The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  It is easier to learn when you are young, Mahindan said.

  Yes, Appa. Sellian stuck his hands under his thighs.

  On the opposite side of the room, Prasad was deep in conversation with that man from the Tamil Alliance, Sam Nadarajah. They spoke English, a newspaper on the table between them. Nearby, Charlika was clumped with Ranga and a group of men, engaged in an earnest debate about cricket. She made a joke and Sellian smiled faintly.

  Don’t you want to be like Charlika Auntie one day? Mahindan asked. Successful professional with a Canadian passport?

  Charlika Auntie has a car, Sellian said, perking up. A sports car.

  And so? Don’t you want a sports car one day?

  It’s red.

  Come now, Mahindan said. Tell me your letters.

  Sellian dutifully recited: A-B-C-D. Halfway through the list, he faltered. What is after L, Appa?

  Mahindan didn’t know. The unfamiliar sounds were a puzzle he could not assemble. Ah, so you’ve been playing the fool all week instead of studying, he said.

  Mahindan wished he could supervise his son’s work directly. He worried that Kumuran’s wife was no use. Women were too soft, and anyway, Sellian was not her son. She wasn’t mistreating him, at least. Whenever he asked, Does Auntie take care of you? Sellian only shrugged and said, She sleeps all the time.

  Q, Sellian said. L…then P or T?

  Mahindan folded his arms across his chest. I can’t be telling you a hundred and one times. Revise properly this week.

  Yes, Appa. Sellian slouched in his chair. His gaze travelled to the group with Charlika.

  Six runs! Charlika said, slap-brushing her hands together at the punchline. Match over!

  The group cracked up, heads thrown back, hands banging the table. Mahindan thought: Sellian would rather be with them. He tried to be kinder.

  Okay, pillai. Tell me about this car.

  I had to sit in a special seat in the back.

  Like a big man with a driver?

  Sellian grinned. Like Prabhakaran.

  Mahindan startled at the mention of the LTTE leader’s name. He scanned the area quickly. The guards were placid. The visiting room was full and their table was surrounded by groups of others, everyone talking loudly and gesturing.

  Mahindan leaned closer and spoke quietly. Sellian, don’t say this.

  Why, Appa?

  The Canadians, they don’t like this kind of talk here.

  Sellian’s brow wrinkled in confusion. What kind of –

  And no more Lions and Tigers, okay? You must not play this game with the other children.

  But, Appa –

  No, pillai. This is important. Listen, all of that…Tamil Eelam, the Tigers, Prabhakaran…that is all in the past now. We have left Sri Lanka and we must leave all of this behind. Put it out of your mind.

  But how to do that?

  Just don’t think about it. Don’t speak about it. And it will go. He twisted his wrist in the air to suggest things disappearing with ease.

  Ganesha too?

  Ganesha is okay. The gods brought us here. We cannot forget them.

  But –

  No. Sellian. A guard was staring at them now. His expression was grim. Mahindan grasped his son’s arms. Now listen to me. We must make the Canadians happy or they will not let us stay here. Do you want to go back?

  No, Appa. Sellian’s lip trembled and Mahindan felt a piercing guilt. I don’t want to go back, Sellian whimpered. Please, Appa…

  Charlika and Ranga glanced over.

  Mahindan quickly patted his son’s head. Okay, okay. Don’t cry. Be a good boy and no one will send you back.

  —

  In the recreation room, the television screen flickered, the image pleating like a sari and quivering for a moment before straightening out. The woman in the orange shirt ran on the spot and clapped her hands when she saw the car. She was wide on top and small on the bottom, a generous chest and stomach balanced on a paltry pair of legs. Mahindan did not understand what was being said, but the trajectory of the game was easy to follow. The man in charge carried a microphone. He had a big face and short-cropped hair. His eyes squinted out from behind thick glasses. Mahindan knew he was the boss because he was the only one in a suit. He presided over the competition with a detached boredom.

  The boss thrust the microphone at the woman’s mouth. She could have the car, but first she must say the correct combination of words. In the audience, everyone was screaming, on their feet holding up two fingers or four. The woman in the orange shirt wore a plaintive expression. When the camera came close, Mahindan saw she was breathing hard, chest and shoulders heaving with exertion. She looked confused and scared, overcome by the good fortune within her grasp and the bad luck hovering just behind it.

  Prasad moved his lips silently as he read. Occasionally he would chuckle and raise his head, as if wanting to share a joke, but when Mahindan or Ranga raised expectant eyebrows, he shook his head and returned to his book. Mahindan watched him read, eyes narrowed with attention, while the woman in the orange shirt bit her lip and spoke into the microphone.

  Prasad must have been very clever to have earned a spot at the university. And those fools had forced him to leave. Sometimes, when he thought of home, Mahindan was overcome with rage.

  He had quizzed Sam Nadarajah, so he knew how schooling worked in Canada. Our people work hard, Sam had told him. And in this country they reward you. Tamil or Sinhalese, brown or white, only thing that matters is the grades. It is not like back home. One Tamil for every seven Sinhalese admitted into the university – it is not like that here.

  Twenty years ago, Sam had come to Canada just like them, a refugee on a ship. And today, he owned a sari shop, sent his daughters to university, had even married again. I was a widower too, Sam confided. With two small girls. There were times I did not think I could survive.

  Mahindan was astonished to learn his second wife was a white woman, but Sam had just chuckled and said, I told you, here we are all the same. I teach her to speak Tamil. She shows me how to roast turkey. Best of both worlds.

  Mahindan held this image of Sam and his sari shop close, a vision of his own future. Once he and Sellian got out of detention, Mahindan would get a job. Cars were the same from one country to another. He could work changing tires or even pumping petrol. It did not matter what he did once he got out. His motto: Learn English, get a job, find a small place to live.

  Mahindan compared the two letters on the page – the one in printed ink, bold and sure, and his shaky facsimile beneath. There were a lot of straight lines in English. The language looked the way it sounded, harsh and utilitarian. Mahindan tried to draw a letter without lifting his pencil off the paper. Letters were the first step, then words, then sentences. A-B-C. Child, car, carrot. Hello, my name is Mahindan. It is a nice day. It is a very nice day. Good was another word for nice. The opposite of good was bad. This was a table and that was a chair and they were now inside a jail. Some English words they already knew – Internet, cellphone, television.

  On the television, the woman struggled with her answer. She bounced on the balls of her feet. The crowd in the audience cheered. They were on her side. They wanted her to win. Hundreds of people sitting and watching, all of them hoping for their names to be called, for a chance to run screaming to the stage, to make numbers materialize on a board, to have the boss pat their back and declare them the winner. Hundreds of people who wanted to stand where the woman in the orange shirt stood. Hundreds of contestants, but only one winner. It all came down to this. The woman in the orange shirt squeezed her fists at her side. The boss waved the microphone under her chin. She tugged on her shirt and licked her lips.

  When I get out, I’m going to buy that car, someone said.

  And that beauty to drive it, someone else added.

  Everyone snickered.

  Everything on Canadian television was like this car – polished and shiny. It made Mahindan wonder if he had ever owned a single ne
w thing in his life. Whenever he thought of his house in Kilinochchi, he recalled the sand between his toes, the damp floors in the toilet, the tilted old commode. It was impossible to imagine the silver car onstage parked in front. These glossy, gleaming things belonged here, in this new world.

  The woman in the orange shirt took a deep breath. Her arms shook with trepidation, with hope – how closely those things were connected. The host pointed to the car and said something. The audience chanted. The microphone was a black egg. The woman leaned toward it. Her voice turned up at the end – her answer a question. She spoke with her eyes closed. She could not bear to know. The camera jumped to the game board, to the last blank square. A number appeared. Bells, cheers, the woman running on the spot, then down on her knees, in thanks, a close-up of the car, the blue-dress lady waving serenely because none of this, the lights, the screams, the hopes dashed and realized, the up-swelling music, none of it had any power over her. She was not part of the competition. Or she had already won. And this was the ultimate prize, being onstage among all the beautiful things.

  Don’t rock the boat

  The twins were preening in front of the mirror in the foyer, each of them jostling for a better view. Brianne had on a pair of tiny white shorts that inched a little higher up the backs of her thighs every time she leaned forward. A tank top drooped off her shoulders, sagging over her flat chest. Meg was no better, in skin-tight leggings and a hot pink T-shirt with a stretched-out neck that exposed the ball of one shoulder and a thin bra strap. They saw Grace’s reflection, standing behind them, and turned.

  Mumsie, Brianne said. I need new sandals.

  You want new sandals, Grace corrected, moving to the console table to switch on the radio and peek into the fruit bowl. Inside was Kumi’s MedicAlert bracelet, a single earring, and a manila envelope.

  Grace shook out the envelope, sending a clutch of black-and-white photographs and faded documents showering into the fruit bowl. What’s wrong with the shoes I bought you a couple of months ago? she asked.

  These ones are different. Brianne held out a magazine. The top corner of a page had been folded down. Can I have a pair of Jesus sandals? Please?

  The radio program broke for local news and weather and Grace turned up the volume. Today the big story was the turf war in the suburbs between the Somalis and Sikhs. One crime lord had kidnapped another one’s daughter and was demanding a ransom. The girl was fifteen. Grace shuddered to think what was being done to her.

  See? Grace told the girls. This is why I worry about you.

  You and Dad aren’t billionaires, Meg said, switching off the radio. No one cares about us.

  Mumsie, the sandals, Brianne said.

  Come and look at this. Grace plucked a photo from the fruit bowl and held it out to Meg.

  Brianne paused for a moment, as if judging her odds, then came to join them, still holding the magazine.

  The young men in the photo were arranged in two rows, the front group seated on a wooden bench, the others standing behind them. Bats, mitts, and balls lay on the grass at their feet. The word Asahi was scripted in black across their shirts.

  Grace pointed to a player seated forward with his palms on his knees. Have I ever told you about my grandfather Hiro? He came here in 1924, the first one in our family.

  She didn’t tell them the rest. That Hiro had come from Hiroshima, that the family he’d left behind – parents, uncles, aunts, cousins, loved ones he had always planned to see again someday – later died or vanished in the wake of the bomb.

  Instead, she said: Issei. It means first generation.

  We know Issei, Brianne said, scornful.

  Issei, Nisei, Sansei, Meg said. And we are Yonsei. Gran taught us.

  Our great-grandfather was a baseball player? Brianne said. For reals?

  For reals, Grace said. He used to pitch entire games without giving away a hit. Huge crowds would come to watch. Not just the Japanese – they had white fans too.

  Meg, rummaging through the documents, had found her great-grandparents’ marriage certificate. How come it says his first name was Matsumoto?

  In Japan, family names are traditionally listed before given names, Grace said. When she got very old, your great-grandmother Aiko would sometimes forget and write her name in the wrong order.

  Brianne found Hiro’s ticket to Vancouver.

  I didn’t know this still existed, Grace said, running a finger over the embossed logo of the steamer company, the third-class ticket. If your great-grandfather hadn’t gotten on that ship a century ago, none of us would be here.

  She thought briefly of the Tamil ship, then pushed it away. This was different.

  Who’s she? Brianne held up a sepia photo of a teenager in a kimono, posed on a cushion, knees pointing one way, chin turned the other.

  That’s your great-grandmother, Aiko, Grace said. See, you got her mouth. And the same face shape. You know, I think this might be the photo the matchmaker sent to Hiro.

  Matchmaker!

  When Canada opened up immigration to women, girls in Japan and boys in Canada exchanged photos through matchmakers.

  What? That’s so random, Meg said.

  I dunno, Brianne said. I think it sounds exciting. A ship with a bunch of – how old was she? sixteen? – a bunch of girls all going on this big adventure.

  Yup, that’s how Aiko felt.

  Grace could still remember the conversation she’d had with her grandmother, when she was Meg and Brianne’s age.

  I was eighteen, Aiko had said. I was ready for adventure! To go to Amerika!

  America? Grace asked, thinking her grandmother had got on the wrong ship.

  Amerika, Canada, Aiko said with a shrug. Same, same.

  Meg was still skeptical. What if, like…the guy doesn’t send his own picture?

  Oh, there was some of that, Grace said. A girl on Aiko’s ship refused to get off when she saw her fiancé.

  The twins guffawed. Meg said, She peeped the dude and said no thanks?

  But Hiro was an athlete, Brianne said, straightening her spine.

  Oh, your great-grandfather was a catch, Grace said. But he wasn’t an innocent. He had his picture taken in front of the Prince Regent Hotel.

  Just imagine, Aiko had said, relaying the story to Grace. Me, a girl from Wakayama, expecting to be the mistress of a palace!

  Instead, Hiro brought his new bride to the boarding house on Powell where he was renting a room. Aiko started her new job the next day, cleaning floors and washing chamber pots for the landlord.

  Bait and switch, Brianne said. Lame!

  That was how life was back then, Grace said. It was the same for all the Japanese. They were new and had to start from scratch and prove themselves. Hard work. There was nothing else for it.

  It’s almost one, Brianne said. We gotta bounce. When she stood, one strap of her tank top slid off her shoulder. Mom, what about the sandals?

  Since we’re discussing clothes, Grace said. Perhaps the pair of you would like to put some on. Leggings are not pants, she told Meg, then turned to Brianne and said: And if you think I’m letting you leave the house in that shirt…She raised the straps and folded them, lifting the neckline two inches. We can take this to the tailor if you like.

  Mom! It’s supposed to hang like this.

  Then put something on overtop.

  Moooom!

  Do you want these Jesus sandals or not?

  I need a pair too, Meg said as the girls ran up the stairs.

  Grace was left with the photo of her grandfather and the niggling feeling of having been tricked. She pondered the proud young man in his baseball uniform. What was he thinking as he awaited the flash? What future did he imagine?

  The photo was dated: 1934. The same year Hiro and Aiko opened their laundromat. By 1937, they would have a daughter and a house; four years later, twin sons. And then came the internment in 1942, when the family was separated and Hiro was forced to haul rocks at a labour camp. Would they have take
n it back if they could, returned to Japan, if they’d known what they would lose? The business, their dignity, home, and the place where they had built it?

  They weren’t released until war’s end in 1945. And then given an impossible choice: move east of the Rockies or be repatriated to Japan. Grace’s grandparents chose Ontario. Aiko went back to being a cleaning lady, working six to six at a Howard Johnson close to their one-bedroom apartment, while Hiro pumped gas at a Petro-Canada. He would stand at the bus stop at the end of every graveyard shift, fighting sleep and watching dawn break.

  One winter night, a passing driver swerved on black ice. When Kumi told the story, she lingered on the sound of the phone, a shrill siren in the dark, waking up the household. Kumi remembered being left in charge of her younger brothers, having to pour their cereal and make up stories to distract them, while Aiko took a bus to the hospital. There was no money for taxis and she was too afraid of their white neighbours to ask for favours.

  Grace heard her mother’s tread on the stair and glanced up, half expecting to see a teenaged girl, groggy in her high-collared nightgown. Instead, she saw a woman in her seventies, wearing wide-legged pants patterned with bright yellow bumblebees. Kumi had always had an eccentric sense of style.

  Are these pants mine? she asked. I found them in my closet.

  You’ve had them for years, Grace said. But if you think they’re…gaudy –

  No, no, what do I care about fashion?

  And just like that, Kumi was herself again, prickly and self-assured, negotiating the descent a step at a time, a cardboard box in her hands. More relics from the attic, Grace thought. Things best left alone.

  I want to get a copy of the order-in-council, Kumi declared when she reached the bottom. She looked uncertainly at the box she was holding, as if seeing it for the first time.

  Thanks. I’ll take that, Grace said.