On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  Even if I wanted to get rid of you?

  Nasima pinched her.

  Ow!

  So why did your family leave Afghanistan?

  They won’t tell me.

  Won’t tell you!

  Abay says I don’t need to know.

  But you do! We need reasons like we need water or air. I’ll be the best friend you ever had. I’ll find you your reason. Look sweet, now. Smile.

  What? Nasima, where are you—

  Salaam, Uncle, Nasima said cheerfully, alighting on the other side of the boat. Firuzeh, numb and clumsy, scrambled after.

  Mansour was sixteen or seventeen, he said when Nasima asked, though he looked older. The skin under his eyes had sunken into shadow.

  Why was he on this boat?

  His father.

  What happened to his father?

  He was arrested at gunpoint, stripped naked, and beaten. They returned to the house for Mansour, but his elderly neighbor had seen them coming and pounded on the door, gasping his warning. Mansour had leaped the rear wall just in time.

  Where was his mother?

  She had stayed.

  What about you? Nasima said, hopping over outstretched feet. Why’s someone like you on this ugly old boat?

  You are little girls, Mr. Hassani said. Why do you ask about these things? You’ll have bad dreams.

  Firuzeh stammered until Nasima clapped a hand over her mouth. I have nightmares already, Nasima said. So, where are you from?

  Iraq.

  And why was Mr. Hassani, Iraqi, on this boat?

  He had held political opinions.

  Dangerous ones?

  He’d been sent a warning.

  Of what kind? A threatening phone call? An angry letter?

  Mr. Hassani’s brother.

  His brother?

  Most of him, anyway. So Mr. Hassani packed a bag and obtained, through a cousin, a fake passport, a plane ticket, and the number of a friend of a friend of the cousin’s.

  And you? Nasima said to Mr. Hassani’s neighbor. Who are you?

  I am Nobody.

  Why are you here?

  We were Mandaeans, in Iran.

  We?

  I have sons your age.

  Then where are they?

  We didn’t have enough money to smuggle them too.

  Mr. Nobody began to weep. Enormous tears rolled down his leathery cheeks and sank into his beard.

  Firuzeh scooted backwards, the wood splintery against her feet.

  Where are you going? Nasima cried. We’re trying to figure out why your parents left. Which of these stories is like yours.

  I don’t want to know!

  Abay laid a warm hand on Firuzeh’s shoulder.

  What have you been up to?

  Nothing, Firuzeh said.

  Chapter Nine

  On their sixth day at sea, the typhoon came.

  What had begun as a bruise along the horizon rapidly bled across the sky. The fishermen rolled the sails tight around their bamboo masts and nailed down the tarp the passengers had raised for shade. Every few minutes they looked over their shoulders at the approaching darkness. The wind smelled raw and alive.

  The lucky ones who had gotten their hands on one of the boat’s forty-odd life jackets checked and rechecked the battered plastic buckles. Firuzeh and her family had not been victorious in the scrum.

  Soon, slanting streaks blurred the horizon.

  Then the rain began.

  Atay wrapped his arm around Firuzeh and pressed the two of them against the side of the boat. Abay did the same with Nour.

  The smooth, untroubled water of the previous day now heaved and fumed. A wave broke in pearls over the deck and hissed away. Salt spray whipped their faces. Around them, the other passengers wailed and prayed, their voices drowned out by the weltering water.

  The boat leapt. Wood groaned.

  The fishermen bailed with a bucket passed back and forth from the hold until the deck tilted and tossed the bucket holder to his knees. The bucket bounced once and vanished into the sea.

  Then the rain closed its heavy curtains upon them, and Firuzeh could barely see past her nose.

  Each breath Firuzeh drew was half water. As the boat pitched and yawed, she choked and gagged against Atay’s tight hold. Every jolt against the boat’s wood cut her skin, and the flying spray burned in the raw places.

  By some unknown mercy, the nails and planks of the boat held together. When the storm finally dissolved to an insipid rain, the passengers were left chilled, stunned, and speechless. Atay’s fist was so stiff that Abay had to rub the joints and blow on them before he could let go of Firuzeh’s shirt. Nour shivered, teeth chattering. Around the boat, people wrung small creeks from their clothes.

  Then the counting began.

  Names wavered into the air. From one end of the boat, then the other, came answering calls and benedictions to God.

  Nasima’s mother came to them, stretching out her hands: Have you seen Nasima?

  She must be somewhere, Atay said.

  I let go of her—but she’s a smart girl. She would have held on to something. Or maybe she went belowdecks. She’s very bright. That must be where she is. I’ll go see.

  Have you seen Nasima? Rahmatullah Shahsevani asked on his third circuit of the deck. His voice had the thinnest of cracks in it.

  No, but your wife went below to look.

  Delruba emerged from the hold, swaying as if the storm still tipped and tilted the boat.

  She wasn’t down there? Rahmatullah said.

  Keep looking! She might be hurt . . . She must be cold and afraid.

  Who let go of her?

  Who never held on? Nasima! Nasima, where did you go?

  Enough, Rahmatullah Shahsevani said. He caught Delruba before she could fly belowdecks again. She bit his hand, and he shook her until her jaw slackened and clacked; and like that, the light and fury left her, and she sank to her knees on the deck and keened.

  Abay rested one hand on Firuzeh’s head and another on Nour’s.

  For two days and two nights, Nasima’s mother beat her head and berated herself, her husband, and her absent sons, a lament broken only when sleep seized her here and there. Even then, she shook with hiccupping, whimpering sobs.

  Nasima’s father wilted.

  No one slept for long.

  The fishermen hung up wet maps to dry, consulted a compass, and cursed in their own language.

  The whole boat was down to one meal a day. When Abay asked for water, she was refused. Firuzeh watched and listened.

  But I’m hungry, Nour said. But I’m thirsty.

  Rostam was hungry and thirsty too, Abay said. Heroes sometimes are.

  During one of Delruba’s lulls, Firuzeh dozed and dreamed that the boards of the boat parted, dropping her down and down, past silver sea serpents and streamers of kelp, to where the water was cold and black and heavy, so heavy it crushed the air from her lungs.

  She gasped awake.

  Hush. Abay pressed a hand to Firuzeh’s forehead, then began to comb her tangled hair. Abay’s hands were so gentle, Firuzeh barely felt the snarls.

  Tell me a story, Firuzeh said.

  All right. Mullah Nasruddin once had a donkey—

  Not that sort of story.

  What sort, then?

  A story about Nasima.

  Abay drew a breath.

  I don’t know if that is kind.

  Khanem Delruba’s asleep.

  And if she wakes?

  Then tell me a story about a girl like Nasima. Whose name might be Nasima, but we don’t know.

  Once there was a girl—

  Who wore yellow leather shoes with daisies on them.

  Who had yellow flowered shoes. And she, she went on a journey to find her brothers. An evil enchanter had come knocking on their door, his shadow long and bloody behind him. However, the boys had some magic of their own, and turned into doves and escaped. But they didn’t take their sister with them. She wa
s clever, though, and hid herself until the enchanter was gone, and marked which way her brothers flew.

  Then she went after them, Firuzeh said.

  Yes. She traveled for a long time, until her shoes were dusty and rotten with holes. At night when she slept, she could hear her brothers calling to her, because they were also lost and looking for her. They didn’t mean to leave her behind, but they had been scared.

  Like Nasima’s mother calling Nasima’s name. Over and over. So Nasima will hear and come back to her. Nasima can swim, you know.

  Janam—

  Does she find her brothers?

  Of course she does, Nour said around the thumb in his mouth. This is Abay’s story. If you want death and fighting and the good stuff, you have to ask Atay.

  Shut up, Nour.

  You shut up.

  No, Abay said, putting the comb back into her bag. She finds them because a good sister will always find her lost brother. Or brothers. And the other way around. You remember that.

  But Abay, Firuzeh said. What about your sisters and brothers? In Iran?

  Land! came a cry: a dark figure at the prow, waving his arms, overcome. There’s land, look!

  And there was.

  Chapter Ten

  The boat’s hull scraped, bumped, and crunched against coral, flinging them forward. Firuzeh, clambering upright, found that her hands and knees and skirt were wet.

  We’re sinking! Nour shouted, trying to plug the leaks with his toes.

  One of the fishermen splashed over the side of the boat, stood up, and laughed. The sea, blue as Firuzeh’s name, came up to his chest.

  Other men jumped overboard as well and began wading to shore, balancing their few belongings on their heads. Atay joined them.

  Come on, he said to Abay, beckoning. The water’s warm.

  She shuddered and hung back, pulling her scarf tight.

  Fine, you can stay there, Atay said, splashing her. Nour! How about you?

  Once he had ferried Nour to land on his shoulders, he returned for Firuzeh. She swayed while he carried her and tottered when he put her down. It was a sorry excuse for an island, she thought. A modest stretch of white coral sand ran upwards to sedges and a scattering of salt-bleached, sea-carved trees.

  Behind her, Atay had succeeded in coaxing Abay into the water.

  The fishermen brought the last seven packets of instant noodles and three jerry cans of water ashore. One by one, the remaining passengers flocked raggedly onto the beach. The boat, jammed nose-first in the sandbar, rocked softly with every wave. Most of its blue and yellow paint was gone. It seemed ready to spring apart at the lightest touch.

  Atay and the other men conferred.

  Race you! Nour shouted to the boys, and they were off, white sand fountaining in their wake.

  Firuzeh followed more slowly, digging her toes deep. She kicked up a lump of something pale, porous, and light as air, then a tiger-striped nautilus the size of her head.

  Water! Nour shouted. I found water!

  By the time Firuzeh reached them at the well, Mansour had slapped Nour’s cupped palms apart, droplets flying. The water was perfectly clear and cold, and she could see a long way down through the coral. But a sign with a skull and crossbones hung over it.

  You dummy, Firuzeh said, afraid.

  I wouldn’t have let him, Mansour said.

  Nour said, But I’m thirsty!

  We’ll keep looking.

  The island was not very large. Before long, Firuzeh spotted Atay and six other men near a rubber dinghy that had been hauled onto the beach, and on the far side of the dinghy, binoculars around their necks, three men and two women, pink and peeling from the sun.

  The two groups stared at each other. Hello, Nour chirped, and all the boys echoed him. Hi. Hello.

  Hello, said one of the pink women, who wore a shirt with white ferns on it and plastic flowers in her ears. She tried a few more sentences, waving her binoculars and flapping her arms, but stopped at their expressions of incomprehension. She turned and started to argue with her group. Then she put her shoulder to the dinghy and shoved it toward the water. With grimaces, the rest joined in.

  Wait here, she mimed to Firuzeh and the others, as one pink man made the motor growl.

  They waited, shuffling uncertainly, watching them go. The dinghy sputtered off through the turquoise water.

  What kind of people are they?

  Tourists.

  Here?

  No, you’re right. They must be shipwrecked too.

  Or lost.

  But they have a boat.

  You couldn’t get far in that thing.

  Before long, the dinghy reappeared. It puttered up into the shallows, and the woman in the fern shirt handed down a plastic jug of water and a fat canvas bag with twelve oranges inside.

  Firuzeh did the math of twelve oranges for one hundred twenty-four people and swallowed, her throat dry.

  The birders waved and smiled wide enough to show their molars, then spun up the grumbling motor and sped off.

  When they returned to their landing point, Atay divided the oranges into fractions, a taste to each person, then the orange peels as well. The children were allowed a mouthful of water each, which Firuzeh held in her mouth as long as she could, letting a few drops slide down her throat at a time.

  This was not enough to ward off hunger.

  Nor anger.

  That night, as the fishermen stretched out on torn sails to sleep, the passengers surrounded them.

  What is this place? Where are we?

  Where’s the food and water?

  You brought us here to die!

  Atay grabbed one fisherman by the shoulder and shook him. The fisherman grunted, rolled over, and plunged his fingers into his ears.

  You have nothing to say? My son’s crying from thirst!

  Be patient, the oldest of the fishermen said in crumbs of Arabic. You thirst, we thirst. But a ship comes tomorrow.

  You’re lying.

  Then kill me. But kill me tomorrow.

  The oldest fisherman turned onto his stomach, pillowed his head on his arms, and almost immediately began to snore.

  Firuzeh curled up on the grassy sand. Above her, stars she did not recognize blazed in the black vastness. A long time passed before she slept.

  In the morning, a commotion.

  There, Abay said, brushing sand from Firuzeh’s hair. Southeast.

  Nour yawned. What’s going on? What’s for breakfast?

  Look.

  Gray gleaming water slid over the beach and withdrew. The sun burned gold and jagged on the waves, peppering Firuzeh’s vision with green and purple blots. She squinted through the fence of her fingers and saw a sharp dark shape chipping the rim of the sky.

  What’s that?

  Abay said: A ship.

  From the Australian Navy, Atay added.

  Nour leapt to his feet and danced, kicking sand in their faces. Atay lifted him up, his short legs still pedaling.

  Any minute now, Atay said, radiant. Bahar, Nour, Firuzeh—we’ve reached Australia.

  Fifteen at a time, the passengers were clipped into life jackets, loaded onto fiberglass boats, and conveyed to the ship. The sailors on the boats wore neat gray uniforms and crisp boots and would not look them in the eye.

  A safe country—can you imagine? Abay hugged Firuzeh and Nour. No bombs. No checkpoints. No soldiers or Taliban.

  Think of the house we’ll live in, Atay said.

  Oh, we don’t need much. A bedroom, a stove—

  Dream bigger than that. We’re going to Australia.

  A guest room? A garden. Omid, I want a garden.

  And you’ll have one, Atay said. I’ll work harder than anyone. You’ll live like Princess Soraya at home.

  Don’t talk nonsense, Abay said, laughing. What do you want, Firuzeh?

  Firuzeh thought of Nasima. A friend. No, two friends.

  I want a kangaroo! Nour shouted.

  A black sailor raised one
eyebrow at the familiar word. Kangaroos, you say? Bet you’ve never seen one before.

  Kangaroo, yes! I want one! Where?

  We’ve got loads, mate. Stick out your hand and you’ll catch one.

  Roy! Quit talking to the illegals and give me a hand here!

  The sailor shrugged, winked at them, and went off to secure the lines.

  Once the boats had been cranked aboard the ship and the passengers assembled beneath antennae as tall as trees, the sailors doled out water and dry rations. Careless of crumbs, Firuzeh crammed her mouth full and gulped water until she couldn’t. The food sank into her belly and warmed and weighed her down.

  When, some time later, the ship’s enormous engines shut off, Atay had to carry her over the gangway, snorting and mumbling in her sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fragments broke her sleep. The hollow sound of footsteps on a long dock, water clapping below. The familiar judder and rumble of a bus engine. A silvery web of fences parted to swallow them. Firuzeh blinked her eyes open, saw, and forgot.

  When she woke up again, breathing air so humid it dewed her lips, she was in a tent, on a bunk that quivered and creaked. A hanging sheet partitioned their side from—she flicked the sheet aside—a Sri Lankan family’s.

  Firuzeh stepped outside and saw rows of canvas tents, a single tree writhing up among them, and a fence running as far as the eye could see.

  Where are we? she said. Is this Australia?

  If it is, Nour said, Australia is very ugly.

  Atay said, This is Nauru. We’re not in Australia yet.

  Naur-o? Nour-u?

  Yes, an island of your own.

  We have to wait a bit longer, Abay said.

  How long? Nour said.

  Only a few days, I’m sure, Atay said. Then you’ll see your kangaroos.

  The bunks wobble, Firuzeh said.

  It’s too hot, Nour said.

  And—agh—there’s mosquitoes!

  Abay said, Look! You can see the ocean from here. Why don’t we think of this as a vacation? Like we’re rich and on holiday—just for a few days.

  Like how that fishing boat was supposed to be a cruise ship? Firuzeh said, flattening another mosquito against her arm.