Carefully she lowered the pastry on top of the pie, trimmed and crimped the edges and, feeling like a surgeon, made two incisions in the centre.
‘Just so you can breathe, little blackbird.’
She took a fork and, pressing down just hard enough to leave a mark, drew a slow waving spiral pattern. She worked from the outer rim to the centre and completed this with a couple of knobs of butter. Finally, to ensure that the outside didn’t burn, she took some aluminium foil and fashioned a small skirt to cover the very edge. Layla rolled the leftover scraps of pastry into a thin rope and plaited it. She cut the rope into two different lengths and pressed it onto the pie in the shape of an ‘F’.
‘There.’ She slid the pie into the oven.
‘You’ll hear the timer ring. Just don’t burn yourself getting it out.’ Layla kissed his cheek. ‘Don’t wait up for me.’
Fossey listened to the car drive off.
There was the question of absence of course. Not that he could claim the moral high ground. In the last few months, Fossey knew, he had spent more time in the office than at home, but Layla had been absent too, at her ‘women’s group’ meetings. The notion had occurred to him that they were inhabiting different worlds. Yet there had always been an unknowable side to her, a mystery, and it was part of what had attracted him to her in the first place. And for her? Well, she had always claimed her attraction to him was purely physical — or impurely, as she liked to joke.
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 26 November 2001 11:20:36 — 0700 (PDT)
From: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Subject: Rashid Khan
To: “Zulfi” *[email protected]*
Funds transfer received from Grindlays Bank. Account opened at ANZ Bank (Corner Parramatta Road & Annandale Street, Annandale) in name of ‘Rashid Khan’. House rented 5 Walsh Avenue, Glebe. Bond paid and phone connected. I have organised for the phone to be used and place lived in for the next two months. Details, receipts and other ID in the post. Also video of house and local area. The micro tape is for the answering machine. Get him to put a message on it and airmail cassette back to me so if there is a problem his voice is on the machine. Make certain ‘Rashid’ uses only that name from now on. He must carry nothing with his old name on it. He must memorise his phone number and address. Anyway, you know the drill. I still have to find someone to take passport through this end. Will advise.
Cheers
The Haha Man
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 27 November 2001 15:05:31 +0800
From: “Zulfi” *[email protected]* [add to address book] [add to spam block list]
Subject: Re Rashid
To: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Packet of documents arrived. Rashid is overcome with relief and gratitude. His English is so good (as you will hear on the answering machine tape) that I am certain he will have no problems. The old ferry tickets and David Jones’ receipt were a nice touch.
Zulfi
‘Hillary? It’s Bronwen Parry. I’m ringing about our last meeting. I just wondered if you’d heard anything?’
‘You mean about assisting with the refugees?’
‘Yes. I felt there was a fair bit of support …’
‘There was, Bronwen.’ Hillary laughed. ‘We put our names down to do … whatever.’
‘Yes, I remember. It’s just that the woman …’
‘Rabia.’
‘Yes, Rabia Balkhi. She said they would follow up and it’s just that I haven’t heard a thing and was wondering …’
‘No, Bronwen. Not a peep.’
‘Oh, well …’
‘I’ll let you know if I hear anything.’
‘Who was that?’ Elizabeth asked as she came in.
‘Bronwen.’ Hillary reached into the fridge. ‘I said we hadn’t heard a thing.’
‘Should we tell Rabia?’
Hillary thought about it as she opened her beer, and then nodded. ‘Probably best.’
‘Just remember she said not to use your computer to email her.’
‘I’ll do it from the Rocky library.’
Elizabeth put her beer down on the bench, tiptoed down the hall and quietly opened the door. A young woman was rolled tightly in a ball on the bed, her arms wrapped around her as if to hold herself together. She was still asleep — lost in whatever dreams haunted her. Elizabeth resisted the urge to hug her, knowing that it would take much more than that to free the girl from the horrors she had witnessed.
‘Fairuza sleeps more than anyone I’ve ever known,’ she said as she came back through the kitchen.
After topping up the dog’s bowl, Hillary followed Elizabeth through to the lounge, taking care not to make any noise as she passed the sleeping girl’s room.
It was an odd feeling having a stranger in the house. Although she and Elizabeth had separate houses, they lived here most of the time. And now another person — a girl really, hardly nineteen — was living with them for the foreseeable future. To complicate matters, she had to be kept out of sight. Rabia had said she hoped an amnesty would be offered, but told them not to hold their breath.
After the public meeting in Rockhampton there had been nothing — no communication, no phone call. Eventually an email came from Rabia, explaining that they had been checking through the list and only a couple of people had been selected. Did they still want to go ahead?
‘This is a huge commitment,’ she stressed when they phoned her at a number she assured them was secure. ‘You should take your time and discuss it. A lot of people are ashamed of what’s going on, but very few are willing to risk prison.’
Prison seemed a minor thing compared to what the refugees had been through.
‘Nevertheless, we want to go ahead,’ Elizabeth said.
‘She speaks no English.’
‘We’ll teach her.’
Eventually Rabia was satisfied and they arranged to pick up the refugee.
Elizabeth had been extremely calm. Hillary was a nervous wreck.
Layla opened the browser and, avoiding the chatrooms, headed to one of her regular sites. The box of shadows. This had become her name for them. Lists of people searching in the dark for people from the past. For family, friends, lovers. Her father had once told her that it was wise never to open a box of shadows but she was moved by the lists. It amazed her that there were so many of them. People like her.
Salaam ba hama Afghanay aziz. I lost my best friend, his name is Hacel and his father’s name is Ali Achekzai-Yawar. He is a doctor. Hacel has two sisters, Hajera (she was also called Mary) and Soneta. They fled to Tashkent Uzbekistan and then to Moscow in Russia. In Kabul they lived in Kata Naw. Anyone who knows where they are please email me. Khada hafiz!
Message posted by: Habibullah Amin
bibi [email protected] from Dubai, UAE
There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Lucky ones, in many ways — suffering loss, but at least alive and able to use the internet. Layla wondered what journeys they had been on. What they had seen. What came into their dreams at night. Did they fear sleep as she had done? Or did they welcome it as a chance to forget?
I am looking for my girlfriend Shaheen. Her father’s name is Safar Ali. She lived at ‘Belock-hai-Hawahi’ in Kabul, close to airport. She graduated from Rabia-Balkhi high school early 80s and late 80s from Faculty of Pharmacy. I have not heard from her in the last 15 years. All I know is that she lives in Denmark with her husband. Please help me find this friend. Wa-salam
Message posted by: [email protected]
She found the messages both disturbing and invigorating. Disturbing because behind each one was loss and longing, distance and time. She could not protect herself from the knowledge that so many of the missing would be dead. They may have been for years, and yet out there in cyberspace their names were being called. Others would be alive but desperately searching for warmth and food, and the idea that they might somehow reach a computer terminal, a cy
ber café, and log in was nowhere near the realms of the possible.
It shocked her that the diaspora was so widespread. Not just the US, Canada and the UK, but every country on the globe appeared to have its Afghans, scattered like chaff. Little pockets of people, hardly enough to comprise a community.
The trauma of her mother’s death and the sudden flight from Kabul had erased Layla’s childhood memories, leaving only an emptiness that longed to be filled. So, week after week, she posted her name on the missing persons sites — not looking for someone who she knew, for she had no names, but for someone who knew her. Surely there was a survivor of her childhood out there somewhere. If only her father was still alive, he could have helped her. He would remember the names of the children she had played with, those she went to school with. But she didn’t blame her father. If not for him, she may well be just a name on someone else’s list in the box of shadows.
It was invigorating because connections must happen. She had convinced herself of that. Yet nobody ever posted saying: ‘We found Ali!’
It was getting dark and Fossey still wasn’t home. Layla turned off the desk lamp and went to bed.
When she dreamed it was not of shadows but of water. Swimming underwater — a cloud of white swirling like a school of fish — yet closer they are not fish but letters — envelopes — some open … pages floating free and in the crystal clear water the words, letters, writing dissolves and bleeds from the page like squid ink indigo — and the letters never received, blank sheets, and the water salt — the tears of those who wait for letters that will never reach their destination.
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 01 December 2001 06:21:10 — 0700 (PDT)
From: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Subject: Rashid Khan
To: “Zulfi” *[email protected]*
Fijian Indian courier will leave Sydney using Rashid’s passport. Arriving 1715 Karachi on Singapore Airlines 418 on 12 December. He is expecting to be met at the airport by ‘Pureland Tours’. He will look for the person carrying the sign with Rashid Khan’s name on it. He should be paid the usual amount when he hands over the passport and the return ticket. Rashid is booked to fly ‘back’ to Australia 14 December, Singapore Airlines same flight number (418) departing 2105. 16 December depart Singapore SQ231 0010 arrive Sydney 1040.
Take care
The Haha Man
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 01 December 2001 18:10:02 +0800
From: “Zulfi” *[email protected]* [add to address book] [add to spam block list]
Subject: Re Rashid
To: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Pureland Tours? Very funny — Haha — I think! Okay.
Rashid has been working hard. I think he could make his way around Sydney now without a problem. He has been watching Australian TV videos and reading all the newspapers. He is a good man and deserves this.
Zulfi
It was the reverse of a snake shedding its skin. It was a movie running backwards and with each flickering frame he was mutating. The haircut and the shaving of his beard had been essential to altering the externals. But even after they had been completed, he had felt the same inside. Karim was still Karim. But the moment he began to pull on the western clothes he started to feel different, garment by garment. As he dressed in the freshly laundered underwear and pulled on a pair of cotton socks, the feeling arose in him that he was going back to university in England. It was eerie; like putting on a skin that transformed him backwards in time, to someone he had once been. Then, as he slipped his arms into the shirt sleeves, he lost focus for a moment. Neither one nor the other; not the old Karim nor the new person. He pulled on the trousers and threaded the belt through the loops, tightened it until it felt comfortable and fastened the buckle. Strapping myself in, he thought as he glanced in the mirror.
The stranger looked back at him and briefly he sensed a smile shimmer across the face — a momentary mirage. Behind the brown eyes, there in the darkness, was Karim, but he was fading, retreating. The stranger’s hands ran fingers through the black hair, paused, then brushed the neat moustache. He looked again for Karim, but failed to find him. This time the grin was broad. ‘Well done,’ he whispered in English as he watched himself buttoning the shirt, adjusting the length of the cuffs.
Rashid Khan sat on a chair, slipped his feet into the shoes and laced them up — tying himself into his new persona. He tossed his Afghan clothes into the corner and went through his mental checklist. There was something else … He stood up and reached deep into the drawer of the dresser and extracted the thin envelope. This contained the courier’s payment of one thousand American dollars. He slipped it into the blue jacket hanging on the back of the chair.
He contemplated the assortment of other clothes. They were all second-hand but in good condition. The labels showed they had been bought in one of two places, Great Britain or Australia. His bag had been checked time and again, and no matter how thoroughly the contents were scrutinised he felt confident nothing would betray his real origins. Neither would his English; he had spoken not one word of any other language in weeks. Thanks to the internet he had read the Australian newspapers every day and had got to the stage where Zulfi, whose English was extremely good, couldn’t fault him.
‘So, if you are coming from the city where do you get off the bus?’
Karim didn’t hesitate. ‘I get off on Glebe Point Road, first stop after Hereford Street.’
Zulfi peered at his notebook and nodded. ‘Then you go … where?’
‘Back to Hereford Street, turn right and Walsh Avenue is on the right a couple of hundred metres along.’
‘Phone number?’
Karim recited the eight digits.
Zulfi smiled. ‘You have certainly been doing your homework.’ He tossed the notebook onto the desk to signal the end of the session. ‘You’re going to be fine. Once you lose the British accent you will become a real Aussie. You must have been pleased with the win over New Zealand in the cricket test.’
Karim laughed. ‘Nice try. They didn’t win, it was a draw.’
‘Smart! Very smart. Now take this. You’ll need it to make contact in Karachi.’
He handed Karim a small professional-looking sign. Underneath a winged logo the name Pureland Tours was printed in bold. Smaller lettering added the information, Courtesy Service, below which Rashid Khan’s name was written in blue texta. It was a sobering reminder of just how close the journey was coming.
Surprisingly Karim had experienced little anxiety about his undertaking. Worries lurked beneath the surface but most of the time he immersed himself in his studies. The pleasure he had experienced at university — the sheer joy of learning — came back to him, and several times during those few weeks he had become so deeply involved in his research that he almost forgot why he was going. It was only outside in the Peshawar streets and markets that he remembered his father and rejoiced that he had escaped. He was glad too that he had chosen Australia as his destination, for the more Karim studied the more he liked what he learned. Back in his student days he had enjoyed England; though there appeared to be superficial similarities, Australia was going to be warmer and more welcoming. England without the starched collar, Zulfi had said. Karim spent a lot of time on the web acquainting himself with his future home, distracted by the animals and birds, the beaches and sprawling cities. It looked wonderful.
There were other, less pleasant distractions as well. The anti-American feeling in the city was growing, parallelling the increasing frequency and ferocity of the attacks on his homeland. And there was saturation coverage in the media. Virtually overnight the war had become the only story and the centre of every conversation. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion about how long the Taliban could last, about how many people had been killed and about how America would eventually pay for the blood it was spilling. That the war was an outcome of the attacks in America had been lost somewhere along the way.<
br />
Another unexpected consequence of the war was the increasing number of western journalists in the city. Several times Karim ran across them in the markets, or standing in the doorways of the better hotels gazing out into the streets with a look of bemusement on their faces. Most of the American journalists only strayed from their comfortable lodgings with armed guards, which, given the atmosphere in Peshawar, was a sensible precaution. But on one occasion when Karim was making his way through the markets, he heard the unmistakable sound of an Australian accent.
‘You’d be mad not to. I mean, seriously! The bastards have got every bloody bit of software you could ever need. And it’s cheap as shit.’
Karim had watched as two men sorted through a tray of CDs. One of them, older, tanned, with a slightly pudgy face, was not as convinced as his younger, thinner companion.
‘Because it is shit, Timbo. I bet there isn’t a kosher copy of anything here. Just crap.’
‘How can it be crap, David?’ The younger man seemed reluctant to let go of what he obviously saw as a bargain.
‘Listen, remember that American stringer we had the drink with in Islamabad? He was going on about some software he bought on his first trip. Took it back to the States, loaded it in his top-end computer and crashed the bastard. He reckoned it was a bloody Islamic plot. Said his hard drive was a basket case and his screen froze with a picture of bin Laden giving him the finger.’
‘He was half tanked and full of it.’
‘You want to risk it in your computer? Go ahead. I’m just saying I think it’s crap.’
Suddenly aware that Karim was studying him, the man had turned and addressed him, obviously not expecting to be understood. ‘Crap. That’s right, isn’t it, mate? Fucking chocker with bloody viruses and shit.’ He grinned in a friendly way and shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t know what I’m rabbiting on about —’
The Haha Man Page 14
