The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  They left the main road and found shade behind a row of huts, by the imposing chain-link fence. The landscape on the other side was bare and flat. They might be anywhere. Mahindan felt sure now the Sinhalese would never allow them to leave. The boat was their only chance.

  I will give you papers, he said, feeling cruel. Only thing I want is my Amma’s pendant.

  Her eyebrows jumped in distress and she held out empty hands. I don’t have –

  I hope you got a better price than I did.

  I had to give it to the agent, she said. I didn’t have enough money for the fare.

  He blew out a frustrated breath and shook his head. After all this, she didn’t even have money for him!

  You must help me, Kumuran’s wife pleaded. She tugged on his forearm.

  He thought: Let the boat leave without her. What do I care?

  Impossible, he said. I don’t have documents for three children.

  One child, she said, and dropped his arm. Only my youngest. Same age as your son.

  Mahindan remembered the eyes in the backroom of her shop, how she had lied about her children’s ages. The bank’s advertisement blared over the speakers (Trust your savings to a leader in private banking) and Mahindan felt all his hatred, so powerful moments earlier, dissipate. He did not wish this hell on anyone.

  Kumuran’s wife stepped closer and took his hand. His instinct was to flinch away, but then her fingers squeezed around his and he allowed himself to relax. It was so long since he’d been touched by a woman, he’d forgotten the sensation. The promise of softness.

  I don’t have money, she said. But maybe there is something else you want.

  She looked down coyly and the slant of her eyes was still alluring, the lashes thick and exotic. She moved his hand over her breast. It was small but well-formed. A handful, just enough. Physical pleasure was a surprise, an old friend long forgotten. He felt a stirring in his abdomen and a stiffening lower down. If this was a trap, he had already fallen in.

  When she glanced up again, her eyes were very dark but also empty. Like the vacant stares of the women who stood at the fence and let soldiers fondle them in broad daylight. A fly buzzed in Mahindan’s ear. He asked, Have you any food?

  One day

  The upside to being back at school was having her weekends off. It was luxurious to lounge in bed till noon with a trashy novel, then meet Rat at the seawall.

  They sped along on their Rollerblades, the green slopes of Stanley Park on their left, the mountains and water on their right, discussing the bar exam and her job prospects. The downside to her newfound freedom: more time to worry about the future. Unemployment wasn’t an option, but the way things were going, it was the most likely outcome.

  This isn’t like you, Rat said as they veered into the bicycle lane to bypass two men with a stroller. To sit around doing nothing and expect something to fall in your lap.

  I’ve been studying, she said. No point in landing a job if I don’t pass the licensing exam.

  But this was a lie. It was easy to find time for revision. The truth was, she had been on the job boards. But when she saw the postings – in-house counsel for an insurance company, junior associate at a boutique law firm, filling in a maternity leave for a real estate agency – she felt paralyzed. It should have been simple to write a cover letter, attach her resumé, and hit Apply, but something held her back.

  She didn’t tell her brother this, but she did confess it to Charlie.

  I can’t apply to jobs, Priya said. I can’t physically make myself….Is that crazy?

  It was early May, and they were driving out to New Westminster to see Sellian. Priya was almost a regular now for his visits to his father, joining Charlie most Saturdays. Approaching the gates of Mahindan’s new prison was even more daunting than before, and though Sellian no longer cried when they left, this only depressed her more.

  She’d begun volunteering at the Tamil Alliance too, leading a conversation group on Tuesday evenings. She’d told Charlie it was because she finally had time to herself again, but this wasn’t the whole truth. Really, she wanted to stay connected to her former clients. But everyone was on different schedules and she had to satisfy herself with the scraps that filtered down through the grapevine. Savitri was still mired in depression and her son was being bullied in school. Prasad had a newspaper route and was applying for an entry-level job at the Vancouver Sun.

  After Ranga’s death, she had gone to temple with her father and uncle to say a prayer. Afterward, she’d seen Appa squeeze Uncle’s shoulder and the two nod their heads at each other in unspoken understanding.

  Sounds like you don’t want to be a lawyer, Charlie said, turning down the volume on the radio and accelerating past a truck.

  No. I definitely want to be a lawyer, she said. Of this one thing, Priya was certain.

  They were cruising down the highway, windows cracked open, and had just passed the exit to Burnaby. Vancouver was greening up nicely, all of nature encroaching as if to envelop the city.

  All these ridiculous detentions and hearings, Charlie said. I wouldn’t blame you for having second thoughts.

  Priya made a noncommittal noise and stared out the window. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, branches weighed down in explosions of pink. The tree limbs stretched across the streets to form canopies, scattering shadows and petals across the asphalt.

  Sellian was waiting by the front window, jacket zipped up, shoes on and laced. He was bursting to see them and spoke in rapid-fire Tamil about his day. He’d had three whole chicken strips at lunch! And all of his peas and carrots! They’d checked his height and he was one inch taller! He’d learned a new song in Sunday school! Did Charlika Auntie and Priya Auntie want to hear it?

  The Flanigans waved goodbye at the front door. They were nice-enough people and were happy to consent to these outings, but Priya couldn’t help resenting them anyway. What were they playing at, taking the boy to church?

  Sellian chattered away happily as they walked to the park, a hand in each of theirs. It had rained that morning. Cars rolled wetly down the street. Freshly laid mulch mounded up around rose bushes. The air smelled of wet, dark earth and greenery, blooming flowers.

  Charlie insisted on speaking Tamil during these visits (What if he has to live with those people forever?), and Priya was glad, even if it meant she was mostly shut out of their conversations. If she paid close attention, she could usually work out what they were saying, but it was easier to walk along with her own thoughts for company. Mahindan’s admissibility hearing was scheduled for Friday, and she couldn’t help wondering how he and Gigovaz were preparing.

  Her mind wandered in the classroom too. While the lecturer droned on about injunctions and writs of execution, Priya speculated on how Savitri would survive her Refugee Board hearing, how Prasad was coping while waiting for his. At lunchtime, she would hurry into the hall to check the messages on her phone. It was always a little deflating to see nothing from Gigovaz.

  The Flanigans lived down the street from a large city park. There was a baseball diamond and a soccer field, two playgrounds, and a splash pad. Sellian wanted to see the sheep, so they went to the petting farm first.

  There were new lambs in the pen, which caused a flurry of excitement. Two little girls had got there first and Charlie had to remind Sellian to wait his turn.

  Sellian, your birthday is coming, she said to distract him. How old will you be?

  Aaru, Sellian said, then counted out six fingers and held them up.

  Elu, Priya corrected. Seven.

  Sellian crouched to peer through the chain-link fence at the piglets wallowing in the mud.

  Illai, he said. Then, in English: Six.

  Priya frowned and did the math in her head. Seven. She was sure of it.

  How many candles on your last cake? Charlie asked in English.

  Ainthu, Sellian said, holding up a handful of raised fingers. He added in English: Orange cake and chocolate frosting. He became
dreamy at the memory of frosting.

  Priya opened her mouth, but Charlie shook her head in warning.

  Good, Charlie said. Then you’ll have two birthdays this year. First cake with six candles. Second cake with seven candles.

  Two cakes! Sellian was transported. After that, he didn’t care about lambs or pigs. He only wanted to plan his party.

  Balloons? he asked, jumping up and down.

  For sure balloons, Priya agreed. You can’t have a birthday without balloons.

  Two cakes, he said again. He turned in happy circles until he made himself dizzy, then stumbled into Priya with a laugh. And Appa must feed me the first piece!

  Priya grabbed Sellian and tickled him until he squealed. If everything went in Mahindan’s favour on Friday…

  Good news, Charlie said. The lambs are free.

  —

  Priya’s phone beeped while they were heading back to the city. She was momentarily excited, thinking, irrationally, it would be Gigovaz. But it was a text from Joyce Lau. She was at the office. Did Priya have time to stop by? There was a matter to discuss. It wouldn’t take long.

  What is it? Charlie glanced over from the driver’s seat.

  Can you drop me off at the office?

  After two months away, Priya felt a little self-conscious walking through the tall glass doors. She brushed off her jacket and checked her soles for grass clippings. The building was deserted and silent. A clandestine meeting. It could be bad news. Joyce might want to break it to her gently.

  She stopped on the seventh floor first. Gigovaz’s door was open, but the windowless office was dark. An air of neglect hung over the room – the untidy desk, precarious towers of files on the chairs, books scattered across the floor, deterring the cleaners from ever venturing in. The lingering smell of stale coffee had seeped into the walls.

  Joyce was on the phone when Priya peered tentatively through her half-open door. Joyce waved her in, still speaking into her headset. She nodded, as if to the caller, then rolled her eyes at Priya. The conspiratorial gesture gave Priya a little thrill.

  She admired the office while she waited. It was spotless and airy, the desk uncluttered by tchotchkes. A suit sheathed in dry-cleaning plastic hung on the back of the door.

  Being in Joyce’s presence always filled Priya with a mixture of trepidation and awe. This was what she wanted: a nameplate on the door, an audacious flower arrangement on the desk. The tiger lilies were in bloom, exuding a heady perfume.

  We won, Joyce said, following Priya’s gaze. She removed her headset and rubbed her hands as she stood.

  I saw the news, Priya said. Congratulations.

  In a surprise decision, the government had stepped in to block CMP’S takeover. Newtown Gold is an important Canadian institution, the industry minister had said. A foreign sale would not confer a net benefit for Canadians.

  It’s partly down to you, Joyce said. You helped us build the case.

  She gestured to a chair and Priya sat, then didn’t know how to cross her legs, this way or that? She laid her feet flat on the floor and smoothed her skirt over her knees, feeling like a schoolgirl.

  Joyce took a seat beside her and leaned in. I’m going to cut right to it, Priya, she said. Peter and I are in agreement on this: Your work has impressed us. We think you’re an asset to the firm, and on Friday, we lobbied the other partners to create a position and keep you on board.

  Priya pressed her knees together to stop them from trembling. The fog around her future cleared. Thank you, Priya said. I don’t know what to say –

  Joyce waved away her thanks. For the moment, it’s a one-year contract, she said. But continue the good work and we’ll see what we can do.

  This is what I’ve wanted from the start, Priya said, to begin my career here.

  Joyce patted her shoulder and nodded. Good! And I want you here too. Everyone wins. Joyce stood, and said offhandedly, You should know Peter’s angling for the position to reside in immigration.

  I’m sorry? Priya had assumed the new position would be a continuation of their previous arrangement, splitting her time fifty-fifty between Joyce and Gigovaz.

  Joyce moved behind her desk and, with her back to Priya, said: I just wanted to give you a heads-up, but HR will call on Monday to make it all official. Just tell them you want to work with corporate and they’ll draw up the appropriate paperwork. Joyce appeared to think the meeting was over. Powering down her laptop, she unplugged it from its port.

  Priya stood in her confusion. I have a choice?

  Joyce looked up, her eyebrows close together. I’ve no doubt Peter’s been a fine mentor, but you’ve paid your dues, Priya. I’ve made that very clear to him. When you pass the bar, you’ll return as a colleague, not a student. I think you’ve earned the right to choose your specialization.

  Joyce Lau in her Herman Miller chair, mountain vista in the background, telling Priya one day all this could be hers.

  Joyce, I can’t thank you enough. Truly. You’ve been my mentor. But if it’s my choice, then I…

  Priya thought about Prasad, about Savitri’s thali, which hadn’t been returned, and about Sellian, who believed he was still five. Uncle Romesh saying, Fellows who came later…How to explain any of this to Joyce? You’ve earned the right.

  Priya drew herself up and said, I’d like to continue my work with immigration and refugee law.

  You would? Joyce was baffled.

  We have a client in detention and three others who still have to face the Refugee Board. I’d like to see those cases through.

  But Priya, you know that could take years. And this position is only guaranteed for one.

  I know, Priya said. She spied the lilies out of the corner of her eye. One day. The thing is, she said, they need me.

  Old bait

  Kumi had visitors. Two women her age sat on either side of her bed, their hands and expressions animated.

  Tomorrow, one said. Can you believe it?

  And of course, we’re happy, the other said.

  But how unexpected! There’s still so much to organize.

  The women spoke in quick, excited voices, interrupting to finish each other’s sentences. Kumi’s head swivelled like she was watching a Ping-Pong match. Grace followed the dinner cart in. She could tell Kumi was struggling to follow the conversation from the bewildered half smile on her face.

  Grace never knew what state she’d find her mother in. On her worst days, Kumi reverted to Japanese, grasping her hand and in a piteous voice begging for things Grace couldn’t decipher. Sometimes, in the clutch of 3 a.m. insomnia, Grace would be seized by a fear: what if her mother was dying, and none of them were there? Her last moments would be spent in a fog of foreign language, surrounded by strangers.

  Chicken divan, the porter announced, and Kumi’s friends left in a flurry of cheek kisses, one pressing Grace’s hand on her way out. Your mother is very dear to us, the stranger said.

  Now, Mrs. Nakamura, the porter said, arranging her meal on the tray table. Will your daughter be helping you?

  No one helps me, Kumi said, furrowing her brows. You do your work, she ordered after the porter left, and Grace obliged, knowing her mother couldn’t manipulate utensils and carry on a conversation at the same time and hated when people watched her eat.

  Grace yawned. Exhaustion bore down like a fifty-kilo weight. She was on the tail end of a round of admissibility hearings and was looking forward to putting the last one behind her the next day. That was the cycle: three weeks of hearings, one week to write decisions. Then the whole process began again. Sisyphus, hands braced on knees, panting at the top of the hill, while the rock rolled to the bottom.

  The corridor at her back was full of dinnertime sounds, wheels rolling down linoleum, knocks on doors, jolly women calling out to their charges. Broccoli, Mrs. Miller, your favourite. The smell of chicken and overcooked pasta permeated everything, mingling with the urine and antiseptic.

  Grace rubbed her eyes then forced them to
open wide. She had brought an Evidentiary Package with her and spread the exhibits over two chairs. She recognized the migrant from previous hearings. Thirty-six and widowed with a son. Admitted to having worked for the Tigers and implicated in at least one major suicide attack. I was a simple mechanic. When the Tigers came to me, I did not have a choice.

  While the lawyers lobbed their arguments and their precedents, Grace sat in admissibility hearings and focused on the claimants, her mother’s words echoing in her ears: in another time and place, we were those people. She’d seen an amputee earlier in the week. One pant leg folded and pinned up, he’d rolled himself forward with great effort, pushing off with arms and torso as if he might propel his whole body out of the wheelchair, a futile bid for freedom. This man was new to Grace. She wondered how on earth he had survived a sea voyage and why he had even tried.

  They have ulterior motives, Fred had warned during an unexpected phone call earlier that day. Make no mistake. We’re living in a new age of terror. Subway bombings, 9/11, teenagers conspiring to blow up Parliament! These people and their boats, they bring their problems here.

  Those kids were born in Canada, Grace pointed out as she stretched a foot to kick shut her office door. She felt uncomfortable about this call, made to her cellphone in the middle of a workday.

  Exactly, Fred said, and she could hear him striding down a corridor somewhere in Ottawa. We’re being attacked on all fronts. That’s why we must stay vigilant.

  Mitchell Hurst would write this off as hyperbole. Kumi would say…No, it didn’t matter what she would say. Her mother conflating unrelated incidents, Mitchell’s cavalier attitude to safety, Fred and his grandiose pronouncements – the only thing worse than feeling out of her depth was being subjected to the unsolicited opinions of all and sundry.

  Grace was doing her part, whatever Fred might think. She’d issued her share of deportation orders and learned to steel herself against the emotional backlash. If someone joined a terrorist militia, that was on them. They had made their choices and she refused to lose sleep over hers.