On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  You, Firuzeh said. That was you.

  What are you talking about? Nour said.

  Nasima said: Go on. Finish the story, Firuzeh jan.

  Nour said: What are you staring at? There’s nothing there.

  Firuzeh said, faltering, with one hand on her throat: He heard it from the galahs. The galahs are gossips and like to know the news, so they asked the magpies, who learned it from the crows. And when the boy heard, he curled up in the grass and cried, because now he had neither a family nor a home. All that crying brought black snakes out of the rocks.

  His bow! Nour said. Where is his bow?

  He dropped it when he heard the news. There it sat, just out of reach.

  Nasima said: Then the snakes—

  Then the snakes bit him on his feet, and the boy shuddered for several hours while the poison crept up to his heart. The stars looked down, and their eyes were cold.

  Nour stared at her, mouth open.

  I didn’t mean it, Firuzeh said. I didn’t.

  Nasima said, It’s realistic. And he had to hear it. Why not from you?

  You’re the worst, Nour said. He punched a cushion, kicked the doorframe, and slammed outside without his coat.

  What was that? Abay said.

  I dunno.

  He’s going to catch a cold.

  How is that my problem? Firuzeh said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The writer was American, barely out of uni, and between finding an international SIM and paying tram fares, she appeared to be entirely out of her depth. She was bunking in a hostel with veterinary students and subsisting for the moment on nothing but green apples and sharp cheese.

  Sister Margaret had privately decided that nothing was likely to come of this. A few phone calls and emails had raised her expectations, but the clumsy young woman she had picked up by car—a girl, really—vibrated with such nerves and embarrassment that her edges blurred.

  “But how did you pee when you were on the boat?” the writer asked the men they were visiting in Maribyrnong. Sister Margaret shut her eyes.

  “There was a bucket,” one man said. “Or over the side.”

  “Why did you run?” the writer said.

  “We were in danger.”

  “What is detention like?” the writer said.

  They looked at her, their faces grey.

  “It is hell,” one of them said eventually.

  “Like nothing. All day long.”

  “There is no point.”

  The writer jotted their words in a notebook, her forehead pinched. Both the notebook and the stamp on her wrist were red. The stamps marked them as visitors to the detention centre, where asylum seekers paced back and forth behind fences. Sister Margaret visited regularly, whenever she could get her hands on names, which were the keys to the buzzing doors of the detention centre. She brought cookies and cassoulets with her. You’re not forgotten, she told the men. We know you’re here. We know your names.

  “It’s time to go,” Sister Margaret said. “There’s one more visit we have to make.”

  They were headed to MITA in Broadmeadows, where single boys were kept, Sister Margaret said. She had saved a loaf of banana bread for them.

  Her car peeled onto the highway under a low sun.

  “You’ve done this forever,” the writer said.

  “Not forever. Though it does feel that way.”

  “How did you start?”

  “I had a calling,” Sister Margaret said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like hearing your name on the radio, when you’re alone on a cattle station, but someone far away still knows you’re there. And has something to tell you, urgently. Something to ask of you. Something you must do.”

  The writer said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me,” Sister Margaret said. “Why are you—an American—writing this book?”

  Several cars went by.

  “A good question,” the writer said finally. “I’ve asked myself the same thing many times.”

  “And?”

  “I want to say kindness, or righteous anger. That I’m fixing the world. But that wouldn’t be true.”

  A longer silence.

  “It won’t let me go,” the writer said. “Not until it’s done. And there’s nothing kind or unkind or noble or selfish about it. It simply is.”

  “Then you already know what it is to be called.”

  “All I understand is that I don’t understand.”

  Turning into the car park, Sister Margaret said, “Then you’re further along than most of us.”

  At MITA, the writer consulted her notes and peppered the young men with lists of questions. She scribbled so furiously that Sister Margaret, watching, felt her own hand cramp.

  “Where is your family? Do you miss them? Can you call?

  “Why did you leave?

  “What was your life like before?

  “What’s your life like now?

  “How is living here? Are you treated well?

  “How long have you waited?

  “When do you think they will let you go?”

  One boy quietly brought them toast on foam plates and foam cups of water. Nothing in that place was permanent—not the food, not the dinnerware, not the boys themselves. Sister Margaret knew that all too well.

  “That is enough for today,” she said.

  The writer said, “Are we going somewhere else?”

  They drove to the church that housed the Richmond Refugee Community Centre and walked down the steps to the basement.

  “This is Mrs Sorisho,” Sister Margaret said. “Samuel. Mohammed. And Grace.”

  “Glad to meet you,” the writer said.

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” Sister Margaret said.

  “It’s all right,” Mrs Sorisho said. “Here, take a plate. Sit down and eat.”

  The writer devoured the bread and chickpeas and soup with the voraciousness of someone who had been trying to live on apples.

  “Where are you from?” she said.

  “Why did you come here?

  “How bad was it?”

  Sister Margaret rubbed the back of her neck, wishing for her small room at St Kilda Sanctuary, with its fresh white sheets on the bed and wildflowers in a blue glass bottle. But she saw very little of that neat, clean room. When she wasn’t showing a tactless American around, she was meeting with solicitors and placing calls to whichever MPs she thought might listen.

  “The government had your phone lines tapped?

  “What do you do now?

  “Have you seen your son at all? In photos, even?”

  “No,” Samuel said. “Never. He’s two years old. I drive a forklift—I move pallets of fruit. It was very bad. They were always listening.”

  Mrs Sorisho said, “You’re a writer. Good. You will write about this?”

  Mohammed said, grinning, “You must mention how smart and handsome I am.”

  “Because they should know—the Australian government should know—that we are human beings, that their rules hurt us—”

  “I’ll try,” the writer said, swallowing.

  There was additional business at the Centre that night: the organization of a fundraiser, along with schedules of detention centre visits and protests. When the writer began covering huge yawns, running one after the other like waves on the sea, Sister Margaret tapped her on the shoulder.

  “There’s a family you ought to meet, but they’re not here tonight. The Daizangis. They have the sweetest kids. How long are you staying?”

  “My flight’s in the morning.”

  “Too bad, then. Here, I’ll take you back to your hostel.”

  In the soft blue evening, bright shopfronts and streetlamps flickered past the car windows. The writer stared out, her head turned away. One thumb worried the notebook in her lap.

  “I asked the wrong questions, didn’t I?”

  “If I were you,” Sister Margaret said, “I’d have asked
about joy.”

  “Joy?”

  “When you have nothing and no reason to hope, when the odds are impossible and not one but two governments stand against you, how do you laugh? How do you see beauty? How do you still show kindness and love?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Anyone can suffer. But joy—that’s hard. Ask about joy.”

  “Next time,” the writer said, “I will.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Seven days before their scheduled deportation, Firuzeh came home to a puzzle of pots, pans, and containers on the kitchen counter and spread across the dastarkhan.

  Eat, Abay said in a voice like cut wire. There’s no use waiting.

  Abay’s eyes were swollen from crying, but this was no longer unusual. Firuzeh picked a careful path between pans to Abay and hugged her tight as she could. As her nose brushed the cloth of Abay’s blouse, she smelled a new odour, astringent and dry.

  Where’s Nour? Firuzeh said.

  At soccer practice.

  How lucky is that? Otherwise there’d be nothing left. Where did this come from, anyway? Did Sister Margaret tell people we were going to starve?

  Just eat, janam. Don’t ask questions today.

  Firuzeh opened a foil-wrapped bundle of bread and stuck a warm piece in her mouth.

  Arnh oo unger?

  I’ll eat later.

  Oo dohn wahn ee oo wayd?

  For Atay? No.

  Firuzeh lifted covers and sheets of foil and film. She piled her plate with eggplant, chicken, lamb, soups, stews, palao, sabzi, and more soft bread. The sound of her own chewing was loud in her ears. Abay stood by the window, hands crumpled together, looking everywhere and nowhere.

  After she had emptied her heaping plate, Firuzeh licked her fingers and said brightly into the silence: Nour will think he’s died and gone to heaven.

  Her mother’s chin jerked up.

  Firuzeh studied the labyrinth of pans, then hopped and skipped to the kitchen, plate in hand.

  Know how much I love you? I’m going to do homework. Even though there’s no point. It’s not like marks matter anymore.

  Abay picked up a dish towel and began to scrub an invisible stain in the countertop. Over and over. Her lips screwed tight. As if she was trying not to speak.

  An hour snailed past. Firuzeh’s pencil trekked through great white wastes, trailing grey nouns, verbs, and prepositions, but after a time she succumbed to boredom and began drawing diamonds and checkerboards.

  Outside, a car door slammed. Feet smacked the half-cracked pavers leading up to the flat. Then Nour’s nose, followed by the rest of him, burst in and swung like a compass needle to his stomach’s true north.

  A party! he yelped. Mum! When do we eat?

  Please, Abay said. Go right ahead.

  Fingers quivering above a kofta kebab, Nour froze.

  Abay, what did you say?

  I said, you can eat whenever you want.

  Nour wadded the kebab into his cheek, then stood on tiptoe and reached for Abay’s forehead. Firuzeh, I think Abay might be sick. Can you please check her temperature?

  Eat, Abay said, taking down a plate. Eat and don’t bother me right now.

  But I haven’t showered! Or washed my hands—

  I don’t care.

  Nour danced from side to side in an agony of indecision. Yes, but Atay cares, and he’ll be home soon. I’ll shower first. Thanks, mum!

  He vanished. They heard the spit of water on tile. Abay returned the plate to the cupboard and resumed an attitude of lifelessness.

  It was eight o’clock. Then eight thirty. Nour, clean, his wet hair uncombed, had demolished most of the cooling spread. Now he sprawled on the floor, plump and satisfied. The tick of the clock was sharp and loud.

  Nour said: Shouldn’t Atay be home by now?

  Abay, Firuzeh said, is something wrong?

  Nour said: Besides the bit where we’re being deported next week.

  Abay said, Atay’s not coming home.

  Where’d he go? Nour said. Did he run away? Did he steal my idea?

  Abay kneaded a fistful of skirt in each hand. Yes, Nour, she said at last. He did.

  Nour said: Good. Then I’ll find him when I run away, too.

  The doorbell squalled.

  Shirin’s mother stood outside with Shirin. The girls stared at each other through the wire mesh.

  I heard the news from Rahima, Shirin’s mother said, holding up a covered pan. I’m so sorry. I brought halwa. It was fate—what could he do? The car that fell was meant for him. Are you all right? Are the children all right? Are there insurance forms I can take care of for you?

  No, no, please come in, Abay managed. We’re fine.

  They arranged themselves around the halwa. No one reached forward to cut a piece.

  It’s too tragic, Shirin’s mother said. He wasn’t old. They should have noticed the wear on the hoist’s fluid lines. Ali Reza’s cousin is beside himself. As he should be. On top of the visa denials . . . Life has been so cruel to you. Will they postpone your deportations, do you think?

  I don’t know, Abay said.

  Nour said: Abay, what is she talking about?

  Now the three of you are alone. How sad it is!

  It’s okay, Nour said. Atay’s brave and smart. He’ll do better than I would out in the bush. No snakes will get him. He’ll be safe.

  Shirin’s gaze crawled from Firuzeh to Nour, then from Nour to Firuzeh. Shirin’s mother blinked at them.

  Have the children been overcome by grief? Your father is dead and was buried today. An accident at work. Bahar, did you—

  You’re lying, Nour said. You’re a liar. Or a mental patient. Abay, what is she doing in our home?

  My mum’s not a liar, Shirin said.

  Shirin’s mother said, not unkindly: Don’t be so blind. Why do you think all this food is here?

  I— Nour turned in a circle on his knees, taking in the mosaic of mismatched pans. No. Atay ran away. You’re wrong.

  Abay said: Nour. Enough.

  Tell her. Tell her she’s wrong.

  Shirin’s mother said: I find that telling children the truth from the start saves me a headache later.

  Why won’t you tell her she’s wrong? Nour shouted.

  Where are your manners, Firuzeh? Abay said. Pour Khanem Farrokhzad another cup of tea.

  Oh, no thank you, we’ll be going now. Shirin?

  Yes, maman.

  Firuzeh’s hands shook. The thermos she held slopped tea over its sides and scalded her fingers.

  Abay shut the door behind their guests.

  Firuzeh, put that halwa in the fridge.

  And the other food?

  Same thing. As much of it as you can fit.

  Nour said: Why didn’t you say anything to her?

  Abay sighed, stacked the empty cups and plates, and carried the dishes to the sink.

  In their bedroom, when the lights were out, Nour said, Was that girl a friend of yours? Her mother’s mean. A kos-e-fil.

  Firuzeh said, Nour. Atay is dead.

  Don’t tell me you believe her.

  Why would she lie?

  Why would Abay lie?

  To protect us, Firuzeh said. Then, after a long moment: That makes you the man of the house now.

  Across the room, Nour lay motionless.

  A slow, soft breath.

  Is it true? That Atay’s dead?

  Yes.

  Fuck.

  Nour—

  I don’t want to talk. I’m going to sleep.

  Nasima said: What a pity.

  Did you do this? Firuzeh hissed.

  Me? Who cursed her own father and told him to die? You got what you wanted.

  I didn’t want this!

  It certainly could have gone better.

  Give Atay back to me.

  I can’t do that. Besides, if you had to choose—Atay or home? Nour’s life, Abay’s, and yours, or his? I think I know what you wo
uld do.

  What kind of choice is that?

  One you didn’t have to make.

  Nour said: Firuzeh? Who are you talking to?

  Go look, Nasima said, in the garbage bin.

  Firuzeh slid the covers back. She padded barefoot down the hall, flicked the switch, and squinted in the harsh white light. Once her eyes adjusted, she dug into the garbage bin, past sauce and scrapings, tea leaves, apple cores, wet tissues. Her fingers closed on an odd black flake: a scrap of burnt paper.

  Then another.

  Then a third.

  The largest of these still showed pale blue ruling and the remnants of a pencilled word. Love—

  Down the hall, a door opened.

  Abay came into the kitchen, covering her eyes.

  What in the name of the merciful God—

  Firuzeh, up to her wrists in garbage, said: Atay left a note. Didn’t he.

  What?

  Firuzeh found a fourth cinder and placed it with the rest. Please, Abay. I’m old enough. And I know enough.

  Janam, you don’t know what you are doing.

  Abay stooped for the fragments and shredded them further, then plunged her closed fist into the garbage to bury them.

  There. Now let’s go wash our hands.

  The tap ran cold wakefulness over Firuzeh’s skin.

  Abay. Please tell me. Did he say why?

  Because he loved us. Atay wanted to die for us. You must never repeat this to anyone.

  Not even Nour?

  Nour especially.

  Firuzeh dried her hands on a dishcloth, turned, and looked into her brother’s eyes. Abay, rinsing eggshell from her arms, did not see.

  Nour pulled his blanket tight around him and retreated as soundlessly as he had arrived.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two days later, Nour did not come home.

  As far as anyone could figure, between music and maths, he had walked out of the school and into thin air.

  Abay called Firuzeh’s school and had her sent home.

  I’ve already talked to the police, she said. They’re looking. Everyone is looking. And for what? To deport him. It’s enough to make anyone give up on God.

  Her eyes were pouched, her shoulders caving.

  Firuzeh said: Should we look too?

  What’s the point? So he can be blown up or shot in Kabul? Abay laughed a hard and bitter laugh. The two of you will stick out there like diamonds in coal. You’ll die. We’ll all die. But maybe Nour has a chance, if he stays—