On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  Nour let a hungry one settle on him. Mansour says the fence is fresh. He says this place smells like money, and that means we’ll stay here forever. Why does he say that if we’re leaving soon?

  Atay said, That silly boy. He argued when they were collecting our mobiles. They had to push him against the wall, like a criminal, to take away his. Only thinking about himself. We can’t let them form bad opinions of us—

  Abay said, After what that boy’s lived through, he imagines dark things easily. That’s all.

  Atay said, You shouldn’t be hanging around Mansour. He’ll get into trouble sooner or later.

  For dinner, they followed a stream of bodies to the mess tent, where they sat down on plastic chairs at a plastic table to eat, with plastic forks that twisted and bent when applied. Everyone received square white slices of bread and lumps of leathery chicken.

  If only I had a tandoor, Abay sighed. Even a pan. She gave one slice of her bread to Nour, and he stuffed it in his mouth.

  These chickens must have been bored out of their brains, Firuzeh said, chewing and chewing. You can taste it.

  Have I raised you to talk about your food like that?

  We’ll be out soon, Atay said. In a few weeks, maybe.

  Nour said: Abay, are you still eating?

  Abay handed him her plate, and Nour dug in.

  Let’s go wash, Abay suggested, when they were all done.

  Strangers pointed the way to the ablutions block: down a row of tents, then a left, then a right. The lines stretching out of each door dissolved as they approached. Men and women groused in various languages. One small boy held up his shirt and squatted right there.

  A thick stink surrounded them. The air effervesced with flies.

  What’s the matter? Abay called out.

  A woman shouted back: No water!

  That can’t be right.

  See for yourself.

  Firuzeh followed her mother into the sour ablutions block, stepping carefully across the slick cement.

  Abay jerked at the tap handles, one after another, spinning all four pairs loose. No water flowed. She stared at them.

  No water—

  I miss Kabul, Firuzeh said as they returned to their tent.

  Don’t say that.

  You could pump water on the street—

  Abay stooped for a handful of sandy soil and rubbed it briskly between her fingers.

  See? she said. Good enough for now. Only a month or so until they take us to Australia.

  At midnight, guards barged into their tent, swinging torch beams.

  Up! they barked. Head count! SHU 106, 107, 108, 109!

  Here, Atay said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The guards snorted, shoved aside the sheet, and stormed into their neighbors’ section.

  At 6 a.m., their torches blazed into the tent again.

  Wake up! Head count!

  Midnight.

  2 a.m.

  6 a.m.

  Midnight.

  They’re like robots, Nour said. They never sleep.

  They have shifts, stupid.

  Shut up, SHU 107.

  You shut up, SHU 106.

  Chapter Twelve

  Every day the bread and rice and chicken.

  Every night, Firuzeh flinched awake at 2 a.m., whether the guards had come or not. Then she lay still, her heart pounding, for hours.

  For the same reason, she rarely slept past six. It was difficult to keep her eyes open during the day, but the heat made napping miserable.

  She missed school, and the crisp taste of Kabuli onions and grapes, and the balloon man dragging his painted bouquet. She missed Sheringol and Homaira and even the boys who shied rocks at her after school, as punishment for knowing too many right answers.

  Deep lines wore into Abay’s face. Atay grew hoarse in his declarations of impending departure, until one day he fell abruptly silent.

  The days passed, gray and indifferent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Upon their resettlement in Australia, Jawed and Khairullah had first bunked in a nine-person flat, three men to a room, with people coming and going constantly, so the two beds in each room never cooled. For all its noise, for all that they had to pass sideways in the corridor, that flat had been fitted with a precious landline. The residents dropped coins into the jar beside the phone whenever they called home, wherever home was.

  Then there had been a three-person flat, a quieter and easier place to sleep, where Jawed and Khairullah shared a prepaid mobile. Once a week, between construction jobs, they called home and told Nasima about the shops that sold lollies in every colour, and the brilliant blue water of the Indian Ocean, like a great jewel set in a bezel of white sand. They assured their parents and were reassured in turn that the entire family was in good health, no troubles at all. Then the boys told their parents how much to expect that week.

  It was Khairullah, the older one, who had the idea of buying a package of lollies each time one or the other had a dollar to spare. Box by box and bar by bar, they assembled a small wall of sweets in their room. Every time Khairullah added a Violet Crumble or a bag of strawberry clouds to the pile, he put his fists on his hips and laughed.

  I can see her now, he said, can’t you?

  When Nasima arrived, she would rip wrappers and tear apart paper boxes, eating until her tongue was striped green and blue and her upper lip smeared with chocolate.

  Jawed, three years younger than Khairullah, examined the expiration dates, and when they were a day or two away, would bring the chocolate bar or Cherry Ripe to his brother and pull a pleading face.

  Oh, all right, Khairullah always said. They split the lollies between them, tasting tart partedness on their tongues.

  The last call thrummed their mobile while they were on the bus to work.

  We’re leaving, Nasima said breathlessly; then their father commandeered the phone.

  Thank you for the money, he said. Do not send any more. We’ve made arrangements with the man who smuggled you. All of us will join you in Australia, in that place you said—Perth. We’ll call when we go.

  Two days later, Jawed dropped their mobile into the sea.

  Khairullah had suggested they walk the fifteen kilometres from Scarborough to their flat in Mosman Park to save on fares. Jawed had resisted, then insisted on taking the beach, never mind the sand infiltrating their shoes and gritting the skin between their toes. The water gleamed turquoise and tourmaline.

  Within ten minutes Jawed had run onto one of the rocky moles that jutted out into the sea, whooping and leaping like a man possessed. On either side of him, waves flung up fans of feathery lace. Water pooled in the hollows of the barnacled rocks. Jawed turned to Khairullah, arms wide.

  Then his foot skidded. He slipped and splayed. The mobile slid from his pocket, rebounded off a rock, and fell into the sea.

  Ah, fuck, Jawed said, feeling his bruised bum. Another wave shattered over him, and spray dripped in rivulets down his dark hair.

  Khairullah advanced onto the rocks, legs locked, hands braced for a fall. The sight of so much water still frightened him.

  Idiot! he shouted. Are you hurt?

  Ooh, it hurts everywhere.

  I’ll—I’ll come get you. Khairullah edged forward along the mole, prodding each algal rock to test its slickness.

  Nah, I’m fine.

  Jawed crawled to his feet and hobbled and hopped to his brother.

  Nothing broken?

  Nope. But I lost the mobile.

  You lost the—

  Didn’t you see? Boop, oop! There it went. It’s a shame about the credit, I think we had seventy-five cents left.

  Khairullah punched him in the gut. He doubled over.

  Agh! What was that for?

  Did you write down Baba’s number anywhere?

  It’s on the phone—oh.

  And when they call the number they have for us again—

  Maybe a fish will pick up, Jawed said.

  Even if we h
ad the money. Which we don’t. Even if we bought and loaded a new mobile straightaway. How in the world would we call them?

  Won’t they be travelling for a while? They might not even think to call.

  They said they’d call right before they left.

  Oh. Right.

  Now they’ll think we’re, what, dead? In prison? Sick? Hurt?

  Maman will think all those things at once. She’ll fling her hands over her face and wail, O my children! Is there no God? Sick, hurt, dead, and imprisoned! How much can a mother bear?

  You have no right to make jokes, Khairullah said. You’ve lost our mobile and Baba’s number.

  What, do you want me to dive for it? Lala, I don’t want to. The water’s cold.

  Khairullah folded his arms and thought. We’ll have to hope they try the old number. And that someone at the flat figures it out. Do we have Zaman’s contact?

  Yes, I saved it on the phone.

  Khairullah kicked a vicious arc of sand.

  It’s like they’re in space, and we’ve lost the signal, he said. They can’t reach us. We can’t reach them. So how—

  I’ll take a bus to our old place, Jawed said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. Someone will remember me. I’ll ask them to tell Baba if he calls. And to write down his number and give it to us.

  They still have to think of calling the old place.

  They will. Before they call a funeral director, at least.

  What did I say about joking, eh?

  I’m serious!

  Fine. And if you weren’t being serious?

  I’d say we buy all the chocolate in Perth and put it in a pile. Nasima will find us by the smell. Straight across the ocean, dragging the boat. Hello troublemakers, where are the lollies you promised me?

  She must have grown.

  What if she’s grown as tall as your chin? Or taller! What if she grows taller than you?

  Then she’s eating well. I’ll punch anyone who complains.

  The dunes on their left bristled with spinifex and saltbush, striped here and there with paths to the road. Glowering rain clouds stitched themselves to the sea. They walked side by side, Jawed whistling, Khairullah staring west through the clouds, past the heartbreaking blue of the ocean. He looked until he saw the whitewashed rooms of the family home, and the trees in the compound—a crooked almond and a spreading pear—and a little girl climbing into the pear for a nestful of speckled eggs.

  They’ll find us, Khairullah said, shivering. They must.

  Is that rain?

  Let’s walk faster.

  When they had gone, a raindrop fell and cratered the white sand. Then another. Soon the double line of footprints washed away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  One hot, feverish, humming night, Firuzeh turned over and over on the lower bunk, trailing her fingers in the dirt, then flinging an arm over her sweaty face. Her clothes pinched and chafed. The blanket itched. When a mosquito sang beside her ear, she thrashed at it.

  You know, Nasima said, I feel bad for you.

  The drowned girl sat on the side of the bunk, face pale in the gloom, as if she wore her own scrap of moonlight. Her hair was wet and braided with kelp, pinned here and there with fishbone combs.

  The mosquito whined again. Firuzeh slapped her pillow. Hey, you’re the one who died.

  I went quick. You’ll take ages.

  She laid a cool hand against Firuzeh’s cheek.

  I mean look at you.

  Did you come just to gloat about dying?

  I would never. We’re friends, Firuzeh. You forgot, but I promised. I wanted to see how you were doing.

  Now you know. You should go to your parents. They miss you. They never stop talking about you.

  I tried, Nasima said, but they didn’t see me. Like when I was alive. I was a daughter-shaped space in the universe. You feed it. You put shoes and dresses on it. You raise it properly, like a sheep, so you can take it to market someday. But you don’t see her, you don’t see your daughter, not really. Not the way you see your sons. Who are worth something. Who’ll work someday.

  So why can I—

  You saw through the bullshit. Plus, you don’t really think I’m dead.

  Of course you’re—

  So why tell yourself stories about girls named Nasima who have adventures on the seafloor?

  Nasima laughed, a low and watery sound.

  You kept me awake with your loud bright dreams.

  I didn’t mean to.

  They eyed each other, Firuzeh damp with sweat and the blood of crushed mosquitoes, Nasima dripping and steaming with seawater.

  Can you go back—to sleep? Firuzeh ventured. Can I—is there anything I can—

  Oh, I’m not ready to forgive you yet. But you can go back to sleep.

  Nasima reached out and pressed a finger against Firuzeh’s left eyelid, then the right.

  There. That’s as much as I can do for you.

  What—Firuzeh yawned—what did—

  Chapter Fifteen

  There’s a bus, Abay said. Her foot tapped the packed earth.

  Firuzeh glanced away from the beetle creeping along her bunk. A bus?

  What good is a bus? Atay said. What we need is a boat.

  A plane, Nour begged. Please, no more boats.

  A bus to town, Abay said. That I can ride. We need things—have you seen our daughter’s shoes?

  They all looked at Firuzeh, who flushed. On her right foot, the seam in the fake leather had opened, and the shoe’s upper flapped like a mouth full of toes.

  And with what money will you buy our daughter shoes? Atay said.

  At this, Abay undid the knots in her skirts and performed magic tricks between the mattress and bunk, conjuring a respectable mound of coins.

  Dishwashing, she explained, when there’s water. And helping with odds and ends in the kitchen. It’s not much—

  Jewel among women, Atay said, and kissed her forehead. We’ll go to town!

  Yes, well. The bus leaves tomorrow. That’s the only time this week. But I’m supposed to be washing dishes after lunch. So if you, dear, dear husband, could—

  Take the children to town?

  —report to the kitchen at half past noon. Say you’re my husband. That would mean another few cents for us. You put me in charge of the household for a reason, she added. When you bargain, the price goes up.

  And the children?

  Will stay here. And keep out of trouble. It’s not easy to get on that bus, Abay said, vanishing the coins one by one. There’s a lottery.

  Take Nour, at least. So he can look out for you. You’ll be a man for your mother, won’t you?

  Yes, Atay, Nour said.

  But— Firuzeh said.

  He can sit in your lap, Atay said.

  That’s true—

  It shouldn’t be a problem.

  Firuzeh said again, But what about—

  I know your shoe size. I can take one with me, to be sure. Maybe we’ll get an ice cream, Nour, if you behave. Would you like that?

  Nour squealed and hopped from foot to foot.

  Firuzeh crossed her arms, slouched, and seethed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Up up up, Nour, Abay sang, sweet as a bulbul. We’re going to town and the bus won’t wait.

  Nour squirmed in Abay’s arms as she wiped his face. Always smudges on his chin. One of the mysteries of small boys.

  Firuzeh would never wriggle and yelp. Firuzeh knew better. If she was getting a cold sweet suck of ice cream, she would have earned it through good behavior—she would never kick Abay’s arm like that.

  Once the two of them left the tent, taking the injustice of their joy with them, Firuzeh dressed herself with deliberate slowness, as befitted someone on an important errand, more important than shoes and ice cream. Then she devoted herself to kicking a stick around the fenced perimeter of the camp.

  The stick scribbled snakes in the dust as she went. One, two, three. The sun baked dark the back of her
neck like bread.

  It never mattered that Firuzeh had been top of her class; or that she sometimes listened, maybe even half the time, when Abay and Atay asked her to be quiet and stop singing; or that she only pinched Nour or pulled his hair when he really, truly, and deeply deserved it. No one struck medals for her sacrifices. No one even mentioned them. Nour got the fussing and the kisses, the ice cream and sweets.

  Mosquitoes hummed in her ears. The tents fluttered drably.

  From one of the tents came mewling and low grunting and a rhythmic thump and creak. Firuzeh paused, then lifted the tent flap with her stick.

  A man lay atop a woman in a lower bunk, his trousers pleated around his ankles, her dress frilling to either side. They clutched each other as though they were drowning, and the sounds they made were sounds of grief.

  When the woman opened her eyes, her face red, she saw Firuzeh. Cursing in a language Firuzeh did not know, she plucked up a sock beside the bunk and hurled it.

  Firuzeh ducked the missile and fled.

  Once there was a mullah who ate all the ice cream he wanted, she said to herself, but she could not imagine how to continue the story. She squatted in the shade of the glossy-leaved tree at the center of camp, ignoring the men playing cards nearby, and wrote glyphs and hexes in the dust with her stick.

  Once there was a mother who went to buy shoes for her daughter, but without the daughter, and she bought shoes that were too small or too large, none the right size—wasn’t she sorry when she came home! Once a man and a woman drowned in each other’s eyes on dry land, and no one could figure out how they died.

  Little girl, your stories are all beginnings! one of the card players said. Those aren’t stories. What happens next to your mullah? To your mother?

  I don’t know.

  Say: Some days and some while passed. That is how my mother told stories. Then tell me something magical. A wonder. A feat. Tell me that the wicked are punished or that the foolish find wisdom. Lastly, you must say: They stayed on that side of the water, and we on this.

  If you’re playing, play, one of his companions said. Don’t bother the girl with your silliness.

  The first man nodded encouragement to Firuzeh. Go on, try again. One day among days—