by E. Lily Yu
Be fast, Firuzeh said, crumpling her shirt over her nose.
Yeah, yeah. Nour half skipped, half ran inside.
Stupid Nour. Stupid her. She should have woken Abay. Firuzeh held her breath, counting. Would Nour ever come out, or would she turn plum colors and faint?
He was taking forever. Almost certainly on purpose. Firuzeh took another breath of foulness and resolved to hide his shoes during the night.
Somewhere inside the ablutions block, glass broke with a high chime.
Nour, she said. Nour?
Firuzeh moved toward the entrance of the men’s side of the block.
Nour shot out, crashing into her knees.
Khalil, he said, Khalil’s in there—
So?
He’s eating, he broke—
Nour, talk sense.
He didn’t know I was, he had a rock—
Breathe.
The mirror, Firuzeh—he’s eating the glass.
She left him shuddering there and ran toward the center of camp, arms and legs flying, until her lungs felt full of knives. Guards narrowed their eyes and muttered into radios.
Firuzeh burst upon a knot of men parsing an old newspaper.
Agha Hassani, Agha Nobody, Mansour, please, it’s Khalil—
What’s wrong with Khalil?
—in the ablutions block, come see—
Led by Mansour, they set off at a jog.
Faster, she pleaded, winded, stumbling after. Go faster, please.
Mr. Hassani puffed in apology over his shoulder: We can’t let the guards see grown men running. They’d be over us like ticks on a sheep.
The three men had disappeared into the block by the time Firuzeh, gasping, bent over beside Nour.
Go back to the tent, she said.
I still have to pee.
Then go in the women’s side. No one will mind.
Nour ducked inside.
While Firuzeh waited, a guard strode up to her. What’s all the trouble?
No trouble, sir. No trouble for you.
I saw detainees running. Where did they go?
The toilet, sir. They’ll be right back.
Will they now? He spoke to his radio. It sputtered in reply.
Firuzeh edged toward the men’s entrance.
The guard said: Stop there.
Another guard joined him. They conferred. Then, unclipping their batons, they marched into the block.
Unnoticed, Firuzeh poked her head in.
On the far side of the ablutions block, Khalil crouched over a sink. The mirror over the sink was shattered at its center, leaving a void in the shape of a star. Light glittered in Khalil’s teeth and in the gaps of his fists. Mansour, murmuring, extended his hand.
A guard said: Don’t move.
Mr. Hassani said, Khalil, listen, your mother—
Mr. Nobody said, This isn’t the way out.
Blood ran from the boy’s mouth and pooled on the floor.
The first guard said, What’s this rort, eh? He grabbed Mr. Hassani. Is all this some shithead trick?
Khalil pressed a fist to his mouth. Tried to swallow.
I need backup and Medical, the second guard said into his radio.
Your parents, Mansour said, didn’t send you for this.
Knuckle by knuckle, Khalil opened his hands. Diamonds and rubies fell glinting like rain. There were cuts on his palms and his lips and his face.
Jesus, the first guard said. Boy, come with me.
Be gentle, Mr. Nobody said. His parents aren’t here.
Don’t tell me my business. I said, boy, come here.
The second guard said, Easy, Quentin, it’s two against four.
Hands descended roughly on Firuzeh’s shoulders, and she was yanked back.
You. Out of the way.
Four guards pushed past her.
Nour was waiting for her by the corner.
What are they doing? he said. What are they doing with Khalil?
She took his wet hand.
We’re going now.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Atay, when she told him, said only: I see.
Abay stroked Nour’s cheek, which was sticky with tears. Poor Khalil. Poor Nour.
The next day, Firuzeh went looking for news. The one man smoking under the tree grinned when she mentioned the names.
You want Mr. Hassani? He cupped his mouth. Ai, Hassani, a girl is asking for you!
From a nearby tent, cursing and crashing about. Then Mr. Hassani appeared, breathless, shoelaces undone. The other man chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette, then sauntered into the same tent.
Oh, it’s you, Mr. Hassani said, stooping to tie his shoes. Omid’s daughter. What do you need?
Where’s Khalil?
He’s been flown to the mainland. To a hospital, I hope.
He brushed dust from his collar and neatened his clothes.
Did the guards hurt you?
Not badly. They figured it out. People here—
He glanced down at her.
This isn’t the first time. That this. Ah. Khalil got creative; you have to be to—anyhow. They took out the mirrors and swept up the glass. Not even a screw left. So no one else will.
Will Khalil come back?
That’s up to God. I hope he doesn’t. This place was bad for him.
He paused.
If that’s all—
Thank you, Mr. Hassani.
He hurried off. Firuzeh sat under the tree to think. After a while, the first man slunk out of the tent, smirked at Firuzeh, and slipped away.
Not long after his departure, a woman came out of the same tent. She appeared to be younger than Abay but older than Mansour, and she fumbled cigarette and lighter twice before the flame caught. Leaning against the tree, she smoked in gray sighs.
Presently Firuzeh said, Are you a witch?
The woman coughed. Do I look like a witch?
I’ve never met one. I don’t know. But people come to you. People would come to a witch.
If I were a witch, would I be here? But what do you want? Fortune-telling? A curse on a particular guard?
A cure, Firuzeh said. And a cure for a cure.
Sorry?
Australia said we can’t come in. Now Abay and Atay take pills and sleep all day. They used to tell stories and yell at us.
Hm, the witch said, and leaned back and smoked.
Firuzeh said: Do you know the story of Bibinegar? With the snake husband and the demon wife?
Can’t say that I do. And if I did, I’d mess it up, and then we’d both feel bad.
She stood, Firuzeh sat, and the whole world steamed. A pebble-brown lizard ran up the trunk of the tree. Cigarette smoke ribboned up into the branches.
Your parents are sleeping? the woman said.
Or lying still. It’s hard to tell. Firuzeh mashed a cigarette stump under her shoe. Why do they do that? When I’m right here?
Sleeping is an easier way to wait.
For what?
I don’t know. What do we all wait for, here?
Being let into Australia. Or being made to leave.
No, see, both of those options have come and gone. But here we are, still waiting. All of us had something to wait for, and that kept us going. Now we don’t. Now the minutes of our lives are wasted. Time scrapes our nerves. It hurts. How it hurts.
Is that why you smoke?
Yes.
Smoking’s very expensive.
Did your father say that?
He did. Atay doesn’t smoke here, but he used to, a little. Never too much—he worked around cars.
I have ways, the woman said, of paying for them.
Are you rich?
What a question. She glanced sideways and laughed. What is rich? Who is rich?
Australians are.
Oh, you think like a migrant. Be big-souled, like me. When a guest visits your house, what does your mother do?
Pour him tea and set out nuts and white raisins. But that
was in Kabul. We don’t have those things here.
But. Even if you had nothing, she’d serve him some tea.
Yes.
Now we come to Australia. Knock knock. Let us in. Do they treat us like guests? Or throw us in prison? Australians are poor, girl. Your mother is rich.
So what does that make you?
Rich, pretty, and wise.
Raindrops plopped on the leaves of the tamanu tree.
There we go, the woman said. Do you want to come inside? I’m Zahra, by the way. Call me Khala if you’re shy.
Firuzeh.
Come in, please.
Zahra’s tent was not much different from the rest, but only half the bunks appeared to be occupied. A heavy sweat smell lingered in the nose, the same smell that was everywhere when the taps ran dry. Then, wonder of wonders, Zahra produced a kettle so dented it might have served as a helmet for a battle or two.
So, Zahra said. Can I offer you tea?
She had more than tea; she had Capelle’s biscuits, two cans of cola, a whole stash of mismatched cigarettes, and half a large bag of crisps.
Firuzeh opened and closed her mouth.
Some of the guards like me, Zahra said, her voice dry. Go on, have a biscuit.
Abay would kill me.
You’d be doing me a favor. Sugar gives me zits.
Firuzeh tore open the double packet, then forced herself to eat each biscuit crumb by crumb.
You should take some with you.
My parents—
Are asleep. No, it’s not proper manners, but what’s proper about any of this?
The tent flap rustled. A man cleared his throat.
Excuse me, Zahra said, and went to the flap.
Firuzeh licked the sugar that dusted her fingers.
—no, I can’t. Yes, I told you, but I have a guest—
With her tongue, Firuzeh collected the crumbs at the bottom of the wrapper.
—back in half an hour. Yes, I’ll be here—
Zahra returned and poured them both tea, moving the bag from cup to cup until the water in both was brown.
You really are rich, Firuzeh said.
Most people here don’t have much money. Not even the Nauruans, but especially not us. When there’s no money, some things are almost as good. Cigarettes, for example. Very stable in value. One cigarette equals two biscuits or four small packets of crisps. Sometimes the biscuits change price. Here, take another. I meant it. Don’t be so polite.
I’ll take one for my brother, thank you, Firuzeh said.
What a good sister you are. Where’s your brother?
I don’t really know.
Look, the rain’s let up. She gazed down at Firuzeh, her eyes softly sad. I wish I could tell you, come visit again. But don’t. You don’t know me and you never came here.
I’m very sorry, whatever I’ve done—
You haven’t. You didn’t. But now you should go.
Firuzeh sucked up the weak tea and set down her cup. Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Khala Zahra.
Anytime. But not anytime. You understand.
Firuzeh was beginning to think that she did.
Nour’s eyes should have bulged when Firuzeh presented the biscuits. He had stayed curled up by Abay’s arm the entire day. But he barely looked at what Firuzeh swung under his nose.
It’s biscuits, Nour—biscuits! Say I’m clever and they’re yours.
I’m clever, he said.
No, say I’m—what’s wrong?
He turned away, nosing into Abay’s arm.
Firuzeh said: They took Khalil to Australia. A hospital. He’ll be fine.
Nour mumbled.
What?
I said, I don’t care.
Have a biscuit, though. I brought them for you.
I don’t want them.
If you’re sure—
Firuzeh. Go away.
Last chance.
No.
She unwrapped the plastic and pressed the edge of a biscuit to his cheek.
Nour. It’s right here. It’s even got chocolate.
He pushed her hand away.
She gave up, sat down, and nibbled the biscuit. Nour was here and not here. She had and hadn’t gone somewhere. The biscuit tasted like ash in her teeth. She folded the wrapper around the other. Nour would whine and want it, once he came back to himself. She gave him an hour.
He didn’t ask.
Come here, she said finally, by the dividing sheet. The curly-haired head of their youngest neighbor poked around.
She held out the biscuit. Here, take it, she said.
The boy wrinkled his nose at her, snatched the packet, and smiled. He crunched the whole thing in a single bite. Crumbs sprayed from the packet. Firuzeh brushed them from her shirt.
Thank you, he told her in his own language; his expression was perfectly intelligible.
The sheet rippled and fell straight. Her neighbor was gone.
All night, Firuzeh slept on crumbs.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Weeks or months or centuries later—time flowed thick as honey in the camp—a postcard arrived.
The guard called Nour’s name and number at breakfast, and Nour leapt from his chair, twitching, ready to run.
But no punishment came. There was only a creased card waiting for him. One side had a crayoned kangaroo, the other some stamps and a thorny scrawl.
They moved me to Baxter. From Hell 1 to Hell 2. I am sorry, I did not think you would see. I was so sad. I am still so sad.
The postcard bore no return address.
When Firuzeh finished reading him the card, Nour knuckled his wet nose.
Khalil’s a bastard.
He didn’t forget you. He wrote you a card. The stamps cost money, he must have worked for them—
I said, he’s a bastard.
Nour—
You don’t know anything.
He snatched back the card.
You know nothing about me. Or Khalil. Or Payam. I’m just an annoying baby you have to take to the bathroom. You don’t know anything, Firuzeh—you don’t understand!
He turned his back on her and burst into sobs.
Okay, Firuzeh said, and left the mess tent.
Well, sure, Nasima said. I didn’t pay attention to my brothers either. They were just there. Like pigeons. What I’m saying is, why try to understand Nour? What’s even there to understand?
Something. Maybe. Firuzeh scratched the back of her head. Something I’m missing—
Look around us. Fence. Tent. Tent, fence. What could you possibly be missing?
I don’t know.
Then it can’t be important. Do you still have my pearl?
It’s a rock.
It’s a pearl. I fought a blind squid to win it for you. Almost lost my fingers.
Is it magic?
No, I fought with the squid for fun. Of course it’s magic, stupid.
Then what does it do?
Helps me find you.
That’s it?
As if I didn’t have to wade through night-dark oceans to see you! As if you’re not worlds and worlds away in your own head! Hold tight to it, and you’ll always find and be found.
But it looks like a rock.
Then you’re not trying.
Much later, searching for a misplaced coin, Firuzeh lifted Nour’s pillow and found the postcard underneath. The weight of his head had wrinkled it. Humidity had turned it soft. She carefully put the pillow back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
She did not know the day or month or year. Atay’s hard muscles had melted like wax, and Abay rarely spoke, only sighing. The rains had stopped. So had the boats. The detainee population on Nauru diminished, as some took the offered money and went back the way they came, and others, beaming like lotto winners, flew to new lives in Auckland, Melbourne, Sydney, or Perth.
The pregnant dishwasher was deported to China, but Abay did not return to her job.
Their Sri Lankan neighbors were chosen
for resettlement. The father shook hands with everyone, accepting their congratulations with a nod. The mother hugged all of them, kissed Firuzeh and Nour, and burst into tears. Their boy said nothing, but smiled and smiled.
The tent was quieter once they had gone.
The heart hurt then like an orphaned thing. Silences built up, spar by spar, until they each floated on an island of unspoken words, whole seas of thoughts dividing them. Always, a dark shape hung on the horizon—and that was the option of return.
It was late morning and humid, the sun high. Abay and Atay had returned from the nurse’s station and the daily sacramental swallowing of pills.
Outside their tent, the migration agent called their names. He tripped over the unfamiliar syllables.
Omid and Bahar Daizangi, are you home? May I come in?
Atay stirred. Abay murmured. Firuzeh jumped from her bunk and lifted the flap, and the sun boiled in.
Oh. Hello. Little girl, are your parents at home?
She backed away, still holding the flap. The agent came in.
Who is this? Nour said. Are we in trouble?
Firuzeh said: I don’t know.
There you are. Hope you’ll pardon my intrusion. We try to get the news out as fast as we can.
He coughed and produced a starch-white letter.
Mr. Omid Daizangi and Mrs. Bahar Daizangi, the Federal Government of Australia is pleased to inform you that on appeal, your prior denial of status has been reversed—
Atay shook his head, uncomprehending.
Abay pulled her blanket up over her face.
The agent stopped. Should I come back with a translator?
Atay said: Firuzeh—
We’re going to Australia.
Nour peered over the edge of his bunk.
Stiffly, Atay unfolded himself, stood up, and grasped the agent’s unready hand. Sir—
Abay tossed her scarf back over her hair and fixed it with two pins.
Firuzeh slipped out of the tent.
The world was one lustrous, unbearable gleam. She waited, waves breaking in her breath, until the sharp glitter dropped from her eyes. Here were the camp’s old tents and fences, the same as they had been an hour before, yet somehow subtly changed. If she filled up her lungs and exhaled, canvas and poles and ropes would go flying. If she put out her hand, the fences would quiver and bend. Nothing caught at her; nothing tied her down. She felt she could run and run without stopping, down the glinting steel road the sun laid on the sea, running until she reached Australia.