On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  Did you call Jake’s parents?

  They said they haven’t seen him.

  They would say that, though, wouldn’t they? If he was hiding there? Firuzeh reached for the phone. What’s their number?

  Jake’s mother said: Like I told your mum earlier, I don’t know a thing. But Jake’s home now. Let me put him on. Jake!

  So, you’re the sister, Jake said.

  Did Nour tell you anything?

  Some rubbish about going bush, and a volcano, and soccer. I thought he was kidding. I’d have stopped him. I swear.

  Firuzeh hung up the phone. Abay, I’m going out to look for him.

  Do whatever you want.

  Can I have five dollars?

  If you’re running away too, you’ll need more than five dollars.

  Abay, I won’t run away.

  Then don’t go too far.

  Nour was not in any of the parks within walking distance of his school. Firuzeh shouted his name until her voice cracked. There was no reply.

  Nasima said: You could walk for hours and never get to all the houses and yards and shops he might be hiding in.

  Are you here to gloat?

  Odd as it sounds, your story is important to mine.

  You’re a nightmare, aren’t you. That’s what’s happening. You’re jealous and hungry because you’re dead and I’m alive, so you’re eating me. Story by story, piece by piece. It’s because of you that Gulalai is gone, and Atay is dead, and Nour is missing. You and your help. I don’t want it. Go away.

  Say it three times and I will, Nasima said, her face dark and still. But listen a minute. Have you asked the jinn where your brother went? They can cross the whole world in a thought.

  Oh yes, I’ll put on my iron shoes and climb Mount Qaf to talk to them . . . Do you think life’s a fairy tale?

  I’m serious.

  Get lost, Nasima.

  That’s twice. Be careful.

  Ha!

  If you’re too stubborn to ask, I’ll do it for you. And for Nour. Once, I had brothers too.

  Nasima closed her eyes, as if listening. All right, stupid, she said. Get on the train to South Yarra. Nour’s in the botanic gardens. Be quick.

  I don’t believe you, Firuzeh said.

  Believe whatever you like. But your brother’s there. And if you don’t find him, someone else will. The jinn talk, and now they know there’s a lost boy wandering alone in Melbourne. Soon the divs and peris will hear it too. And your mother has told you, hasn’t she, of the peris’ red claws, and the divs’ sharp teeth.

  Why would there be jinn, divs, and peris here? The stories are different in Australia.

  Stories go where people go, Nasima said. In dreams, in fresh tellings, in memories. Jinn have been here for over a hundred years. They came with the first Afghans, liked the place, and stayed.

  Like you came here with me.

  I’ll follow you anywhere. Unlike Nour. Even back to Afghanistan.

  Nasima smiled.

  Maybe it’s better if the peris take Nour. He’ll be safer with them, and you never liked him anyway.

  Firuzeh shut her eyes. I can’t hear you. You’re not real. I’m normal. We’re fine. Nour’s just throwing a tantrum, and he’ll come home soon. Nasima, we were never friends. Living girls, normal girls, don’t talk to dead ones. Go away and don’t come back.

  She took the white pebble from her pocket and hurled it without looking, as hard as she could.

  When she opened her eyes, the world was empty. Some kind of light had gone out of it. Firuzeh knew with an aching certainty that it would not return.

  Dead leaves cartwheeled along the footpath, their sharp points scratching across the cement.

  At the station, Firuzeh bought a concession ticket and waited for the next train.

  The car she boarded was full of students. They jousted with pens, elbows, and knees, holding schoolbags as shields, laughing and shoving each other. Firuzeh hated them with a black and overwhelming passion. Not one of them had to worry about deportation, or a missing brother, or a broken mother and the empty space where Atay had been.

  She disembarked at South Yarra.

  It was a short walk to the southern gate of the botanic gardens. In the wane of the year, the garden slept. Palms and gums striped green lawns with blue shadows. Buds held their breath and waited for spring.

  Signs pointed her toward a volcano, which proved to be a sad concrete cistern clad in tarpaulins and blocked off by temporary fences. Succulents slept on its slopes.

  No Nour.

  She turned toward the lake. Green ducks approached her, cutting through a thick mat of duckweed. On the far side, a black swan billed the water for crumbs. Firuzeh shouted her brother’s name. The ducks changed course.

  Nour was not there either.

  Invisible bellbirds rang silver notes through the trees. Little white dogs trotted down the path, pulling women in joggers and blazers behind them.

  The Yarra gleamed at her like crushed glass.

  Firuzeh left the garden and followed the river. Young couples snuggled against each other, making moues and taking photographs. Elderly couples tapped and swung their canes.

  High up on a plinth, Queen Victoria glared down with an expression resembling Gulalai’s. Someone had markered black moustaches on the surrounding marble nymphs.

  Nour, Firuzeh called, her voice reduced to balled-up paper. Nour, it’s me. Nour, where are you?

  Here.

  Nour sat under a bronze statue, hugging his knees. His face was dirty, his eyes red.

  What are you doing?

  Running away, dummy. I told you, didn’t I?

  Everybody’s looking for you.

  But nobody cares. Not really. If you cared, you would have found me ages ago.

  I’m not as smart or fast as you think I am.

  Is Abay out looking?

  Firuzeh did not answer.

  Yeah. I didn’t think so.

  She—Nour, it’s only been two days.

  Abay lied to us. Everyone lies to us.

  Yes.

  It’s not fair. None of this is fair.

  It’s not.

  So are you here to drag me home?

  Not if you don’t want me to.

  Firuzeh sat down next to him.

  Nour said: Are you running away too?

  No.

  Then why are you here?

  Firuzeh patted the statue’s cold bronze nose. It was an odd creature, covered in curls, here bluish in colour, here golden, here green.

  I came to listen.

  Listen?

  Tell me a story. Whatever you want.

  Nour stared at his feet.

  I don’t know how to start.

  Once there was and once there wasn’t—

  I’m not stupid. I want to tell it in English. Once upon a time. Then what?

  There was.

  A boy. A regular, normal boy. He wasn’t bad, and he wasn’t good. His dad yelled sometimes. His mum cried and lied. His sister was mean. He had friends, but they all went away. Bad things happened to some of them. He dreamed about it, he dreamed he could see them, their mouths stitched up, or their fingers falling piece by piece in the street where a bomb went off. Bad things happened to the boy too, but they were in the past, so he could forget. Until he went to sleep. Then the dreams—

  He shivered.

  When he was angry, he could not stop being angry. Not for a long, long, very long time.

  Except when he ran. The running helped. And people liked it when he blocked a pass or scored a goal. People liked him. One boy kissed him, even. Then he didn’t dream. Then things were okay.

  Then his home decided to spit him out. Him and his family. His dad, who was broken, decided to die. As if all the bad things had been waiting and watching, this whole time. Now they came for him.

  So the boy did the only thing he could do.

  Nour fell quiet.

  What does the boy do after that?

 
I haven’t decided yet. But— He gave her a tiny glare. No snakes.

  Telling stories is difficult. Even when you know how they should end. And living’s harder.

  Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me?

  Firuzeh said, I can’t let Abay get on the plane alone. She needs me, Nour. She needs you too. Even if she doesn’t know it. Even if she never says it.

  He rolled this idea across his tongue, tilted his head, and scrunched his eyes. At last he nodded.

  Firuzeh said: Did you figure out a good ending?

  Yes, he said, and took her hand.

  The bronze creature smiled down at them.

  What is this thing, anyway? Firuzeh said as they stood, brushing grass and leaf mould off their clothes.

  Says jinni on the plate. It looked nice, so I sat down here.

  Firuzeh blinked.

  Thank you for taking care of him, she said to the statue. Please tell Nasima I’m sorry.

  Nasima? The girl from the boat, who died?

  Firuzeh said: She sent the jinni to look for you. A jinni flies faster than thought, you know. Now let’s go home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sister Margaret called with the news. The deportation order had been deferred for six months.

  For humanitarian reasons, she said. That’s the official line. But politically it looks terrible to insist on immediate removal after a tragedy like this. The journalists would have a field day. And everyone knows it.

  Into that sudden slackening of time rushed bills that once more required payment, phone calls to plead for leniency, insurance forms, profuse apologizes from Ali Reza’s cousin, condolences, notices, soccer practices, and schoolwork. None of them could spare a moment to fully feel, much less a breath to mourn.

  Abay drove them to Nour’s team’s final match in Atay’s rusted, stuttering car. When they reached the sportsground, Nour bolted from the car. Firuzeh and Abay ascended the grandstand as Nour joined his teammates at the centre of the pitch. Other families fished colas and cordials out of blue eskies.

  Though Nour did his best, leaping and diving to block, three balls slipped past him and plunked into the net. He was sent to the bench, and Aaron took his place at the goal. Abay stood and waved.

  A blonde girl glanced at her and laughed.

  Blushing, Firuzeh grabbed Abay’s elbow and dragged her back down.

  Janam, why should I sit? I’m saying hello.

  It’s embarrassing, mum.

  What, waving is now embarrassing? He didn’t know where we were sitting.

  If I’m wrong, why’s Nour ignoring us?

  Yes, that’s silly. He should be waving back.

  Nour spent the rest of the game on the bench while Aaron, enthusiastic, cow-footed Aaron, tripped and missed and lost the ball. With every mistake, Nour’s shoulders drooped lower. At last a whistle blew; the game was over. Nour’s team had lost, one to thirty-two.

  Mustering a smile, Nour said: The team’s going to Macca’s, mum. Can I—

  We don’t have the money, Abay said.

  Jake says he’ll shout me, and his parents will drive—

  For the last time, Nour, no.

  Abay reached for his hand. Nour jerked away.

  You don’t want any of us to have fun, he said, so loudly that heads around them swivelled. It’s always: what will people think? Well, do you know what people think of you? They’re thinking, what an awful mother. They’re thinking, what a miserable kid.

  Nour, Abay gritted through her teeth.

  I should have kept running. I should never have come home.

  Then stay here! Abay snapped.

  She stormed toward the car park. Firuzeh followed, glancing back at her brother every five or six steps.

  Come on, she said. Nour!

  I’m not going.

  Then Jake was standing beside him, an arm around his shoulders.

  You’re joining us at Macca’s, right?

  Yeah, Nour said, his eyes on Firuzeh. If you give me a ride.

  That boy! Abay said, slamming into the car. Just like his father! Feckless, careless, irresponsible—

  Atay was scared. Maybe Nour’s also—

  Don’t you talk like that about your father!

  But you—

  Hands fixed vice-like on the wheel, Abay braked and accelerated, braked and accelerated, jolting Firuzeh into silence. Firuzeh cranked down the window and stuck her nose out into the blessedly cool air.

  Did I ever tell you the rest of that story? About Khastehkhomar?

  Mum, you don’t have to—

  Well, the woodcutter’s wife and Bibinegar burn Khastehkhomar’s snakeskin, so he can’t change back into a snake. And Khastehkhomar says to Bibinegar, Farewell. If you hadn’t burned my skin, we could have been happy for ages—as if! What woman likes to be married to a snake, even one who turns into a man at night? He says, Now I must return to Mount Qaf, where my relatives the peris live. Will I never see you again, his wife says, you whom I love beyond life? He says, only if you walk until you wear out seven pairs of iron shoes. And he vanishes. And she, the idiot, puts on iron shoes and walks for a year and a day.

  At the end of the year, she asks whose fields these are that she walks through, and everywhere the answer is the same. They are Khastehkhomar’s bride price for Bibinegar. And these donkeys? Same thing. And these wells? Those too. That’s how Bibinegar knows she is near Mount Qaf.

  She sends her ring to Khastehkhomar through his servant, so he knows his wife is near. And he shows up embarrassed. O Bibinegar, I am engaged to a demoness. But how about you work as a maid until I figure out what to do with you? So she does. She cooks, she cleans, and she outwits the peris, his mother and aunt, who would like nothing better than to eat her whole. At last the wedding day arrives. The peris decide to use her fingers for candles. O Khastehkhomar, she says, what do I do? We’ll wrap your fingers in cotton, he says. And they do.

  For the wedding procession, Khastehkhomar and the demoness walk thrice times three around the room, and Bibinegar walks ahead of them, her fingers burning to give them light. Khastehkhomar, she cries, my fingers are burning! Bibinegar, he replies, my heart is burning! Which isn’t the same thing at all, you know. Then bride and groom retire to bed, and Bibinegar lies down outside their door, crying bitter tears. For love!

  In the middle of the night, brave Khastehkhomar kills his demon bride. They flee the peris and are restored as husband and wife. But what kind of life is that? When you know your husband can’t protect you, and your feet are worn through, and your fingers are gone.

  Firuzeh said nothing. Abay wedged the car against the kerb. They went into the flat.

  What a coward Khastehkhomar was, Abay said. Then she crumpled to the carpet and rocked with sobs.

  Omid, she keened. Omid, come back, I’ll kill you, jigaram, my husband—you selfish ass!

  Firuzeh fetched tissues and blotted at her mother’s locked eyes and sticky nose and stretched-open mouth, from which terrible sounds came.

  It’s okay, mum, she said. Hush. Shh.

  Tissue after tissue piled up into mountains before Abay’s sobs stiffened and slowed.

  Firuzeh said: Come on. Let’s get you to bed.

  She tried to lift Abay’s damp, heavy head. Her mother’s hair trickled over Firuzeh’s wrists, white strands salting the black.

  No.

  You can’t lie here like this. You’ll feel better in bed. Maybe you’ll fall asleep. I’ll make tea. I’ll make dinner. Let’s go, Abay.

  She talked and petted her mother to her feet. Step by swaying step, Abay slumped down the hall, then stood and stared at the bedroom door until Firuzeh opened it.

  While Abay sat on the bed, making the short moans of a wounded dove, Firuzeh worked a plastic comb through Abay’s sweat-thick hair. Then she lifted her mother’s shirt, undid her creaking bra, and pulled her nightgown over her head and down around her softening breasts.

  There, Firuzeh said, doesn’t that feel be
tter? Now why don’t you lie down and rest?

  And Abay, unresisting, obeyed.

  Firuzeh had a good, quiet cry of her own, then cracked four eggs into a pan. Right as they began to smoke, Nour edged the door ajar, threw her a sideways glance, and said, Is Abay home?

  She’s asleep.

  The door opened wider, and Nour came in.

  Some game, she said.

  Yeah. I know.

  You couldn’t have kept your dumb mouth shut?

  Please, Nour said. You’re just as bad. And Abay needed to yell a bit. She hasn’t cried once since—

  Good news, Firuzeh said. She cried and cried.

  Ah. Sorry. He twirled a pinkie in one ear. For leaving you to deal with that.

  You mean lighting the fuse and running away.

  I did, didn’t I. He sighed. Was it bad?

  I’ve never seen her like that.

  And you remember the war.

  Some of it, sometimes. Anyway. Here’s dinner.

  I had Macca’s, I’m not starving. What’s this? Did you cook?

  What else was I supposed to do?

  Right, right.

  How was Macca’s?

  Everyone sitting around with big glum faces, eating chips. Hey, I said, at least I wasn’t deported! No one laughed. I thought it was a good joke.

  That’s a terrible joke.

  You try cheering up a losing team. Even cheeseburgers didn’t work.

  I thought I smelled that on your breath. Cheese and pickles and onion.

  I’ll go brush my teeth. You sure Abay’s asleep?

  Even if she’s awake, I don’t think you’ll get the ripping-apart you deserve.

  What a shame. Without firm discipline, I’ll run amok. And then—

  What will people think? they said together.

  Firuzeh smiled.

  If I thought that was happening, I’d smack you myself.

  I know you would. He paused. Atay knew when to clap. He was proud of me. After I started playing sevens, he came to pick me up and saw me score a goal. He picked me up, put me on his shoulders, called me Rostam, and said he was my Rakhsh. It’s different with Abay. She doesn’t know.

  She’ll figure it out.

  Or she’ll pull me out of the league.

  Or that.