On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  Some time and some while passed, she said, frowning. The Australians stayed on that side of the water, and we on this.

  The card players broke into raucous laughter.

  See what you did there, Mahmoud.

  She’s a smart one.

  Clever.

  Where’s your father, little girl?

  Excuse me, Firuzeh told them. I have to go.

  The bus disgorged its riders one by one. They clutched their purchases to their chests, their expressions grim. Firuzeh stood on tiptoe but could not see Abay or Nour in the thinning crowd.

  Omid’s wife, she heard. Trouble. Someone should tell him.

  Nour bumped down the bus steps then, a ring of ice cream around his mouth, his eyes white all around. He ran to Firuzeh and clamped himself around her waist, holding so tightly it hurt.

  What’s wrong? Firuzeh said. Where did Abay go?

  Nour buried his face in her stomach.

  There was a soft thumping, like a moth beating against a windowpane.

  Abay’s face flashed in the bus window, her mouth a circle, her hands scratching and scrabbling at the glass. Two moths.

  The bus door folded shut. The bus coughed a tubercular cough, then wheeled around and lumbered out through the camp’s silver gates. The gates clashed together behind it.

  Sandals slapped the dust. Atay was there, panting, doubled over, hands pressed to his knees.

  Where is your mother? he said, and Firuzeh pointed through the gates at the vanishing bus and the long yellow plume of dust behind it. The bus turned a bend in the road and was gone.

  Your mother didn’t get off the bus?

  She tried, Firuzeh said.

  Nour, what happened? Nour, be brave for me, tell me—Nour—

  Nour pressed his lips together, shook his head, and sobbed sugar and snot into Firuzeh’s shirt. However they begged and pleaded with him, he refused to say another word.

  Khalil had been on that bus. Firuzeh had seen him. He was a sullen pock-faced boy who shoved his hands in his pockets to hide whatever he had recently filched. Nour horsed around with him sometimes. Although he could not have been much older than Firuzeh, he was in the camp alone.

  She watched him while they ate.

  The boy he always sat with, Payam, finished eating his dinner and left.

  Nour picked listlessly at his plate. Atay swept his arms wide, demanding answers no one would give. God only knows, someone said; others chewed and glanced meaningfully at the children.

  After Khalil stood to go, Firuzeh pleaded a stomachache and followed him.

  In a dark row between tents, she grabbed Khalil by the wrist.

  Tell me.

  I don’t know anything.

  Liar.

  Ask Nour.

  He won’t talk to anyone. Tell me.

  No.

  A moment later, he was sprawled in the dust, pinned and struggling under her greater weight. Firuzeh raised her arm to hit him again.

  Wait, he said. I’ll tell you.

  Khalil’s sandals had fallen to pieces. He had been borrowing a pair that his small feet wallowed in. When his name came up in the lottery, he thought it a fantastic stroke of luck.

  So I went to the shop, he said, and the shopkeeper glared—wouldn’t take his eyes off me, not the whole time I was there—

  You’re babbling, Firuzeh said. Tell me about Abay.

  You have to be back on the bus by three. She was late.

  What happened?

  Maybe Nour didn’t want to come back. Town’s nice. Maybe she didn’t know the rules. Does it matter?

  Keep going.

  Ten minutes late, the guard said. He had a watch. She was the last one on the bus. I didn’t look at her. None of us did. I had my shoes. She was none of my business.

  Some man you are. If I was there—

  But you weren’t.

  Shut up and keep talking.

  He made a face at her. Pick one.

  She balled her hand into a fist.

  The guard said, we thought you ran away. She said, where on earth would I run? He said, do you know what happens to detainees who are late?

  What?

  A long night in Seg.

  What does that mean?

  Your mother asked, too. No one told her. We were ashamed. We got to the camp, and the guard said, get out! She said, help me. I got off the bus. She said, help me, please, in the name of God. No one did. You can hit me now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Quentin Marks was a proud Queensland battler, born of battlers, who could trace his family tree back to a forger on one of the very first convict ships. That illustrious ancestor had owned an engraved silver pocket watch, which was now on display in a national museum.

  Quentin had poured beers in dive bars, picked veg, and washed oysters on a pearl boat, but something in his bones told him that this was the job he’d tell stories about. It was adventure and good money, more zeros in his salary than he’d ever seen, and at twenty-two, with Ella up the duff and the grim gulf of serious responsibilities yawning, Quentin desperately needed the cash. He’d only be gone a year, he told her, year and a half at most, herding the illegals on Nauru the way her uncle herded cattle. Then he’d come home to church her properly, with all the fancies and fairy floss a woman like her deserved. After that, he’d learn to lay roofing or tiles, and they’d rent a house of their own, with a yard for the kiddos.

  If Nauru was a blessing for Quentin, it was the blackest of curses for the brown boat scum. They had been promised freedom and the Australian dole, not tropical heat and tents and endless fences. You could see the rage and betrayal in their eyes, and it made you put a hand on your baton. But this job was decent enough, even though the town was a bit poky. Even though all the island women were fat.

  Today he was on office duty, guarding sanitary pads and shaving razors with his life.

  “Back again?” he said to the Iraqi woman hovering at the donga’s door. She was a picture of embarrassment. “Weren’t you just here three hours ago?”

  She turned even redder—if such a thing were possible—snatched the soft package from his hand and vanished.

  No bloody sense of humour.

  Next up was an Afghan gent who pantomimed at his yellow teeth. “Please.”

  “You can have a toothbrush if you can say the word proper. Tooth. Brush.”

  “Tootebrosh.”

  “Nah, mate. Toothbrush.”

  “Toot-e-brosh.”

  “And you people think you can make a go of it in Australia. Christ.” He surrendered the toothbrush. “Hey, don’t go. What do you say now?”

  “Toot-e-brosh.”

  “No, no, you’re supposed to say Thank you for the toothbrush. Courtesy of the Australian federal government. Hotelier for illegals and detainees. So let’s hear it.”

  “Tank you. For toot-e-brosh.”

  “Christ.”

  Desk duty would be deadly dull if he, Quentin Marks, didn’t have a heart of gold, a love of laughs, and a deep concern for the welfare of his charges. Even if they were all deported tomorrow to whatever hellholes they had crawled out of, learning a spot of English would do them good. Maybe it would save their lives someday. He could see it now: that gentleman racing after a disguised terrorist into the lobby of the Intercontinental, stretching out his finger in accusation, and proclaiming, with perfect enunciation, “The toothbrush! The toothbrush!” Whereupon the smartly uniformed concierge would wrestle the terrorist to the ground and discover the tiny ticking incendiary device secreted in his hollowed-out Super Soft Triple Action with Gum Massager. The tourists whose lives had been saved by that gent’s warning would organize a collection for him. And he would clasp his hands with astonished gratitude and say, in crisp, clear English, “Thank you. Thank you all so much. But thank you most of all to Mr Quentin Marks, who taught me English in the detention camps. Now there’s a good bloke.”

  Grinning at the thought, Quentin shuttered the office and wave
d to Peter and Beth, who were on gate duty. They punched the button to let him through.

  It had been a quiet day, and that was all right. He made the same money on quiet days as on riot days, and while there was a certain thrill in donning helmet and kneepads, bashing baton against plexiglass shield, and watching detainees’ faces transform from rage to fear—he shivered with pleasure at the memory from training on Christmas Island—it could not be denied that the gear was heavy and hot, in a climate where you broke a sweat if you farted.

  Quiet was easy, and Quentin liked easy. Tonight, for example, would be an easy night. A cold stubby at his hotel to start, then dinner at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe a quick call home to Ella.

  The bartender, a native with the paunch to prove it, was uncharacteristically glum tonight.

  “Ah, Lionel, suffering from a spot of guilt? This stuff’s half water, I knew it. Doesn’t taste like anything we’ve got at home.”

  “Mr Marks, they’re talking about shutting the detention centre down.”

  “Oh? And who’s feeding you that bull?”

  “Your PM on the telly, sir.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you like that? All the illegals off your nice island, no more worrying about the missus in the case of a riot.”

  “But there’d be no business. We haven’t had a tourist in years. No detention centre, no hotel—no bar. And then what?”

  “Ah, don’t talk like that. I’d lose my job too, you know. We’d make the best of it. My mum’s rabid about shipping them all back, you should hear her bollocking her MP. What about you, she says to me, you have to watch those shitheads all day. Don’t you want them to bugger off back to the desert? Not until I’m done with this job, I tell her. Don’t forget, they’re paying my bills.”

  “Mine, too,” Lionel said, and poured him a drink.

  “Hey, you,” Beth said. “Shove over, mate.”

  “How’s the old summer camp holding up in my absence?”

  “A riot a minute. We’re missing the fun. VB, please.”

  “All out, madam. Sorry.”

  “Aw, but they promised they’d call if there’s fun.”

  “Nah, Marks. It’s been dull as a dunny. No, I lie, there’s one refugee carrying on something awful. I’m surprised we can’t hear him from here. He’s that loud. His wife’s been popped into jail for the night. To hear him, you’d think we’d murdered her.”

  “Got the red-carpet treatment, I suppose?”

  “Did it myself. What an eyeful. The tits on those people, they’re huge—like biscuits. No wonder he’s throwing such a fit. Anyway, one night in there in the nuddy and she’ll think twice before holding up the bus again.”

  “Our prison is famous for its mosquitoes,” Lionel said. “Would madam like a Corona instead?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Ella was a bit lonely at home, but fine.

  “Chundering like nobody’s business,” she said, “but at five months, what do you expect.”

  “Could be worse,” he said. “You could be living in a place like this. We have pregnant women in the camp—can you imagine? Some have been here for six months, eight months, a year.”

  “They’d have had to—”

  “In the boats, yeah, and in the tents here.”

  “Yuck.”

  “Nature finds a way.”

  “You could write a book about it someday.”

  “You mean, the job?”

  “That, yeah.”

  Quentin considered it. He was not a literary man, but the idea of the Marks family history between tooled leather covers—now that was an appealing thought. And wasn’t his own life one long adventure, the kind that kids read about on farms so far apart that teachers held classes over radio? Now this was a proper Australian story, the girl or boy would say, staring out over miles of yellow grass and red dust and dreaming of pearl boats and detention-camp riots.

  Someone ought to write it, that was for sure.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A long night passed, and then a long day, the longest in their forgetfully numbered months on the island. Abay’s absence, mother-shaped, sat with them at dinner, walked with them to the tent, and lay down on her bunk.

  Atay sat. He stood. He paced the tent. He sat again, then sprang to his feet. In his restless hands, an unwashed shirt gritted and tore, strip by strip and thread by thread.

  Nour hooked his knees to his nose and squinched his eyes shut.

  Go to sleep, Atay said. I’m going for a walk.

  I talked to Khalil, Firuzeh whispered to Nour.

  She snaked up from her bunk until she peeped over his.

  Well what do you have to say for yourself?

  His hands pulled at each other.

  It should have been me. I wouldn’t have made Abay late.

  Firuzeh slipped back into her bunk. Looked up. Hissed at the slight sinking swell of wire where her brother’s weight was:

  Your fault.

  In the dark, in the silence, it was harder to ignore the Abay-absence sitting there as heavy as a living thing. Breathing in and out. Watching.

  Atay did not return. The tent flap blew in and out with the night breeze.

  Firuzeh turned away from Abay’s bunk until the pillow grew hot under her cheek, then turned back, then rolled over again and pretended to sleep, so Nour at least would know she had nothing on her conscience, no, nothing at all. None of this was her fault. It just went to show—

  The dip in the upper bunk from his balled-up body never changed.

  She flopped out her limbs, abandoning the pretense of sleep.

  Say something, donkey.

  —

  I know you’re awake.

  —

  Firuzeh puffed out her cheeks. Fine.

  The bunk bed squeaked and rocked as she climbed up, its metal almost cool against the soles of her feet. She punched her brother’s shoulder.

  Hey.

  —

  Do you want me to tell you a story? Will that get you to fall asleep?

  Nour’s eyes rose above the two hills of his knees. You’re not Abay.

  And you’re not Rostam, but who’s checking?

  You’re a bad sister.

  Nour’s nose now emerged.

  Khalil has two sisters and they’re terrible, he says, but I’d rather have them than you. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t be here. If it wasn’t for your shoes, Abay wouldn’t be in jail.

  But she is. We are. Here I am. At least you got to go to town. At least you ate ice cream. Now, I know you like mullah stories, Nour. Listen. Once they asked the mullah why he always answered questions with questions. He chewed on his beard and said, Do I?

  That’s not a good story.

  Maybe you don’t know what a good story is.

  Maybe you’re bad at telling stories.

  Okay. Here’s another. One time the mullah was rowing a ferry, and a scholar came and asked to cross—

  No, Nour said. No more mullah stories.

  What kind of story, then?

  An exciting one.

  All my stories are exciting, onionhead.

  No, they’re not.

  You try.

  Make it about a boy, Firuzeh. That’ll make it exciting. Boys grow up to be heroes. Soldiers. Kings. Girls—well, you get married. And that’s boring.

  All right, little sultan. A boy. How old?

  Seven. And he’s brave. He’s never afraid.

  Where does he live?

  A village. But he can see the whole world if he climbs on the roof. He climbs up there all the time because he’s not afraid of heights. He keeps goats. When wolves and bandits try to steal them, he beats them up. He’s not afraid of anything.

  What are his parents like?

  He was found on the mountain as a baby. No one knows where he came from.

  Does he have a sister?

  No. He has pigeons. The fastest, prettiest pigeons. When he whistles, they fly all over, then tell him everything they see.
Where greedy men hide their gold. When wolves come for the goats. How close the war is. If anyone died.

  Is there a war?

  There’s always a war, Firuzeh. What a stupid question.

  So, once there was a boy, who was everything you said. One day he leaves the village—

  No.

  No what?

  The boy doesn’t leave the village. He doesn’t walk to the city. The village is home. He knows everyone there, even the mean old man, with red-eyed dogs, who glares at him and yells and spits.

  How does he go on adventures if he never leaves home?

  Maybe he doesn’t need adventures.

  Maybe. But like you said, there’s a war. Maybe one day he climbs up on the roof and sees that the fighting is close—

  No, that doesn’t happen. That never happens. He’s safe. He and the whole village are safe. His pigeons are always watching, always telling him, and they never see the war come close. Every day the villagers crowd his door, even the mean old man, and they ask him, where’s the fighting? Should we run? And every day he says, it’s far away. We’re safe. So they never have to pack their bags and leave.

  Is that it?

  He always wins at walnuts and hopping fights. Sometimes he loses on purpose, so the other children don’t feel bad, but he could win if he wanted.

  Anything else?

  Oh, he wears a coat and boots made of wolfskin. From all the wolves he’s killed, just him and his stick. That’s everything.

  And they stayed on that side of the water, and we on this.

  See, now that was a good story.

  Nour smacked his lips, yawned, and stretched out on his bunk.

  Firuzeh? The ice cream—it didn’t really taste good.

  She patted his curls. Little liar, she said.

  Wispily, Nour began to snore.

  If Firuzeh looked too long into the darkness of Abay’s bunk, it threatened to split open and swallow her.

  Nour was asleep. Their neighbors on the other side of the sheet were asleep. She could feel her heart knocking against the bars of her bones.

  Somewhere outside, Atay was walking long lonely circles under the watchlights and the moon.