‘But why are they like that? Every day they would swear at us, tell us we were unwelcome.’
Karim thought about it. ‘I think it is the place. I think that maybe it dehumanises everyone, not just the prisoners.’
Amir shrugged, unconvinced.
‘And you?’ Karim asked. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Waiting for my family. They are flying in next month. Insh’allah.’
‘Insh’allah. That’s wonderful. They have visas?’
‘They have passports from our friend.’ Amir touched his hand to his heart. ‘I owe him a great debt and those who raised the money.’
‘Others paid for you?’
‘I had no money and was living off donations from the community. So when I was told that it would be ten thousand dollars, I felt like killing myself. Then a refugee support group raised the money. It all came from Christians. I was very moved.’
Karim was bemused. ‘I don’t understand these people.’
‘The Haha Man said in his email that it was because all the Australians were refugees themselves at some time. Or at least their ancestors were.’
Karim fetched the pot of tea and refilled their glasses. ‘And you have work now?’
‘Yes. I am working for a Palestinian man who has a small printing business. I deliver for him.’
‘Then life is improving. And the soccer team?’
Amir frowned. ‘It is dead.’
‘Dead? You mean …’
‘All but two of the members died in the same week as Sayyid and Ali.’
Karim thought about the young man he had met. It was such a waste; to have survived so much and come so far to be cut down by a disease that appeared to have stalked them from their homeland. ‘He was full of hope. He even talked of getting a job.’
‘Oh, he got the job. He and the others that died. It was the last time I saw them alive.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Installing soap dispensers or something in toilets. And it only lasted a week. I went with Ali on the Friday when he returned the company overalls. He was depressed because the men said there was no more work.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter now,’ Karim said and eased himself out of the chair, suddenly restless.
‘No, it doesn’t matter.’
From outside came the sound of a car turning in the street. Karim tensed and resisted the urge to go and peer out through the curtains in the front room. The car drove away and he forced himself to relax. He turned back to Amir, who was tracking him with his eyes. ‘Tell me, Amir, would you ever go home?’
Amir looked surprised by the question. ‘To Iraq?’ He thought about it, running the fingers of his right hand through his moustache. ‘My grandmother was from Iran but the rest of our family are Marsh Arabs, from the South. We are from the Amara Marsh …’
‘Ma’dan?’
Amir smiled broadly. ‘Ah! It is rare to come across someone who knows the real name of our people.’
‘And Shiite?’
Amir stiffened and the smile faded. ‘Is that a problem?’
Karim opened the palms of his hands, placating. ‘We Mazaris are Shia. You and I are of the same tribe, so to speak.’
‘Al-hamdullilah! But not that of Saddam Hussein.’
‘No.’
Amir was silent. He was watching the silver ring of a fish rising on the waters. A boat making its way home. The silhouette of a water buffalo. It was a scene that often played in his mind. The scene before the helicopters came, before the phosgene gas. Before the oily slick of pollutants and the mark on the banks where the water used to be. Higher every month.
‘But if he was gone and the marshes were flowing again,’ Amir said. ‘Yes, I would go home.’
Outside it was growing dark. Karim returned to the kitchen table and sipped the last of his tea. Something was troubling him. ‘Tell me, Amir, doesn’t it strike you as strange that all the soccer team died in the same week?’
Amir dragged his mind back from the Amara Marshes, from the purple sunsets and the reflections on the water. ‘But they didn’t. Not all of them. There were two …’
He should get up and turn a light on, Karim thought. It was gloomy and the room felt cold. But he stayed seated, leaning forward, resting his chin on his hands. ‘So why were those two spared?’
‘Qadir and Habib?’ Amir toyed with his tea glass. ‘Everyone thought them unlucky because they did not get to work with the others. They were lucky in other ways.’
‘So those that worked at this job all died …’
‘You think …?’
‘And those that didn’t are alive.’ Karim felt a surge of energy run through him. ‘These people who ran the business, who were they?’
‘Arabs. Saudi, I think.’
‘And you know where they worked? You said you had been there.’
‘Yes.’
Karim got up and walked to the window. The sky was clear and already the first stars were struggling to be seen through the city haze. ‘They were the first ones to die,’ he said, more to himself than Amir. He shook his head, trying to make the competing thoughts fall into a logical sequence. A virus. In Australia. An engineered virus. So it was an attack. ‘Why Australia?’
‘What?’ Amir could feel the energy in Karim but was struggling to follow.
‘Palestine? Yes. Australia has supported the Jews. The American war on terror? Yes, they even sent troops. Do you think that is it?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re saying.’ Amir rose, his face a picture of uncertainty and confusion.
‘Listen. This virus was released intentionally.’ Karim took Amir by the shoulders. His eyes were wide now, excited. ‘Tell me, doesn’t it seem strange that the Hazara boys were the first to die? Do you know where they went? Did they say anything?’
‘In … in toilets, I think.’
‘No! No, no. Where? Where were the toilets?’
Amir’s face remained blank and then his mouth dropped open as he made the connection. ‘I don’t know. Places …’
‘… where hundreds of people would go every day.’ Karim released Amir’s shoulders and sank down into his chair. ‘They were not after the Hazara boys at all. They were punishing Australia. The Hazara were just disposable.’ He was silenced by the enormity of the thought.
‘It is hard to imagine that someone would think that way.’
Karim said softly, ‘Amir, it is hard to imagine flying planes into the World Trade Centre.’ He moved to switch the light on, but turned back. ‘We must do something. Our people are being killed and we are being demonised for it. This must stop. We have to find out where those damn things have been put.’
‘It may already be too late.’
‘Yes. And I don’t know what I can do, but we must try. Will you help me?’
Amir looked doubtful. ‘What can people like us do?’
Karim smiled. ‘There are a lot of people like us in Australia. I think we can do something. In fact, if we don’t, then no Moslem will be safe in this country ever again.’
After he had accompanied Amir to the bus stop, Karim continued walking, his mind in turmoil. It was unseasonably cold and above him in the clear air the stars looked frozen in the blackness. He thought of his father, of the orchard, of — he made no attempt to stop the names and memories arising — Saara, Danyal and Halma. Yet for the first time he was not thrown into depression or anger. Instead he felt a steely clarity.
As pieces slipped into place in his mind, it occurred to Karim that the idea he was forming was one that his father would have approved. Eventually he stopped at a phone box. Feeling suddenly confident, he fed several dollars into the slot, hunted out a card from his wallet and dialled a Brisbane number. He hoped the man would remember him.
The man must have been sitting beside the phone, because it was answered immediately. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello. We met once, some time ago. My name is Rashid Khan …’
; Later, when he phoned Ray, Karim quickly outlined what he had in mind. ‘I am afraid you will think that this is a very un-Australian idea,’ he concluded.
‘No,’ Ray said when he stopped laughing. ‘No, Ned Kelly would have been proud of you.’
‘Ned Kelly?’
‘Another time.’
‘Then you will do what I ask?’
‘Better. I will do it, then come down to Sydney. If it works, I want to be there. If it fails, then I will proudly go to gaol with you.’
‘No, Ray, I don’t think so. You see I have no intention of going to gaol.’
Karim gave him the number of the man he had called earlier and Ray promised to phone him first thing in the morning.
At the mosque, Amir had to do a lot of talking. He raised the issue of getting some men to assist him, and Mullah Qari Abdullah asked him to come and have coffee.
The mullah was blunt. ‘I am concerned that our people are not mixed up in politics.’
‘But our people are not only dying, they are being blamed. There have been attacks on them all over Australia.’
‘All the more reason why we should study and pray.’
‘I only need a few men. Someone with a car …’
‘We were given the Holy Quran for a reason, Amir. Now, let us enjoy our coffee.’
Amir knew that without Mullah Qari Abdullah’s sanction he would have no chance of support. There was, he knew, a game he could play but it was not one he had much chance of winning.
‘Mullah, I understand from my study that the Holy Quran says: And make not Allah because of your swearing by Him an obstacle to your doing good and guarding against evil and making peace between men.’
A shadow of anger passed across the mullah’s face and for an instant Amir thought he had miscalculated, that he would now experience the temper for which Mullah Qari Abdullah was rightfully famous. But the shadow was replaced by a broad smile. The mullah tugged at his beard. ‘You are a brave man, Amir. No wonder Saddam is trying to knock your people out if you are any example of their stubbornness.’
They finished their coffee and the mullah sent a man out to request support for Amir. After the man had gone, the mullah walked him to the steps of the mosque. ‘Just remember — even though you have the plan, things do not always work for good.’ He put a hand on Amir’s shoulder. ‘Sometimes we find wisdom in strange places. I just recalled the story of a famous mullah …’
‘Yes?’ Amir was relieved to see Mullah Qari Abdullah’s eyes were twinkling.
‘The mullah in question was Nasruddin. One day Mullah Nasruddin went to the market and bought a fine piece of meat. On the way home he met a friend who gave him a special recipe for the meat. Mullah Nasruddin was very happy. But then, before he got home, a large crow stole the meat from Mullah Nasruddin’s hands and flew off with it. “You thief!” Mullah Nasruddin angrily called after the departing crow. “You have stolen my meat! But you won’t enjoy it; I’ve got the recipe!” ‘
He released Amir’s shoulder. ‘I hope your recipe is a good one.’
Fossey was extremely reluctant to meet with Ray. However, if he was to avoid a blazing argument over the phone, it was probably best to see him and be done with the whole business. They agreed on the Botanical Gardens. As Fossey drove into town, he rehearsed what he was going to say. He hated confrontation, yet he knew that it couldn’t be avoided, for he fully intended to tell Ray that there was no way he was going to have anything further to do with his schemes. He had helped with getting a few deserving people into the country. But he had done enough to salve his conscience. And anyway, it seemed clear that Ray’s motivation went way beyond simple compassion. Ray was acting out a vendetta against DIMA. Well, he could do that on his own.
He was also concerned about Layla. Since their misunderstanding a couple of days earlier he had dared not broach the subject again. But once he had Ray off his back, the time would be right to sit down and tell her what he had been up to.
He parked the car. There had been overnight rain and in the gardens he dodged around puddles on the pathway, until he came to a bench nestled in the shade of an enormous Morton Bay fig, its roots snaking out in every direction like the petrified fins of giant prehistoric fish. Fossey was brushing the rainwater off the seat when he heard his name being called. He turned to see Ray walking slowly towards him, encumbered by Walter, who was doing his best to impersonate a quadruple amputee.
‘I thought it best to tell you, I’m quitting,’ Fossey said before Ray could get a word out. ‘Everything’s in place for your Iraqi family —’
‘Nice to see you, too.’ Ray’s sarcasm was naked.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve had it.’
‘That’s a pity.’ Ray sat down. ‘I thought we might have been due for a celebration.’
‘Celebration? Shit, Ray, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Me? Nothing. I would have thought getting fifty-one people out of Woomera was worth a drink.’
Fossey sat slowly and looked at him in disbelief. ‘Fifty-one people who might be carrying this damned virus. Who have probably already infected —’
‘Bullshit,’ Ray said quietly. ‘Nobody’s being infected.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Fossey said angrily.
‘Will you listen to me for a moment?’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’
‘That’s not the point. I have.’
Fossey got to his feet angrily. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I said I’m quitting. It wasn’t a request, it was a decision.’ He turned away, but had to step back quickly as a young woman in lycra shorts swerved around him, her in-line skates thrumming on the path. ‘Sorry!’ she called over her shoulder.
‘I’ve been speaking with our Mr Rashid,’ Ray said, sticking doggedly to his mild tone. ‘He has some very interesting things to say —’
‘Drop it, Ray. I said no. I mean no.’
‘Okay, but let me tell you something.’
‘What?’ Fossey shifted his weight and pulled his right foot away from Walter, who was renewing his acquaintance with his shoes. He looked across the gardens. A few students were wandering towards the nearby campus and a couple of young Aboriginal kids were having a quiet smoke on the grass. It was all so normal. And it was what he craved. Simplicity. He would go home to Layla and explain about his involvement with Ray. Maybe afterwards they could go to a movie. It was ages since they had done that.
‘I’m going to Sydney to help Rashid,’ Ray said. ‘I’ve spoken to Rabia and she’s coming as well. I just think you should know that. Of course, you’re welcome to come along.’
‘Fine. You’ve told me.’
Ray tugged at Walter’s leash to no effect, then got to his feet, brushing at the discovered dampness on the seat of his trousers. ‘You did well, Fossey.’
‘What?’
‘Really. It was a difficult call for you. I always knew that. But you jumped ship and did more than a lot of people would have. Be hard on me, fair enough, but not on yourself. Think of the good you’ve done for people like Amir and the others.’
Fossey was thrown by the affection and warmth in Ray’s voice. ‘Yeah, well …’ he said gruffly.
‘And if you change your mind about Sydney, I’ll be at Rashid’s house from this evening.’
‘I’m not changing my mind. I’ll see you.’
He walked away, feeling oddly uncomfortable, aware that Ray was watching, but when he got to the park gate he glanced over his shoulder and Ray was already halfway down the path in the other direction, the dog waddling behind. Bugger the man, he thought, then acknowledged that Ray was right. He had done some good and it was okay to feel proud about that.
PART THREE
The first thing he noticed when he walked in that afternoon was the smell of food.
‘Layla,’ he called, even though he could feel the emptiness. A quick inspection confirmed her absence. Fossey stopped at the kitchen door. For some strange reason the kitchen table had been lai
d with a cloth they only ever used for dinner parties in the lounge. It was far too large for the small table and its deep green folds reached the floor on all sides. At the single place-setting were the remnants of a meal — a large soup bowl and the remains of some flat bread. In the centre of the table Layla had placed a candle; beside it a single flower was floating in a shallow saucer. A table napkin was crumpled on the chair.
Fossey tried to read the scene but, no matter how he interpreted it, it made no sense. He wondered if it was meant for him; a message. The ritualistic feel worried him. This was so far from her normal behaviour that he wondered if she had been drinking, but the only glass in evidence was half full of water. Then he saw the large pot on the stove. Too big for a single person. Maybe she had been waiting for him and then angrily gone ahead and eaten by herself — setting up the table as a rebuke. But it was only just after three in the afternoon and Layla never ate a big lunch.
Fossey went to the stove and took the lid from the pot. He glanced in, then recoiled in horror. The lid slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. His mind refused to believe what he had seen. It was too macabre, too hideous. He had imagined that the pot contained a skull. Stupid. He steeled himself and looked again. But it refused to transform into something more benign. It was a skull. Someone — he couldn’t imagine that it was Layla — had picked it clean of flesh. The eyes had been gouged out; a portion of one ear remained; and a sliver of tongue, two thirds cut away, protruded obscenely from between dreadfully stained teeth.
For almost a minute he stood, held by those sightless sockets. He could feel the blood draining from his face and knew he must look as ashen as the revealed sections of the skull. It was the head of a small sheep or lamb. Mutton, he told himself, as he bent to retrieve the lid from the floor. Just mutton. He replaced the lid carefully and sat at the table. His fingers were trembling and he felt sick. It was then that he noticed the small book, partially covered by a tea towel, on the seat next to him. He picked it up. Tribal Riches by Zhala Hamidi. Fossey flipped it over. A sour-faced woman stared out from the rear cover with no hint of a smile. He gained the impression that Zhala was not used to posing for the camera.
The Haha Man Page 31
