One evening, more than a month after my mother is imprisoned, my phone rings. It’s my aunt Soraya.
‘Kooshyar, good news! The intelligence service phoned to say I can pick up your mother tonight. She’s free to go.’
‘Are you sure?’ I can’t believe it.
‘Yes, we’ll ring you again as soon as she’s released.’
I stay awake and at four in the morning my phone rings.
‘Kooshyar jan, are you okay?’ My mother’s voice is weak and trembling.
‘Yes, Maman jan. Are you okay?’
‘Yes. It’s a miracle but thank Adonai I’m still alive.’
‘Are you sick, Maman jan?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine.’ And she hangs up.
Over the next two weeks Aunt Soraya takes my mother to various doctors. She has treatment for her heart but refuses to tell me exactly what’s happened.
After she’s released, my mother is told she’ll receive a letter summoning her to court in the near future. The intelligence service has never informed her of what she’s accused of, and she and I are both anxious about what sentence she might receive. It could be anything from a ten-thousand-dollar fine to ten years in jail. They can fabricate evidence against her and lock her up to put pressure on me. My only hope is that they’re swayed by their relationship with Australia.
During this time Makan rings me. Because I contacted him he’s had to escape Iran. He’s in Dubai and is about to travel to Malaysia but he needs help getting somewhere safe. I feel terribly guilty; he has done so much for me. Now it’s my turn to help him. Malaysia is an Islamic country and is friendly with Iran. Iranians can visit without a visa and there are many extremist Muslims there. It’s not a safe place for me, but I must go.
I get on a plane without telling anyone and land in Kuala Lumpur at midnight. In the morning I buy a mobile phone to use while I’m there, and I ring work to say I’m in Sydney with my children for the next three days and ask them to cancel my appointments. I wear a cap and sunglasses at all times and stay at a different hotel that night. From a public phone I ring Makan to organise a meeting, using our coded words.
I arrive at the café at nine the following morning. I look around to make sure I’m not being watched, but everybody looks suspicious to me. When Makan finally appears he doesn’t recognise me; it’s been many years since we saw each other. I approach him and we decide to keep walking and talking, constantly alert in case we’re being followed.
Makan has already found a people smuggler. He doesn’t have time to go to the UNHCR and must leave as quickly as possible. I give him seven thousand dollars and go with him the following day to the smuggler, making sure he’ll be safe. I wish him luck and then get on the next plane back to Sydney.
I never heard from Makan again. Though I can’t be sure of his fate, I suspect he was either caught and sent back to Iran or he never reached his destination. Around that time, the news seemed to be filled with stories of boat tragedies. In July 2012 almost a hundred people died in two separate incidents, and on 27 October 2012, a few days after I left Makan in Kuala Lumpur, thirty-two asylum seekers drowned when their boat sank on its way to Christmas Island. When I heard this news I couldn’t help wondering in despair whether Makan’s kind act of bravery had led to his death.
NINETEEN
It’s more than three years since I separated from Azita and moved to Tea Gardens. Newsha has passed her Higher School Certificate exams and is studying journalism. She and Niloofar, who’s now in year 9, continue to live with Azita and spend weekends with me. I still financially support them and my ex-wife. This isn’t because I’m legally required to – in fact, Azita and I agreed not to put the girls through the stress of a courtroom. I want to be responsible for my daughters until they’re independent so as long as they live with their mother most of the time, I’ve decided to provide for all three of them completely.
My work is demanding and I enjoy it. But despite this, there’s a vast void in my life. Some nights I feel extremely lonely and isolated. In the early hours I drive out of town to relax and clear my head so I can eventually sleep. My daily routine in Tea Gardens seems tedious, and although I enjoy spending time with my patients I have to keep a professional distance from them. I feel I have no real friends. One night I decide to ring Asef, who’s been sent to Norway with Soosan. I haven’t spoken to him for more than five years, as we’ve both been too busy dealing with the difficulties in our lives. I’m nervous. When he finally answers, we’re both so excited to hear each other’s voices, but Asef tells me how sad, repetitive and unproductive his life is.
‘They said at the beginning it would take years to learn the language so we shouldn’t bother. My children are happy but my life feels so empty.’ When I ask about Soosan he bursts into tears and I panic, thinking she might have died. No, she’s still alive, but suffering from major depression. She’s been admitted to hospital many times and right now she’s in a psychiatric ward, where she’ll stay for another five months.
‘She’s so homesick,’ he tells me. ‘Here it’s night for six months followed by six months of daylight, and extremely cold. We haven’t adapted very well.’
I decide not to whinge about my own troubles to Asef. I try to give him hope and courage, but I know how insurmountable his problems are. When we say goodbye I sit in a corner and stare at the wall. I remember our miserable days in Çankiri, our daily struggle to stay alive, to keep dreaming of a new start in a beautiful country. And what of our dream now? I grab my Star of David. I’m not going to give up.
In February 2013 I register to go to Afghanistan with the UN forces. I want to be in a war zone, among bullets and mortars, among the wounded and people who really need me. I have to leave this safe haven of monotony. I know my daughters need me but I can’t bear my tedious day-to-day life anymore, and I’ll be a better father to them if I go and do something else for a few months. In April I’m told I’ll be sent there on 27 August to treat injured civilians and soldiers and also to train nurses and junior doctors; my years of experience in Emergency will be a great help in this. I haven’t told anyone I’m going because I know I wouldn’t be allowed to leave. I plan to simply jump on the plane and disappear but, once again, my destiny changes completely.
Early on 5 May 2013 I’m standing at the back door of the surgery talking to our new practice manager, Steve, about my schedule. ‘I’m triple-booked and seeing more than seventy patients a day. You have to cut it back, Steve.’
‘We only have four doctors, though, and you’re the medical director. I’m trying my best but there are just too many patients.’ Then he adds, ‘We’re going to have a locum with us for four weeks.’
‘Four weeks isn’t going to solve the problem,’ I tell him.
All of a sudden a red four-wheel drive pulls over in the parking area and a tall blonde woman steps out. She walks over to us, says good morning, and enters the medical centre. I’m stunned by her beauty.
‘Who was that?’ I ask Steve in awe.
‘That’s the new locum. Her name’s Misha Johnson.’
Later on, Misha comes to my room and we chat about the patients and how the practice operates. She tells me she’s from Tasmania and has been working as a locum in remote areas for the last three years. When our conversation ends I’m impressed by her charisma and selflessness. I think, What a shame she’s only here for four weeks.
On the Monday following my appearances at the Sydney Writers’ Festival, I’m sitting in my room getting ready for my first patient when Misha appears in the doorway.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
She walks in and puts her hands on my desk. ‘What an amazing journey,’ she says, staring into my eyes. I don’t know what she’s talking about but my heart is jumping out of my chest. ‘I started reading your book on Friday night and couldn’t put it down until I finished it, on Sunday afternoon. I’m speechless!’ She shakes her head.
I only manage to smile and murmur, ‘I’m happ
y you like it.’
I soon hear a lot about the new locum, about how kind and down-to-earth she is and that she’s an exceptional doctor. Very soon all the nurses love her, and she even gets the approval of the cranky administrative staff. It seems I’m the only one who hardly gets a chance to talk to her, because I’m so busy. One day Steve drags me to the tearoom to show me a newspaper article about I Confess. I’m warming up my awful two-day-old petrol-station hamburger when Misha walks into the room. I decide to stay longer in the tearoom; helping people can wait. Debbie, one of the nurses, asks her about Tasmania. Misha starts describing the beauties of her homeland with great passion and I try to take in every word, but I’m distracted by her lovely brown eyes and her brilliant smile. Each time she looks at me, my heart squeezes like a fist.
Debbie says to me, ‘I was just telling Misha you eat a hamburger and Pepsi every day.’
Misha smiles and says, ‘It’s a shame. You work so hard you don’t get a chance to eat proper food.’
Over the next two days I avoid going to the tearoom. I feel embarrassed at the idea of eating my cheap oily hamburger in front of Misha again. But I desperately miss seeing her, even if it’s only while chatting with the others. On the weekend I go to Sydney to be with my daughters as usual, but I spend the whole time thinking about Misha and her smile. While we’re watching TV, Newsha says, ‘Dad, you’ve been separated from Mum for over three years. I’m worried about you – your life is so lonely in Tea Gardens.’ I do my best to pretend to my perceptive daughter that everything’s just fine.
The next day, before driving back to Tea Gardens, I pick up some Persian food: tender lamb kebab and charcoal chicken marinated in saffron and lemon. These are my favourite dishes, but I don’t eat them that night. I take them with me to eat at work.
Monday is a hectic day at the practice, with too many patients. Just before lunchtime, a sixteen-year-old boy comes in after he’s had a skateboarding accident. He fell off and landed on his shoulder, and the right side of his brain is concussed. He walked to the medical centre with his father but I notice that his right pupil responds sluggishly to light. He’s quite alert, though, and apart from mild pain on the right side of his head he says he feels fine.
‘Are you coming for lunch?’ yells out Karen, one of the nurses, from the other side of the medical centre.
‘You go – I’ll join you soon,’ I respond. Just as I’m about to leave the boy he starts vomiting, and then very rapidly loses consciousness and starts having seizures. For the next fifteen minutes I sit on his chest, resuscitating him and trying to pass a tube down his throat. The entire medical centre swings into action and three nurses help me attempt to control the boy’s seizures while we wait for a helicopter to arrive from Newcastle to airlift him back. His father is being counselled by Steve. Fortunately, after forty-five minutes of pumping oxygen to his lungs and injecting him with various medications, the boy is shifted to the helicopter alive.
I resume work straight after he’s gone and miss lunch, again. At five I accidentally bump into Misha in the corridor. ‘You did a great job today, Dr Karimi,’ she says seriously. I feel flattered.
The next day I’m determined to see my patients quickly and have a half-hour break for lunch in the tearoom, but one of the receptionists tells me a young man with a large bunch of flowers is waiting to see Dr Johnson. He says he’s her husband. I feel as if a gigantic rock is crushing my chest. I give my Persian food to Steve and Debbie, and lose my appetite for a couple of days. I start hating myself for being so immature and hasty in my feelings. I think, How could you be so stupid? If someone is that gorgeous and lovable, what makes you think she’ll fall in love with you?
It’s Friday again and I finish at five to rush back to Sydney. I’m feeling miserable, and even the thought of seeing my daughters doesn’t raise my spirits. It seems nothing can uplift me anymore.
The next morning I go to a Persian grocery shop in Parramatta to purchase some spice and basmati rice. While I search the shelves a bearded customer is raging against the Australian government. ‘They send their troops to Afghanistan and Iraq. They’re killing our Muslim brothers and sisters!’ His thick-lensed glasses are fogging from the intensity of his hatred.
‘Take it easy, Haron,’ says the shop owner, who is pouring pistachios into a plastic bag. ‘Don’t forget that if it weren’t for Australia you’d be in jail in Iran now.’ This Haron must be the loud-mouthed fanatic I’ve heard some of my Iranian friends here talk about. They say he’s unstable and untrustworthy.
‘I don’t care, I would have gone somewhere else.’ Haron is waving his index finger, as is the habit of extremists around the globe. ‘Australians are so ignorant. They don’t know about the American plot to destroy Islam. Last week I wrote another letter to the prime minister, warning her about CIA plans to infiltrate Australian society and trigger a civil conflict between Muslims and Christians. The Jews have planned all this!’
I purchase my items and leave while Haron is still raving. The shop owner is mocking him but I’ve seen a frightening fire in Haron’s eyes. A year and a half later I see him again – live on all the TV channels. This time his index finger is on the trigger of a gun aimed at hostages in Sydney’s Lindt café.
The next week passes quickly and unremarkably. I try to stay away from Dr Johnson to protect my feelings but one Monday Debbie rings my room at work. ‘Dr Karimi, we’re in the theatre with Dr Johnson and we need your help, please.’
‘I’ll be there in a second.’ My heart is racing. I almost rush my consultation with Vinetta, a 72-year-old woman who is Tea Gardens’ unofficial news station and one of my most loyal patients. People say the Myall River’s tides wouldn’t turn if Vinetta said they shouldn’t.
‘I see you have to go help Dr Johnson,’ she says with a cheeky smile. ‘I won’t hold you up.’
In the afternoon when I walk to my car Misha’s waiting for me in the parking area, having finished work for the day. ‘You must be exhausted,’ she says sympathetically.
‘I’m okay, thank you.’ I’m trying to avoid her eyes.
‘By the way, someone told me today that you appeared at the Sydney Writers’ Festival. How was it?’ she asks.
‘Great.’ I sound short and rude.
‘I love reading true stories of people who believe in what they do,’ she tells me. ‘That’s why I work as a locum. It’s so rewarding to go to more remote areas of Australia and help desperate people. I don’t necessarily enjoy working in comfortable cities.’
I finally ask the question that’s been on my mind for some time. ‘But how can you be a locum when your husband is in Tasmania?’
‘My husband?’ She seems surprised.
‘The man who came to see you a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Oh, that’s my ex-husband. We separated four years ago but in the last six months he’s been trying to convince me we should get back together again, which is never going to happen.’ She shakes her head.
I’m elated by this news. Before she walks away she says, ‘Thank you for helping me today.’ I feel like I’m Neil Armstrong, walking on the moon.
But soon Misha’s four weeks are nearly up. I’m desperate to see her properly before she goes but have no idea how to spend some time with her. And then I’m told that Vinetta is waiting for me with a package.
‘This is for you, Dr Karimi. You need to eat proper food to stay a healthy doctor.’ I open the box to find a cheesecake and strawberries, as well as rice cookies and blue cheese. Before Vinetta goes she says, ‘Make sure you have it with your colleague. I’ve made a gluten-free one especially for her.’
I follow her advice. Misha and I are finally in the tearoom together, eating the delicious cake. Misha tells me she suffers from coeliac disease and can’t have gluten. I’m not surprised that Vinetta already knew this.
‘Do you have more books in the pipeline?’ Misha asks while cutting a slice of the cheesecake.
‘Yes. I always have a few in
my drawer.’ I can’t stop gazing at her stunning eyes.
‘How do you get time to write that much?’
‘I practise medicine with my left hand. I’m right-handed.’
Misha smiles. Before we go back to work she says, ‘I’ve been here for more than four weeks and I haven’t seen any part of this lovely town.’
‘I can show you around,’ I say, seizing the opportunity. I’m thrilled when Misha agrees and gives me her mobile number.
The following evening I’m sitting at home watching TV when suddenly my phone rings from a blocked number.
‘Kooshyar jan, how are you?’ My mother’s soothing voice delights me instantly. But she’s phoned with a purpose in mind. ‘How is your love-life? Have you found anyone?’
‘It’s not that easy, Maman jan.’
‘But have you been looking?’
‘Ah, sort of . . . It’s difficult finding a soulmate, or even a close friend.’
‘I want you to search harder. I’m ordering you to,’ she demands, bossy as usual. ‘You have to be happy in order to provide for your daughters. I’m sure happiness is right in front of you, my darling.’
After she hangs up I pour a glass of wine and walk out to the backyard to look at the sky. It’s beautiful and clear and full of stars. I think about my mother’s words and instantly Misha appears in my mind. I have her number. Should I send her a text? Maybe it’s wrong to contact her this late, but then again I wonder what she’s doing in this town by herself. Although I offered to show Misha around, I’m too shy to suggest it again now. I wouldn’t know what to say in the text anyway. It’d be very embarrassing if she found it inappropriate because I’m her medical director. Besides, what’s the point? She leaves in four days.
Journey of a Thousand Storms Page 22
