On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  When they came within a few meters of their tent, Firuzeh grasped her skirt and ran. Her anger hissed out between her teeth. Now her mother would see her. There you are, she would say. Or, were you behind me that whole lonely time? Or, I am so sorry I forgot about you.

  But Abay did not see. Abay’s gaze was thousands of miles away.

  Nour was kicking a plastic bottle filled with stones, water fanning up with each kick.

  Abay went into their tent without a word.

  Were you out here on your own? Firuzeh said.

  I was playing with Khalil. But his letter came.

  Was it good? Bad?

  He seemed angry. But he’s always angry. Firuzeh, what does motherfucker mean?

  That means his letter wasn’t good.

  But our letter wasn’t any good either.

  Probably the same as his.

  So why is Khalil so upset? We’re stuck here together.

  Maybe he doesn’t like you as much as you think. Maybe you smell so bad he can’t wait to leave Nauru. And now he has to stay here and smell you. For the rest of his life.

  Too bad. You’re also stuck smelling me.

  That’s what you think.

  She gave the plastic bottle a small kick of her own.

  Should we be upset? Should I say motherfucker too?

  Firuzeh sighed. Don’t say motherfucker, Nour.

  Will Abay get mad?

  Whole oceans of mad. She won’t let you play with Khalil again.

  Then I’ll say I learned the word from you.

  Then I’ll punch you so hard you forget all your English.

  Just joking, Firuzeh.

  I was just joking too.

  Raindrops fat as quail eggs plunked into their hair and plucked points out of puddles. Nour shrieked. Firuzeh laughed. They ran inside.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  There was nothing, Atay said, that the agent could do.

  Think of your family, the agent had told him.

  I am thinking of my family, Atay had roared.

  Atay said: I hope the Tajik translated what I said. That all of them are heartless, cowardly men.

  You mean they are motherfuckers, Nour volunteered.

  Atay blinked, then took a deep, slow breath.

  I see you’ve been learning English, Nour. That will be useful in Australia. But while we are here, confine your cursing to Dari.

  But Khalil—

  —is learning the wrong things. He’ll be beaten someday, like Mansour was. I don’t want that to happen to you. Your mother—

  They all looked at Abay, sprawled facedown on her bunk, her tired face hidden under a thinning sweep of hair.

  Atay added: And if it happened, I’d hit you a few times too. So that you’d know better.

  When will they let us go to Australia? Firuzeh says Nasima’s parents are going.

  Maybe in a few months. We have to be patient.

  Because if it’s never, like the letter says, we could go back to Kabul. Nour bumped his head against Atay’s. I wouldn’t mind.

  These are adult matters. You don’t understand.

  It’s Firuzeh’s fault, isn’t it? I want to go home. I don’t care about her! I miss Abay’s cooking. I miss my friends.

  Quit crying, Firuzeh said. I just got this bed dry.

  I miss our home, Atay. Who’s living there now?

  Atay said: Go out and play. I need to rest.

  It’s raining, Atay.

  Atay screwed up his hands in his hair. Then go torture our neighbor’s son. Or light a fire somewhere. Just don’t kill anyone. And let Abay sleep.

  Firuzeh said, Atay, you could tell us a story.

  I’m fresh out, Atay said.

  Then make one up.

  Atay said, Firuzeh jan—this once, be quiet.

  The Shahsevanis and six other refugees accepted for resettlement said their goodbyes as they stood by the green school bus that would take them to the plane to Australia. Atay had brought Firuzeh to see them off. She traced a crescent in the dust with the tip of her shoe.

  Congratulations, Atay said, embracing Nasima’s father. Did you find your sons?

  It’s the strangest thing, Rahmatullah said. They hired a solicitor with their savings. She found out where we were and started the paperwork. They’ll be waiting at the airport.

  Where’s Bahar? Delruba said, beaming.

  Not feeling well. She’s lying down. She’s sorry to be missing your departure.

  That’s too bad! Then I’ll run over and say goodbye. Do we have time for that?

  Please don’t, Atay said, you’ll miss the bus. And then the plane might leave without you. Here, let me help you load your bags.

  Delruba bent down to meet Firuzeh’s eyes.

  You be good, she said. Like my Nasima. Be kind to your Abay. Mothers endure much more than you know.

  The migration officer waved the eight refugees onto the bus. The Shahsevanis boarded along with the rest.

  Atay squeezed Firuzeh’s hand. They watched the bus go.

  Not a word to your mother, he said.

  Yes, Atay.

  But news flew faster than the Simurgh. By the time Atay and Firuzeh reached their tent, visitors had already come and gone.

  So fortunate, one of the women said as they passed. It must have been fate. And what a perfect person for this to happen to. Khanem Delruba is so kind and has lost so much. If any of us—

  Atay winced. They found Abay sitting on the bunk, arms around her legs, black hair over her knees.

  I’m sorry, Atay began. Did they—

  Firuzeh said, Abay—

  Fuck them, Abay said. And shit on their fathers.

  The next day, Abay plodded to the kitchen to inquire after her old dishwashing job, and Atay lined up at Medical for pills.

  Thus far they had not needed much medicine, since hope had done triple duty as amulet, tonic, and prophylactic. Now that the bottle had been smashed, there was no help other than nurses and pills.

  Too young to visit Medical on her own—ignored by the nurses, in fact, every time she wandered close to the donga—Firuzeh imagined a pharmacological cabinet of rich dark wood that took up an entire wall. Each drawer rattled when you pulled the brass knob, shaking the blue-red-yellow-purple-white pills inside. There were pills shaped like goldfish, and pills shaped like stars, along with more boring triangles and trapezoids. Some were striped and some were speckled, and some were only one color, or three, or two. You could get pills for headaches and bad dreams and homesickness, pills for fever and forgetting and pills to not care. If you were sleepless or homeless, there was a pill for that, too.

  Whatever you needed, you asked for, and they provided. That was why the line of men waiting for pills always doubled back along the path.

  Wrong, Khalil said, once she expounded her thoughts. He was swinging Nour’s bottle of rocks, waiting for Nour to don shirt and shoes. They have two kinds. Toothache? Fever? Panadol. Anything else, one sleeping tablet. That’s everything they’ve got. I’ve been there. I know.

  Then what could Atay be getting?

  Panadol. Or sleeping tablets.

  What did they give you?

  Sleeping tablets and Panadol.

  Firuzeh said: That doesn’t make sense.

  As if anything makes sense in this giant rat cage. Pills, Payam, Mansour. Nour, hurry up, or I’m going without you.

  Nah, you won’t—you’ve got no one but me.

  What happened to Payam? Firuzeh said.

  He’s gone, Khalil snapped. Nour! You’re taking too long!

  Payam got a letter, Nour said. One of the good ones.

  He hopped on one foot, tugging at his shoe.

  I’m glad for him, Firuzeh said.

  Good riddance! Khalil said.

  Weren’t you always stuck together? Like a two-for-one sale.

  That’s right, Nour said. Khalil, I’m ready to go.

  Too late, Khalil said, flinging the bottle down. Have a beautiful—he
hurled the tent flap aside—fucking day!

  Khalil, I’m sorry! I was sleepy! It’s so early—slow down! I’m sorry my sister is such a jerk!

  Nour vanished in pursuit.

  Firuzeh nudged the forgotten bottle, its plastic creased white from kicking, its sides thick and smeary with mud. The boys had put gravel and coral nubs in it, and it clattered when she rolled it over with her toe.

  There was a faint noise from the far side of the tent.

  The Sri Lankan boy had drawn back a corner of the sheet. He glanced at her, then at the bottle.

  If you take it, she said, I’ll pretend I didn’t see.

  The boy didn’t move.

  Firuzeh threw herself down on a bunk, covered her face, and let out a loud snore.

  She heard a muffled giggle, then soft steps. A clacking and scraping, followed by a watchful pause. She waited until the steps had fully retreated before opening her eyes. Nour’s treasure was gone.

  From the other side of the sheet came a furtive rattle.

  Ten minutes later, Nour whirled back into the tent like a small, wet squall.

  He’s so mad, Firuzeh! Was it something you said?

  I think it’s Payam.

  Still your fault. Hey, where’s our ball?

  Nour peered under the bunks.

  It was right here!

  Maybe somebody stole it. I took a quick nap.

  You’re useless, Firuzeh.

  She stuck out her tongue.

  The dishwashing had been taken over by a Chinese woman, Abay said, whose swelling belly pressed into the steel edge of the sink. Two quarters an hour, gone like that.

  We’re sorry, they told her. We waited two days, then three. But look, keep on asking. People leave all the time.

  You mean deportations.

  Acceptances, too.

  That means no more ice cream, Firuzeh told Nour.

  Who wants ice cream in this weather?

  Abay and Atay went together to Medical in the morning. When they came back, they lay down and closed their eyes. Then all that Firuzeh or Nour could provoke was an inarticulate mumble or a Janam, let me rest.

  Just like Khalil, Nour said. He’s on pills now too. I told him you lost our ball, and he shrugged and said, Who cares about that anymore.

  Rain kept them inside, where they had to sit still. Fat bulges of water gathered on top of the tent. If you poked them, a bit of the water dripped through, but the rest poured off, and that was better than the slow drops that slid down the back of the neck. A few minutes later, they filled up again.

  I want pills too, Firuzeh said. I mean what are we supposed to do?

  Nour said: I’m glad you can’t have them. You’d be even more boring.

  What you need, Nour, is a pill for school, that will put history and science into your head. And I need a pill for annoying little brothers, who give you a headache, then a stomachache.

  There’s Panadol. Or sleeping tablets.

  I think tomorrow I’ll ask the nurse.

  You’ll get into trouble.

  For asking?

  Mm. The nurses are just fat guards, Khalil says. They’re angry about being here, and they wish we were dead.

  If that’s what he thinks, why does he go?

  He can’t sleep, Nour said. Since Payam left. He cries, and then everyone in his tent yells at him. One of the Iranians hit him and bloodied his nose. But that didn’t work—it scared him more. At least with the pills he can sleep during the day.

  Wouldn’t it be a better story if there weren’t any pills?

  What do you mean?

  I haven’t ever seen these pills, have you? Maybe everyone gets together, like for a party, and I don’t know, it’s a big secret—

  That’s because you have to take the pill right there. They give you one cup with the pill in it and one cup with water. And they watch to make sure the pill goes all the way down, so you can’t save them up and swallow a bunch in one go.

  Khalil told you that?

  Yeah. Khalil knows lots of things. He says someone tried it a few weeks ago. They weren’t checking cheeks and lips yet, so he hid one pill at a time. They took him to the hospital and emptied him out.

  Maybe he thought they were pills for flying. I’d take a whole bottle if they made me fly.

  Me too, but I’d only take one at a time.

  That’s no good. What’ll you do when they run out and you’re flying? You’d drop and splat into wet red gobs. What you want is to fly all the way to Australia, catch hold of a tree, and hang on. Until the flying wears off. Then you climb down.

  Where would you go?

  I’d walk, I guess. Walk and walk and walk and walk. No fences. No guards. Maybe walk into a school and sit down. I don’t know.

  That’s dumb. You should find the biggest candy store, stuff all your pockets, and run away.

  They’d catch you and beat you.

  Not if you saved one flying pill.

  You’d be dropping a rainbow trail of sweets. They’d catch you.

  Maybe you. They’d never catch me.

  For a long time, they listened to the sound of the rain. Five days of it left an itching in the limbs—to run, to jump, to cartwheel, or to scream. But Atay and Abay lay half asleep, the paths outside were melting to mud, and they had no dry clothes except for what they were wearing. Penned up like that, with nothing to do, you turned and bit each other instead.

  They were saved by the telltale chatter of gravel.

  Thief! Nour cried, scrambling down from his bunk. I’ll pull all your hair out! Come out here! I will!

  He paced like a lion on their side of the sheet.

  Give me back my ball!

  The sheet twitched. Then the rock-filled bottle flew into the cloth from the other side, striking Nour in the stomach.

  Nour abruptly sat down in a puddle.

  Firuzeh laughed and could not stop. She clapped her hands over her mouth to hold it in. But out it came, relentless as rain, until the tent was full of laughter and she was breathless and drowning.

  Is that you, Firuzeh?

  Yes, Abay.

  Please stop laughing, I’m tired and need to rest.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The mess tent at lunchtime had been depleted both by case resolutions and by detainees skipping meals. The ones who remained sat separately in silence. They ate without tasting, although there was little to taste. Food fell from their open mouths. What thin life the rains left them, the pills had drained.

  Here and there was a man who hadn’t started that regimen, alive in a way the others were not. Their faces flashed and sparked. They ate ravenously. They banged their fists against the plastic tables and damned the food, the guards, and each other. The things they would do to the guards! and their cars! and their mothers, and then the graves of their fathers!

  But one by one even those coals guttered out. It proved easier, in the end, to swallow a pill.

  Another boat arrived, and the mess hall grew crowded again. The arrivals carried some news of interest, about this dictator and that war, but nothing about Abay’s or Atay’s families.

  The living mixed with the dead and looked askance.

  Nour made himself another rock bottle, but Khalil was no longer interested. Besides Khalil, no one Nour’s age was left. Only a couple of children, all very young, had come in on the most recent ship.

  Even when Firuzeh and Nour swung from the bars on the bunks, metal squeaking and clanging, Atay rarely noticed them.

  It’s like you’re a ghost, Nasima said. And no one can see or hear you.

  The girl stood by the bunk in the dim deep night, her arms braceleted with fish scales and shipwrecked gold.

  Firuzeh said, Your parents—

  I know.

  I thought maybe you had left as well.

  I promised, didn’t I?

  You did.

  Here I am. A dead girl talking to a dying one. What fun. Nasima scratched one barnacled ear. It’s just us awake
right now. Us and the nightmares. They go hunting at this hour.

  Hunting?

  They eat stories. That’s what they’re made of. Now sleep, Nasima said, and kissed Firuzeh’s cheek, her lips as slickly soft as kelp.

  Abay tried, now and then. It was worse than not trying.

  Once there was a woodcutter. And he had a . . . daughter? And they lived, they lived . . . I don’t remember. A snake in the kindling. Mount Qaf. The peris.

  Atay didn’t try.

  They’re lost in a fog, Firuzeh said to Nour. So deep they can’t see the way out. Or each other. Or maybe it’s a magic spell. And we’re all trapped here until it breaks.

  Nour said: How do we break the spell?

  I don’t know. I don’t know any magic words. We could look for a witch.

  What do witches look like?

  They write amulets out of dirty old books. So I guess they’d be squinty with ink on their hands.

  I think the nurses are witches.

  If they are, they’re not going to help us, genius. It’ll have to be one of the detainees. But if I was a witch, and they put me in here, I’d have gotten out ages and ages ago.

  I wish Atay or Abay would tell us a story.

  Firuzeh said: I’m telling you a story!

  Your story is no good. It sucks.

  I could tell you a story that Atay told us. Listen: The mullah’s son came to him with a big smile. Baba, Baba, I dreamed that you gave me a dollar! The mullah pinched his chin and said, You’ve been a good boy, so I won’t ask for it back!

  Ha. Ha. That story was dumb when Atay told it.

  You’re lucky Atay’s sleeping.

  Atay’s always asleep. Anyway, Firuzeh, I need to pee.

  Then go pee. I’m not stopping you.

  You have to come with me.

  You’ve gone on your own.

  Remember what Abay said about sisters.

  I’m not going, Nour.

  Fine, then I’ll pee here.

  All right! Firuzeh slithered off the bunk. Let’s go, you spoiled little prince.

  The pools of water between tents gleamed shifting silver, smooth as fresh car panels until Nour jumped through. Firuzeh stomped after him, grumbling.

  It was drier around the ablutions block, though the reek of waste curdled the yellow air. Muddy footprints streaked the entrances. Clouds of black flies hummed and swirled.