.

  When they reached the Shahsevanis’ tent, which was identical to every other tent around it, Abay lifted the flap and waved Firuzeh through.

  The Shahsevanis sat on opposite ends of the lower of their two bunks, facing away from each other.

  Delruba said, Good morning, Bahar. I wish I had tea. Isn’t that the worst? Even during the war, I had tea for my friends. Even if it was only one leaf. At least we have a chair.

  Abay said, Did you get your letter?

  You just missed the agent. It was strange. He was smiling. I couldn’t come earlier, he said. The rain held me up. But now you know.

  How odd. But these people, their jobs must make them odd. Saying Go home and die to us every day. So your letter: did they offer you two thousand dollars too?

  Two thousand, what a fortune. Is that what your letter says?

  They’ll give us two thousand each to go back to Kabul.

  Oh, shameless, shameless. No, I was a fool. Can you read this letter? the agent said. My daughter can translate it, I said. She won an award for her English at school. Then I remembered. The look he gave me split my heart like an apricot.

  Firuzeh, come here! She can translate, Abay said.

  Firuzeh, dragging foot behind foot, held out her hand for the folded letter.

  Go on, Abay said. What does it say?

  I have to read it in English fi
rst.

  Nasima would have translated it already. She won two prizes for English at school, you know.

  Firuzeh ignored this. She marked each word with her finger.

  Mr. Rahmatullah Shahsevani and Mrs. Delruba Shahsevani—

  I understood that, Delruba said.

  We are pleased to inform you tat your apple-ications have been per-ocessed and apper-o-rooved. You have received A-S-I-O cul-earance and may enter Austeralia—

  She squinted at the words she knew, then at the words she didn’t.

  So?

  Be patient, Delruba, Agha Shahsevani said. Can’t you see the girl is doing her best?

  —An I-O-M agent will assist wit arrangements.

  Take your time, Abay said.

  I think— Firuzeh said.

  Yes?

  I think you are going to Australia.

  Something dry and dead in Delruba’s expression cracked to pieces. For the first time that Firuzeh could remember since the boat, Delruba looked around her, truly looked, as if seeing for the first time the bolted steel beds and the tent and her husband, whose hand fumbled along the bunk until it found hers.

  Janam, did you hear her?

  His tight, taut brows loosened into uncertainty.

  I did, but does she really know? We have to ask somebody else—

  Leaning on each other, uncertain and slow, they rose from their rest and walked into the world.

  Abay stared at Firuzeh. They could hear Mr. Shahsevani’s voice through the tent.

  Hey, Abdul Hakim! Can you read English?

  No, but this Iraqi, Mr. Sadiq Ali, can.

  But I don’t speak Arabic!

  That’s all right. He’ll smile if you’ve been rejected, and cry and praise God if you’ve been accepted.

  An anxious pause.

  Alhamdulillah!

  What about this letter?

  Mr. Sadiq Ali, read this one!

  Outside, men bellowed, stomped, and shouted; women ululated. Someone sang.

  Abay arose like one in a trance and fought blindly with the tent’s cloth until it gave way. Firuzeh, forgotten, slipped out after.

  Wherever the good letters had fallen like stars, souls flashed forth from formerly blank faces. People danced in puddles, muddy to their waists. Kissed each other. Clasped hands. Spoke tenderly. Wept.

  Not once on the long walk back to their tent did Abay remember Firuzeh.

  She scuttled along in her mother’s shadow, glaring at the revelers. She would spit if she spoke. Spit, scratch, and bite.