On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  The bleary-eyed postdoc put her head around the corner. “What is that mysterious, magnificent smell?”

  “Grace’s students made her takeaway.”

  Grace said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in the lab?”

  “It’s a twelve-hour experiment. I’ll bike in at midnight to turn off the cameras. So: a nap.”

  “At 8 p.m.?”

  “We’ve all made poor life decisions.”

  “What are you filming?” Olivia said.

  “Zebrafish blastulas.”

  “I’m sorry I asked.”

  Grace said, “Come try some of this.”

  Kylie licked a sauced spoon, then piled up a plate. “Did I hear Hannah say your students cooked this?”

  Hannah said, “Some refugees in Dandy. Grace is tutoring EAL.”

  “Refugees can afford to give away food?”

  Grace flushed. “I don’t know. It happened so fast. One minute we were talking articles—a, the—those don’t exist in Persian, did you know?”

  “Weird,” Olivia said.

  “The next thing I know, I have all this food in my hands. And I’m outside and she’s saying goodnight. Mrs Daizangi, I mean.”

  “A likely story,” Kylie said.

  “You’re right, though. I shouldn’t be taking from them. This won’t happen again.”

  “Boo,” Olivia said.

  Hannah said, “But what if they’re insistent and forceful and stuff?”

  “Then I’ll be insistent and forceful back.”

  “Really,” Kylie said, “if you think about it, we should be cooking food for them.”

  The four women in the kitchen thought about it.

  “Nah,” Hannah said.

  “No time,” Kylie said.

  Olivia said, “You all say my cooking’s inedible.”

  “My hands are full with tutoring,” Grace said. “Besides, I didn’t ask about allergies. Here, Olivia, the washing-up is yours.”

  “You’ve exploited a starving uni student. I hope you’re proud.”

  “Prouder than a rooting wallaby.”

  “Agh,” Hannah said. “Some brain bleach, please.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say a wallaby rooting a roo—”

  “Now you did. Pass the dish soap, Livvy. Two gulps and I’ll be in a better place.”

  “You mean a blonder place.”

  “No, that’s bleach,” Kylie said. “Olivia, give me the detergent, I’ll lock it up until Hannah’s urges pass . . .”

  “Wallabies,” Hannah groaned. “You’re a wicked woman, Nguyen.”

  “Excuse me, who tutored refugees today? And whose arse was on the sofa watching Australian Idol?”

  “We get it, we get it,” Olivia said, slapping Grace’s palm. “Here’s your halo. Get outta here.”

  “Wait, you went out with Peter yesterday,” Hannah said. “We haven’t squeezed you for details yet.”

  “Ooh, Peter.”

  “Time to get back to the lab,” Kylie said.

  “There’s still three and a half hours to midnight,” Grace said.

  “The lab’s quiet,” Kylie said, casting her eyes upward. “Unlike here.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Olivia said. “You’re not getting out of this.”

  Hannah said, “Did he take you to Nando’s? Did you walk on St Kilda beach?”

  Olivia said, “He has freckles. You into that?”

  “Bye!” Kylie called. The door shut. A bicycle bell jingled.

  Olivia racked the last of the plastic containers, wiped her wet hands on the front of her jeans, then pulled a drawer open and fished out a torch. She swung the beam across Grace’s eyes.

  “Is Peter Winkler a charming bloke? Or a wanker? You have thirty seconds.”

  “Olivia—” Grace closed her eyes against the light.

  Hannah said, “Should I tie her up? Is Peter into ropes and things? There’s a roll of twine in that drawer, right?”

  “Olivia. Hannah. This isn’t funny.”

  “Nah, this is hilarious.”

  “Put the torch down.”

  “Geez, Grace.”

  Hannah said, “Grace. Chill out. Calm down.”

  “Fuck off, all of you.” Grace grabbed the torch, tossed it back into the drawer, and slammed the drawer with enough force to rattle the dishes.

  “Sorry—”

  “I said fuck off!” She elbowed through them. The door to her room shut with a satisfying crash.

  Behind her, she could hear Olivia saying, “What was that about?”

  Grace took a deep breath and went to her desk. Touched the photos of family: Mum, Dad, their chubby boxer. A galaxy of relatives. Here and there an uncle or aunt who’d gone missing. Taken for questioning, her má told Grace. Tied to a chair. Torches shining in their eyes. Then her má’s face emptied, and she wouldn’t say anything more.

  “Thanks,” Grace said to the photos. For taking the boats. For fighting. For lying. For not giving way. For living. For dying. For working thirteen and fourteen-hour days in a milk bar in Footscray before moving to the hills. For the long-distance phone calls and occasional awkward visits, when Grace was suddenly the rich and pampered relative, her skin unmarked, her scars unseen.

  Thanks seemed utterly insufficient.

  “Xin cảm ơn,” she added, but that wasn’t right either.

  Her family gazed out at her from their red frames. A debt was a debt was a debt unpaid.

  She would call her parents in the morning, before class. Ask again, fruitlessly, about the blanked-out years. When you hit me, what were you afraid of? When you screamed at me, your face red, your mind far away, what did you see? What happened to you, má and ba, in the unspoken time?

  What happened to me?

  Chapter Seven

  After her first visit, their English tutor had argued Abay down to a single container. As she left their tenth session with a covered bowl of stew, Atay said, his forehead all ravines: Bahar. You can’t keep doing this.

  But she’s so skinny!

  And your own children, are they well fed? What about your husband, who works all day?

  She’s a guest, Omid. And our teacher. Where’s your gratitude?

  Where’s my gratitude? Where’s our money, you mean. Lamb is not cheap. Tomatoes in winter—

  And soccer fees, Firuzeh said, finishing a problem in long division.

  The league’s over, Nour said.

  She butters you up, that’s what she does. Going on and on about the flavour in your kebabs, how—what was the word?—silky your cream sauces are. Shameless. Doesn’t she have a mother of her own?

  If she does, that woman’s not feeding her right. She’ll never get married at this rate.

  Maybe the Vietnamese like their wives to be thin.

  If she likes my cooking, Omid, is that such a problem? Do you know what our children say to me? Can’t I have sandwiches instead? Or: Can I have two dollars to buy a meat pie?

  That was Nour, Firuzeh said. Leave me out of this.

  They don’t know what good food is. Grace knows.

  I know when she walks out of here, half the meat in the fridge walks out with her.

  That was once.

  If you’re so set on having a pet, I’ll buy you some birdseed.

  I want a pet, Nour said. I want a kangaroo.

  Firuzeh said, Did anyone ever ask me if I wanted a brother?

  We can keep it in the backyard, but then it might kick down our clothes.

  Because the answer is no. But nobody asked.

  The sheets, at least. The rest are too high.

  Firuzeh said: What are you babbling about, Nour?

  The clothes hoist. Do you think a roo could get at it?

  I think a roo kicked out your brains.

  Listen, Abay said. I open and deal with all the bills—

  Firuzeh said: You mean, Ya Firuzeh, come translate this!

  Yes, thank you, Firuzeh. You do a good job.<
br />
  This was true, even if Firuzeh rolled her eyes every time Abay asked. She read the words aloud: Thirty days overdue. Penalties assessed. Outstanding balance. Thirty-four dollars and fifty-six cents. Fifty-two dollars and twenty cents.

  The disasters were subtle but heaped up like snow. A form filled out incorrectly or sent with too few stamps. An overdraft. A parking ticket. A rent cheque that strayed into the glove compartment. An overflowing garbage bin and the crows that gathered and croaked for weeks after the rubbish was hauled away.

  Abay spent hours on the phone with their landlord, bank, and utilities, stretching her English vocabulary until it snapped, then continuing in Dari, to the discomposure of the other person on the line. As Abay paced and parleyed, winding the phone cord around her finger, Firuzeh waited in an agony of expectation for the inevitable: Firuzeh! Explain for me!

  Sometimes, aji maji la taraji, the fee disappeared, the owed sum diminished, an extension was granted or a payment plan arranged, and Abay hung up the phone triumphant. See?

  See what, Firuzeh would say.

  What your Abay can do with nothing at all.

  Then why are you so wasteful? Atay said. I work all day. What do you do?

  Cook for ungrateful people.

  You watch TV.

  Clean up the dirt that you track in.

  You spend my money.

  I watch our children.

  You give their food to strangers.

  What do you want me to do, Omid?

  I want us to survive. That’s what I want. Tomorrow we’ll start looking for a job for you. These offices downtown, they need to be cleaned. I’ll ask around.

  You want me to work? Who will watch Firuzeh and Nour?

  I will. Those offices are cleaned at night.

  By this point, Firuzeh had read a single sentence in her history book at least twenty times. The letters peeled off the page and danced like insects in front of her eyes.

  In some ways they were poorer in Australia than in Kabul, even though Atay earned more as assistant mechanic than he ever had owning his own repair shop. Here, money evaporated, or was nibbled and pecked to nothing by impersonal, automatic rules. One day late: a fee. The wrong address: a fee. Here, people were reluctant to wait for payment. In Kabul, no one had very much, but there were neighbours and relations to beg for favours or a handful of rice. There were periodic hawala transfers from Iran.

  Omid, I could ask my parents—

  During the war, I would have done anything. Anything for bread for you and the children. Never again.

  So you took her money and hated her.

  I heard the things she said to you. Your cousin in Tehran with steady construction work, don’t you wish you had married him instead? While I cried and kissed feet to turn the rifle away. To come home alive. To come home to you.

  That’s the way mothers are. If I asked—

  This is Australia. All your father’s tomans, how much are they worth here? Nothing. They’re worth spit.

  Don’t be angry, Nour said. Atay, I can work—

  All right, Abay said. I’ll go find a job. Now I know what your sweet words and promises are worth. Less than one toman. Less than my spit.

  She wrung out a dishcloth and flapped it dry, then strode into the bedroom and shut the door.

  Your mother! Atay said, spreading out his hands.

  Can we eat now? Firuzeh said.

  Nour said, Is Abay not eating dinner?

  Yes, you can. No, she’s not.

  Firuzeh paid strict attention to her plate. The food in her mouth was gravel and dust. The rice was somehow hard and dry, the qorma watery on the tongue. Anger, strong as asafoetida, perfused the food’s flavour. Deadened the tongue. Sulphured every molecule of air.

  Nour chewed with a similarly suffering expression.

  Atay, Nour said, after their plates were empty, aren’t you going to eat?

  Maybe later. I’m not hungry now.

  Long after both Firuzeh and Nour were in bed, they could hear Atay’s footsteps traversing the length of the flat: all the way to the front door, a pivot, then back. For a minute he stood silent before his own bedroom door. Shifting from foot to foot. Waiting. But that door did not open. So back he went. Back and forth and back and forth, until their eyes shut, and they slept.

  Weeks of phone calls and inquiries later, Abay started leaving dinner on the stove before taking a bus to a cluster of office buildings off Princes Highway.

  It’s not too bad, Abay told Firuzeh, as Firuzeh dabbed Vaseline on her cracked knuckles.

  You’re bleeding.

  My skin is dry. That’s all. They have gloves, but the cleaning fluid still gets in. And sometimes I tear holes in them. Anyway, there are other women there, so I’m not alone. Rajani, for example. She’s very—very—

  An eloquent hesitation.

  Firuzeh said, I know someone like that.

  At school? I want to hear—but the time—

  Atay came in, tossing down his keys.

  Bahar, I heard bad news at work—

  Tell me later, I’m going to miss my bus.

  Atay turned to watch her go, his eyebrows tenting together. Bahar—

  We have bills to pay, she said. Goodbye.

  The flyscreen slapped shut. Winter leaked into the room. Sighing, Atay closed and locked the door.

  Firuzeh. Nour.

  Yes, Atay? the two of them said together.

  Are you doing your homework?

  Yes, Atay.

  Good. Do you want a story?

  Firuzeh said: No.

  Nour said: Yes.

  I’m too old for stories, Firuzeh said.

  Well, one day among days, the mullah Nasruddin paraded his donkey through the market. He has fleas! he said. And bad breath! And a temper! He snores and kicks! Someone said, How much are you asking for him? Oh no, the mullah said, he’s not for sale. I wanted you to see what I have to deal with.

  Atay, Nour said, you told us that a week ago. And the week before that.

  Did I?

  Yes, Firuzeh said. And the week before that.

  She shuffled her papers together and went into her room. Spring was breaking, leaf by bud, galahs and crested cockatoos loud in their finery. In the high window of the room, a grey light lingered.

  Nasima sat on Firuzeh’s bed.

  Shove over, Firuzeh said, setting her books down. Oh no. This is wet, you made everything wet—

  Firuzeh, aren’t you happy to see me?

  Things are different, Nasima. I have friends again. We have a home.

  I heard you screaming in your dreams, so I walked to you across the sea.

  Everyone has nightmares—

  Coral cut my feet. Whales swallowed me. But fine, this isn’t a nightmare. You don’t need me. Nasima gestured at the blank white walls.

  You think this story is over. Everyone feasts and goes home. Happily ever after, job, car, and flat.

  She unwound a twig of coral from her shining black hair and stuck it in her mouth. It isn’t real, Firuzeh. It’s a big, pretty dream. A painted balloon in a razor-wire world.

  It feels real.

  Dreams always do from the inside. Tell me what’s real.

  This mattress is real. This carpet is real.

  Wrong. They’re not real. I’m real. Khalil’s real. Where’s Khalil? Did you forget about Khalil? Do you only remember when you close your eyes?

  He was in Baxter. Maybe they let him out.

  Yeah, and maybe they gave him a sports car and two baskets of roses.

  Mia’s real. Shirin’s real.

  Am I real, Firuzeh?

  —

  Tell me. Say that I’m real.

  No.

  Tell me—

  The doorknob turned, and Nour came in. He sniffed the air.

  Were you crying in here?

  Do I look like it?

  No, your eyes turn red and fat. But— He patted the blanket where Nasima had been. This is wet. So you must have b
een crying, even if your eyes don’t look like it. I’m sorry Abay and Atay are so mad.

  At least they’re not angry with me. Or you.

  Nour sat down. I hate it. It feels like I’m stuck in bitumen and can’t run away. And something’s panting and snuffling and waiting to eat me. Firuzeh, do you get bad dreams?

  Maybe. I don’t always remember. Why?

  The sky outside had darkened to ink. Somewhere, Abay polished a toilet, worked the wringer of a mop bucket, vacuumed a floor.

  I always have this dream. Someone’s hurt, he’s calling, he’s alone and afraid, but I can’t see him . . .

  That’s awful.

  If I run really fast and do all the drills, it tires me out, and then I don’t dream. But the next league doesn’t start until spring.

  Running helps? Firuzeh said, curious.

  Yeah, you should run around sometime. Instead of whispering in a corner with all those girls.

  You mean Mia and Shirin.

  I mean, come play handball with us. I’ll beat you. Everyone will laugh.

  That’s why I can’t, Firuzeh said.

  Chapter Eight

  It was summer, nearly Christmas, which meant barbecues. The Richmond Refugee Community Centre held theirs in a park. This once, at Sister Margaret’s insistence, Abay drove the car while Atay sat in the passenger seat. Bright yellow L stickers were pasted to the car’s front and back. Despite Atay’s complaints, she didn’t so much as graze a kerb, although she drove so slowly the cars around them honked.

  The air was fragrant with Abay’s lamb kebabs, scorched hot dogs, and sausages splitting with oil. Firuzeh and Nour ate kebabs folded in bread, palao, and more kebabs, and drank cola and cordials until they felt sleepy and sick.

  But the moment Mo produced a soccer ball, Nour sprang to his feet, gluttony forgotten, and skipped and gambolled after him.

  While no one was paying attention, Firuzeh clambered into a tree and lay down on a branch. The leaves shook and shone. The sky was bright. She might have fallen asleep right there, rocked by the wind, but as her eyelids began to flutter, Atay and another man stopped under the tree.

  —not renewing TPVs. Have you heard anything?

  Ali Reza shrugged, palms up. Stories. Mostly single men. The government saying, Afghanistan’s safe. You can go home now. You know, that old lie.

  They wouldn’t deport a family—

  Who knows, except God?