The line moved as slowly as a lazy tortoise. Mahtab felt the muscles in her throat tighten. Ice stone in the belly again. Trapdoor throat. She stared at the people around her. Were they each as scared as she was? Would the man let them through? What if he took their papers and would not give them back?
The man in the uniform took the papers from the woman in front of them. He held them up to the light as if checking for some detail that wasn’t immediately visible. He leant forward and spoke to the woman. She shrugged and said nothing. Mahtab lowered Soraya to the floor. Were all those papers false too? Did they also say that the bearer was Turkish and travelling for a holiday? The man in the bazaar in Pakistan had told Mahtab’s mother that this was the best way. It was the way her father had done it. The line moved forward. Mahtab whispered to Farhad and Soraya, ‘Don’t say a word.’
They rolled their eyes.
The man took the papers Mum handed him. He flicked through them and said something to her in a low voice that Mahtab couldn’t understand.
She replied and he turned back to the papers and went through them more slowly. One by one he held them up, turned them over and placed them back on the desk. Then he shook his head.
How could he? Mahtab whispered a prayer. If he said they couldn’t go on this plane, where would they go? What would they do? They could not go back. They could not stay here. They knew no one. Ahead of them, people were disappearing through the door and down another long corridor. Mahtab wanted to push the barrier aside and run after them.
The man coughed and made a gesture with his hand. Mahtab’s mother nodded and reached into the pocket of her coat.
Money. It was money he wanted. It was what they all wanted. He knew precisely where they were from.
One of his hands curled around the notes her mother placed on the table, the other brought the stamp down on the papers.
They gathered up their bags and followed the others into the long, dark corridor.
This aeroplane was smaller than the previous one. It was parked out on its own and Mahtab and the other passengers had to walk along a yellow line, past larger, sleeker planes decorated with pictures of purple and yellow flowers. One had red circles and another one had strange green and blue symbols that Mahtab couldn’t understand. The wind swirled the women’s long cloaks around their legs. A metal staircase led to the front door and it shuddered under the heavy tread of the man ahead of Mahtab as she pulled herself up. Inside, the men all had to duck their heads and even Mahtab could touch the roof when she stretched up her hand.
The roar of the take-off this time was not that of an angry lion but Mahtab still found herself clutching the armrest and beginning her counting. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven … As the plane climbed higher and higher she slackened her grip and lost track of the numbers. Had her father flown on this same plane? Had he got this far? Had he gone further? What would he think if he knew that they were in the air, kites with no string? She closed her eyes and pictured his face. He said he might shave his beard off once he got to Australia. What would he look like? Would she know him?
The plane shuddered. It vibrated from side to side as if it really was a kite and the boy controlling it was running first one way and then another, tugging and releasing it into the air, then calling it back. As if a giant cat was swiping at them like a ball of wool. Then the plane dropped. Mahtab’s stomach leapt to her throat. Farhad grabbed her hand. Soraya cried out. From all over the plane came the sound of children crying and adults praying.
‘Allah o Akbar. God is great.’
Up and down, side to side, the plane lurched its way in the darkness. Mahtab clutched at the armrest, digging her fingernails into the vinyl surface.
Dad. Dad. Why did you leave us? Why did I persuade Mum to leave Pakistan? A luggage rack ahead of her burst open and bags of clothes tumbled forward. The attendant who had been walking up and down calming the passengers sat down on the floor.
‘Are we going to crash?’ whispered Farhad.
‘I don’t know.’
The voice of the captain came on then, calm and matter-of-fact, but he was speaking in a language that no one understood and so the crying and the wailing continued.
Every few minutes the tossing of the plane lessened, the sounds inside quietened and Mahtab felt the pressure of Farhad’s fingers die away. Her stomach settled back into its normal position. Then it would begin again, the feeling that they were a tiny scrap of metal being blown around by a great wind or a creature taking pleasure in the game.
In front of Mahtab was the woman travelling with her young son. Mahtab heard the deep guttural sound of her being sick, the splashing of whatever had been in her stomach hitting the floor. Her own stomach was empty and for once she was relieved.
Finally the shuddering and bouncing stopped.
Mahtab realised that the plane was now continuously level. The captain’s voice came on again and the attendant got up and began moving around, picking up the clothes and belongings and cleaning the floor.
‘Look,’ said Farhad, ‘look.’ He pointed through the window and Mahtab could see, far below in the moonlight, an expanse of water and on it the dark shapes of ships. ‘That’s where we’ll be.’
Mahtab had never seen such dark green. She peered from the window of the plane as it slowed and edged across the runway. Green everywhere: trees beyond the fence, shrubs in huge pots along the front of the building and closely clipped grass along the edge of the tarmac.
A tall, bearded man in Arab dress met them. He wore a gold watch at his wrist and gold rings on four of his fingers. He spoke only to the three men from Iraq who were with the group and they in turn spoke to their wives, who passed the messages along to the women who travelled without husbands.
‘He’s taking us to a hotel,’ said Mum. ‘We’re all going on the boat in a few days and there will be more people too.’
‘I’m starving,’ said Farhad.
‘Me too.’ Soraya tugged at her mother’s hand.
‘We’ll just have to wait. I’m sure there’ll be food when we get there.’ She turned to talk further with the other women.
‘Let’s play a game.’ Mahtab crouched down beside her younger sister and brother. ‘I must be the cook and I’ve told you that you can have whatever you want in the whole world and I’ll cook it for you. Doesn’t matter how much it costs or anything.’
‘Kebab,’ said Farhad. ‘Juicy, dripping kebab with tomatoes and lettuce and bits of onion and lots of bread and some sauce.’
‘Meatballs,’ said Soraya. ‘With yummy sauce that’s got all Grandma’s special things in it and there’s lots of bread to soak up everything and there’ll be rice too, yellow rice and yoghurt, we forgot yoghurt.’
‘Yes, yoghurt,’ said Farhad, ‘and you can have some too, Mahtab.’ He rubbed his stomach. ‘And there’ll be tea and maybe a big, big bit of watermelon at the end.’
‘Apples,’ Soraya stretched her hands wide, ‘this many apples from the tree at home and we can chop them up with more yoghurt.’ She dropped her hands and the smile left her face. ‘But I’m hungry now, and you’re just pretending.’ She cried then and Mahtab put an arm around her. Soraya’s head rested on her shoulder. Farhad stood silently watching.
They were led out to a bus which drove along a road high above the surrounding land. Mahtab looked down on pools of water: water on open fields, water around houses, water flowing down gutters. Then they were off the high road and driving through streets choked with traffic: cars, trucks and motorbikes. Mahtab stared at women in tight trousers riding on the backs of the bikes, their bare arms clasped tightly around the waist of the man in front of them, their hair loose and flying behind them. How could they do that? Would it be like this in Australia? Bicycles weaving their way in and out of the traffic, huge buildings with their tops disappearing above the level of the window. They stopped then started. Stopped again. Horns blared. Only the bicycles and people moved. Farhad pressed his nose against the
glass and pointed and laughed. Then they were off again, pushing their way through this sea of people.
They turned off the road and drove along a gravel path and through a large gateway. Gardens, dense with scarlet and golden flowers big enough to shelter birds, lined the drive up to a stone building. It was surrounded by wide verandahs with striped coloured blinds that flapped in the spaces between the stone columns.
Farhad leapt up but Mahtab sat staring at the gardens, drinking in the colour as the group stood and began to take down luggage and file along the centre of the bus. She was the last to leave.
At the front office their mother was given a metal ring with a key and a wooden token with a number burnt into it. They walked down a cool, tiled hall and then onto one of the wide verandahs. In front of them was a small courtyard and to their right the room that was to be theirs. It was huge, larger than any room Mahtab had seen. They kicked off their sandals and dropped their bags on the floor. They stretched out on the beds beneath a fan that turned slowly, moving cool air over their sticky bodies.
‘I’m going to lie here and never ever get up again,’ said Mahtab.
‘Not even for food?’ Mum pushed herself up on her elbow. ‘There is a meal waiting for us in half an hour.’
‘Maybe for food.’
They washed and changed and then found their way back around the verandahs and through the halls to the dining area. Steaming rice and vegetables were served. They ate quickly, glancing around at those they’d travelled with and many strangers as well.
After the meal, Mahtab sat in the courtyard outside their room. She trailed her fingers in the small rock pool, letting her hand be carried by the water and brush against the dangling fern fronds. Tiny golden fish darted between the rocks. Ruby-red flowers lined a narrow path of stones that led to the other side of the space.
Had Dad stayed here? Had he sat like this, staring into the water, thinking of his children as she sat thinking of him? Where was he now? Why hadn’t he called? What had happened to him?
Chapter Seven
AFTER BREAKFAST, Mahtab’s mother stayed with the other adults in the dining room to speak to the man who had met them at the airport. Mahtab took Soraya and Farhad and went towards the door.
‘Can Ahmad come too?’ Farhad waved to the boy who stood holding onto his mother’s leg. She was the pregnant woman who had been ill on the plane.
Mahtab nodded and Farhad called the boy, who could have been his twin: the same straight hair that fell into his eyes, arms burnt brown from the sun, a grin that showed a tiny chip on one of his front teeth.
The boys lay, heads together on the tiles beside the rock pool.
‘We’re going on a big boat soon,’ said Ahmad.
‘We are too,’ Farhad was quick to reply.
‘And we’re going to meet my dad.’
‘So are we.’
‘Maybe our dads know each other and they’ll come and meet us.’
‘Maybe we’ll live in the same street. And we’ll go to school together and we can get kites and play with them.’
‘My kite will cut yours.’
‘No. Mine will win. Your kite will fly away as high as our plane.’
The two boys rolled onto their backs in the warm sun and followed the clicking movements of geckos that crawled along the rafter above them.
After about an hour, their mother joined them.
‘The agent has gone to organise the boat,’ she said. ‘He is from Egypt and he says he does this all the time. He says we can go in a week.’
‘What do we do for the next week?’ said Farhad.
‘You boys can play – run around, burn off your energy,’ said their mother. ‘I’m going to get clean and rest. Ahmad’s mother has already gone to lie down. She needs to relax. Her baby will come in a month or so.’
That night, Mahtab woke to a frightened calling and banging on the door. Ahmad stood there in the darkness, cheeks tear-stained. ‘Mumma, Mumma,’ he cried.
‘What is it?’ Soraya sat up on her bed, rubbing her eyes, as their mother spoke to the boy in a low voice and dressed quickly. She left with him but was back in minutes.
‘That baby isn’t waiting for Australia. I’m going with her to the hospital. Look after the children, Mahtab.’
They waited all through the night. At first Mahtab tucked them in together in her mother’s bed, but when they refused to sleep she hugged them tightly and told them a story.
‘There is a little baby,’ she said, ‘born in Australia and its mumma is very tired because she has so many other babies to look after so the dadda in the family decides that he will buy a kangaroo and it will be the one to carry the baby in its pocket. So, every morning, the mumma feeds the baby and she wraps that baby up and she puts him in the kangaroo’s pocket and the kangaroo stays out in the sunshine and the little baby is as warm as if it was a loaf of bread just out of the oven. When he’s hungry the kangaroo knows and brings the baby to the chair where that mumma is resting and she feeds him again and then just pops him back in.’
‘Is that kangaroo gentle?’ asked Soraya, sleepily.
‘It’s the gentlest nursemaid in the world.’
‘My dadda will do just that,’ said Ahmad.
The children slept then. Mahtab watched over them, her head filled with the strange animal she had spoken of. Where did these crazy stories come from? Were there really creatures like that out there? Was there really the place her father had told her of? Was it the stuff only of story?
In the morning their mothers had still not returned. No one spoke to them at breakfast. No one asked where their mothers were. When they had finished, they wandered along the corridors, not going directly to their own rooms but trying to take in the whole building. Mahtab said the numbers of the rooms in her head as she walked. They were working backwards from number one hundred and eighty and into her mind flashed the lurching of the truck, the slamming of doors, the crunching of gravel, the cold, cold feeling of her stomach tightening and the muscles in her throat closing over.
She started to run then, through the corridor out onto a verandah and around the edges of the building, past courtyards, past huge pots of purple creeper, past surprised old women sweeping the stones with their straw brooms. The others raced after her, calling her to stop, but she kept on running until she reached their own room, number sixty-one, and she dropped onto the warm sunlit tiles.
She was still there, sticky in the heat, when her mother came back.
‘The baby is fine and Hamida is too,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long night.’
‘Where’s my mumma?’ Ahmad’s face was all wrinkled as if he was about to cry.
‘She’s resting in the hospital.’ Mahtab’s mother pulled the boy onto her lap. ‘And you have a baby sister, a beautiful little girl.’
‘I wanted a brother.’
‘You wait till you see her. She’s so gorgeous. And your mum told me to give you a big hug and a kiss.’ She pulled him closer and pressed her lips against his cheek.
Ahmad pushed himself away from her. ‘Chase me. Come on,’ he called to Farhad.
Mahtab made tea then and she and her mother sat on the woven matting, sipping from the glass cups.
‘That new baby brings joy.’ Mum put her glass down and fanned herself with the end of her scarf. ‘All of that family are gone except Hamida and her husband, who is in Australia.’
‘All dead?’
‘All dead.’ Her shoulders dropped and she let out a long sigh.
Mahtab knew that her mother was thinking of her family and of Grandpa. In her mind, she saw again the days and days of weeping and crying when that death came. She heard the anxious whispering and the conversations cut short whenever she entered the room and she knew the fear in her parents’ faces as they talked of their long journey ahead. Most of all she remembered her silent father, the bruises on his face and chest, the raised welts on his back.
‘Mum, where do you think Dad is?’
&nb
sp; ‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you think something terrible has happened to him?’
‘I don’t want to think about that. Let’s think about Hamida and her baby. They can be part of our family. We must help her when she comes back.’
Hamida came the night before the coaches were to take them to the boat. Her tiny daughter was strapped across her body, wrapped in an Indonesian shawl. The little one, still nameless, slept, while everyone admired her shock of black hair, her long, elegant lashes and the exquisite perfection of her tiny ears.
‘See, Mahtab,’ said her mother, ‘they are like shells, beautiful little shells. That’s how you were when you were a baby.’
The baby slept in her mother’s arms the next morning as the group assembled at the front of the hotel. Two coaches were waiting. The Egyptian man, wearing spotless white robes and wrap-around sunglasses, his gold gleaming, yelled orders and then checked names as each family came forward and placed their luggage on board.
‘Will we see Dad tonight?’ asked Soraya.
‘Not tonight. The trip takes a few days. But we are getting closer.’
The coaches raced along the freeway.
They were headed for a port town south-east of Jakarta. They had just left the city’s outskirts and were into the stretches of farmland when they heard a siren and a police van drew alongside the coach.
‘God preserve us.’ Mahtab’s mother pulled her veil across her face and whispered further prayers.
After a moment, their driver stopped and then two policemen came onto the coach and spoke with the Egyptian man. He climbed down with them and Mahtab watched as he waved his hands, pointing to the coach and then in the direction that they were headed. Everyone was silent.
For fifteen minutes the argument continued. Then the policemen turned and walked away. The Egyptian man spat on the ground and stormed back onto the coach.
He spoke to the group in Arabic, flinging the words into the air. One of the men stood next to him and translated into Dari.
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