by E. Lily Yu
The window was small and badly placed. She saw an edge of brown sleeve and a puff of pale hair.
The door groaned as Abay opened it.
Hello! Mrs Daizangi?
Yes. Hello. How are you?
I’m Sister Margaret. I phoned last Tuesday—
Ah, yes. Come in?
—from St Kilda Sanctuary. You’re a new placement, so we thought we’d check in. What a beautiful girl.
Her tiny gold crucifix spun on its chain.
What’s your name, possum?
Firuzeh, her coat—
The brown coat was heavy and dusted with white hairs. The satin lining smelled of wet dog and lavender. Firuzeh draped it over the back of a folding chair, then caught chair and coat as they toppled over.
I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier. We had a couple of court cases, a medical crisis—
The sister wore a teal cardigan and loafers with tassels. Her pastry-coloured hair had gone halfway to grey. She turned a watch around and around her wrist.
It’s lovely to meet you, anyway. Oh, thank you, this smells wonderful. Is that cardamom?
Opening her leather bag, she withdrew a sheaf of papers.
Abay winced.
Has anyone walked you through Centrelink entitlements? Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t.
Yes okay. Abay arranged the remnants of a package of biscuits on a flowered plate. Please. For you. This is.
Thank you, that’s very kind of you.
Firuzeh watched the stranger eat one of the last four biscuits left in the flat. She sucked her teeth, mouth sour with longing. The sister’s fingers pricked points in the air, describing this and that implausible thing: food banks, job assistance, meal programmes, advocates. Another biscuit disappeared.
Quick, Firuzeh, more tea, Abay said. We can’t let her think she’s in a sloppy home.
Firuzeh took the fifty-cent thermos and mug and refilled the kettle on the range. When the water was ready, she fetched tea, cardamom pods, sugar, looked twice at the sugar, then shook something else into her palm, tipped it into the mug, and stirred it thoroughly.
One biscuit was left when she returned with both the sister’s steaming mug and the full thermos of tea.
Thank you, possum. I was telling your mother about after-school lessons for you, and about some of the volunteer English tutors I know . . .
She worried the watch in its silver circle around her dry and bony wrist. Steam furled from her tea.
Wouldn’t that be splendid, though. A tutor coming to teach your parents. She says you’ve been doing a tremendous job, but I’ll bet you’re exhausted. How old are you?
Ten.
Sister Margaret lifted the mug and sipped. A strange expression came over her face.
All okay? Abay said, tuned like a foil-wrapped antenna to the slightest static in her mehman’s mood. Firuzeh’s heart skipped a wild beat.
I could have sworn—
Sister Margaret’s eyes fixed on Firuzeh, suddenly sharp. Her sparse brows twitched.
Excuse me, Mrs Daizangi, I get foggy sometimes. All these memories, you know. Sometimes one floats up, and I float away. Now what was I saying? Ah, yes. English tutors—
The level of tea in the mug held steady. The last chocolate biscuit remained on the plate.
At last Sister Margaret stood, straightened her papers, and tucked them away.
Thank you for having me.
Please, dinner. Soon my husband is coming—
Maybe another afternoon. I have some other visits to make. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs Daizangi.
Bahar.
Then call me Margaret. Good to meet you, Miss Firuzeh.
Abay stirred in protest. No, leave that—
I must insist.
Sister Margaret emptied the mug of tea down the drain, then set the mug in the sink. At a glance from Abay, Firuzeh shot forward to collect their guest’s shoes and wrestle the dog-haired coat off the chair it hung on.
Then the sister was gone. The last chocolate biscuit vanished into Firuzeh’s mouth, followed by the crumbs and a smear of chocolate left on the plate.
Abay poured herself a cup of tea.
What a generous woman. It helps to know there are people like that. But did you see the hair all over her coat! And that moment when she was drinking her tea. Surely she’s not that old. Surely her mind’s sound . . .
Firuzeh, her mouth full, did not disagree. Then a thoughtful look came over Abay’s face. She went to the sink, ran her finger around the inside of the mug, and put that fingertip into her mouth.
Startled frogs did not leap faster into streams. Firuzeh made it most of the way to her bedroom, her hand reaching for the doorknob, before her mother’s slipper ricocheted off her head.
Some time and some while passed, the days alike, the nights unpredictable. There were nights she slept deeply, remembering nothing. But other nights, after Firuzeh closed her eyes to the dimness of the room—as her legs, tingling, turned to lead, and a purer darkness descended upon her sight—
glass
glass
broken glass
the high pointed teeth of the Hindu Kush
all glass
shining
Khalil
blood
heat
humidity
teeth
gnashing teeth
teeth made of glass
teeth stained with blood
hands pouring blood
trying to catch
She was running
forever running
her breath glassy and shattered and sharp in her throat
she had been running for ages and had to
no she could not stop
Behind her leapt a grey thing all
GLASS TEETH
and
HUNGER
the skin of dead people slipping loose from their skulls
the streets were full of
the roads were paved with
she stepped on loose skins slimy and wriggling with rot
the faces stared at her
the mouths opened
wordless
she did not know them
no
she did
Khalil
Nasima
Mansour
a cousin
an aunt
she slipped—
the glass teeth closed on her—
Chapter Three
Between the four of them, they had one mobile, which went wherever Atay went. The flat also had an old white phone. Atay’s voice crackled out of its handset, irate.
It’s dark out. Can’t you wait?
It’s winter, Abay said. There’s not enough time to do everything before the sun goes down. Besides, this is Australia. We’ve survived wars, we survived Nauru—how dangerous can one shopping trip be? We need esfand, and teacups—they have everything, this store. That’s what I’ve heard. I’ll take Firuzeh and Nour. We’ll be back before dinner.
Firuzeh said: Abay, I don’t want to go.
Me neither, Nour said.
I need your help to carry things. Sometimes you have to give your mother a hand. If your classmates’ parents saw me struggling to carry bags of good things home to you, what would they think?
Naturally, there was no answer to that.
The trip was precisely as long and boring as Firuzeh expected. Some hours later, she, Nour, and Abay clanked and clanged to the bus stop, weighed down on all sides with purchases, from velvety rose-patterned blankets to pitchers and plates. It was cold, the shelter of little effect. Firuzeh shivered, her bags rustling. The neighbourhood was an unfamiliar one, the streetlamps few and far apart, and the gum trees cast
unwelcoming shadows.
Let me see, Abay said, riffling a paper timetable. Firuzeh, come here, help me figure out what time—
A pink-faced man walked up to the stop.
It says the bus’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Firuzeh flapped the timetable shut. That’s a long time, Abay. It’s freezing. I’m cold.
The man glowered at Abay. Burst capillaries cobwebbed his nose and cheeks. When Firuzeh looked up, he crossed his arms.
Abay felt for the sides of her scarf, smoothing it down over her neat hair. Then she gripped their hands so tightly that their fingers purpled. Though Firuzeh’s eyes watered from the pain, neither she nor Nour made the slightest sound.
Abay met the man’s gaze.
A minute passed.
He spat, a horking, viscous sound. The wad of mucus darkened the footpath, barely missing Abay’s shoe.
Bunch of terrorists.
Abay’s gaze never wavered, but her arms were steel as she pushed Firuzeh and Nour behind her. They knocked against each other. Bag crashed against bag. Abay’s lay unattended at her feet, handles drooping.
No one else was on the street. Night gathered a breath and held it in.
The man said: Go home. We don’t want you here.
We go home.
That’s right. Go back to your godforsaken country. Arabs, towelheads, all of you. Dog piss, that’s what you are. Get out.
Cars passed in perfect indifference. The pink man’s meaty hands closed into fists. He took a step toward them. Nour whimpered. Abay tensed. Firuzeh’s fingers felt nearly wrung off.
Then the headlights of the 901 blazed through the darkness.
As the bus squeaked and steamed to a stop, Abay heaved them aboard. Firuzeh barked her shin on a step as she climbed on. The bags were hopelessly jumbled; she and Nour tumbled them into empty seats.
On the top step, Abay swiped her card and turned.
Australia is home, Abay said.
Fuck yourself with a rock, Firuzeh said.
The bus driver said, Are you coming, sir?
The man stared at them.
No, he said at last. No, not tonight.
The bus doors shut. The 901 lurched on. Abay dragged Nour’s feet off the seat, leaned against their teetering pile of bags, and put her face into her hands.
Firuzeh looked out the bus window into the night. The man stood at the kerb, staring after them, but he and the bus shelter soon shrank out of sight.
I should have been there.
I wished you were.
This is what happens when you go outside after dark—
Shirin laughed and Mia gasped at Firuzeh’s story over lunch.
Bloody beautiful Australia, Shirin said. All the hoons, bastards, arseholes, and cunts you could want.
I can’t believe— Mia said.
Shirin said, Yes you can. She had bent the tines of her plastic fork this way and that until they broke, and now she squeezed her handful of tiny spines. It happened to Gulalai’s mum too. Besides, Firuzeh doesn’t seem crazy to me. Does Firuzeh seem crazy to you?
Firuzeh did not touch the white pebble she kept in her pocket.
Mia pouched a bite of green apple in her cheek and gave Firuzeh a once-over.
Na-a-o-o, she said, extending the vowels. She crunched her apple and gulped. But Gulalai—
Oh, who cares about Gulalai?
Chapter Four
It’s a church, Atay said, gazing at the small brick building. They had taken two buses to reach the address that Sister Margaret provided them over the phone. Your new friend sent us to a church.
Abay said: The sister said to go around the back.
Will there be boys? Nour asked.
Firuzeh said, No one knows, elbow hat!
It’s hat full of elbows, idiot. And you can’t be one. You can only be uglier than.
An alley led around the back, past parked cars to a basement door. There was a compact kitchen inside and a cork noticeboard pinned with enormous letters—RICHMOND REFUGEE COMMUNITY CENTRE—and a dozen adults on couches and folding chairs, including two in university hoodies. They glanced up at the creaking door.
Shit, Nour said quietly.
Nour, shut up.
Atay said, Hello . . .
Hi! I’m Claire, from Monash University. Can I show you around?
Indeed she could.
Meanwhile, your kids—Mrs Sorisho—?
A woman with tiny gold flowers in her ears found trays of watercolours, brushes, paper, and a cup.
You can paint with me if you want, she said. She wetted her own brush and swept out a red flower with six petals in a single stroke.
Nour chewed his lip, then accepted brush and sheet and scraped at the disc of hard black paint.
Firuzeh dipped her brush in the paper cup and painted colourless peaks and snow. From one corner to the other, she spotted and sprinkled water. Here, zigzags. There, cliffs. The paper puckered.
I’m done, Nour said, holding his painting up.
His paper was wet and completely black at the centre. At the edges, violence: shearing slashes, splatters, single brushstrokes like razor gashes.
Mrs Sorisho slid her glasses down from her hair.
Yes, yes, she said. That’s it exactly.
Can I go now?
Of course. Look in the other room. I think you will see something you like.
He slipped off the couch and padded away.
Now what did you paint there?
Firuzeh said, Glass.
Hm. Yes, I see. How else to paint glass?
Firuzeh had used the same cup of water as Nour. The water had blackened from his brush, and smoke and ash swirled from his painting into hers. Broken windows in a riot, she thought. Or a mirror, streaked.
Mrs Sorisho said, Is your family new? I have not seen you here before.
We only arrived four months ago.
Welcome, welcome.
Mrs Sorisho filled her own page with flowers.
What you were saying to Nour—that’s my brother—
Yes?
Is there something in his painting? It’s all black—
With slow, careful motions, Mrs Sorisho rinsed her brush, dried it on a napkin, and laid it down. A thin furrow dug into her brow.
We left our three children in Iraq.
Why?
We thought it would be safer. It seems we were wrong.
But what does that have to do with the painting?
I think you will like this picture better. Here. Have some flowers. It’s yours, if you want.
Mrs Sorisho had painted a walled flower garden. A rainbow above, feverish colours below. Firuzeh held the soft damp paper on her palms.
It’s nice.
Thank you.
But I still don’t—
Dinner’s ready, Sister Margaret said. She had entered unnoticed with three covered dishes. Claire was stirring a pot on the stove.
Nour ran in.
Firuzeh, foosball! I was going to beat Mo, but they called us for dinner—
The young man behind him said, I was about to beat you.
They all converged upon the long laminate table. Firuzeh wound up seated between Abay and a tall, quiet man named Samuel. Ladling lentils onto her plate, he said: Eat up if you want to grow strong like me.
He had played tuba in the army band. The band played for President Isaias Afwerki. Processionals when he walked in. Recessionals when he walked out. Anything the President liked, for eight long years.
You were in the army?
Eritrean men have to serve for a year and a half.
You said eight years.
The President’s maths was a little different from the arithmetic of common men.
This is Mo, Nour was saying, from Somalia—
You’re not half bad, Mo said to him.
How did you get to Australia? Firuzeh said.
The whole band came. They told us the night before our flight. Otherwise people deserted in droves. I hugged m
y wife goodbye. She was pregnant and bigger around than me. When we got here, they locked us inside a hotel.
How did you get out?
A political demonstration. Some Australians heard that we were here. They marched outside with painted sheets. We didn’t talk about it—no one talked about it—but in the middle of the night we snuggled our instruments in our beds, so it seemed we were sleeping, and jumped out of the windows.
It must have hurt.
The protesters were waiting for us. They stretched out their banners, and we landed in them. Twelve of us made it. Then lights snapped on inside the hotel. The protesters put us in their cars and argued about us, what to do and where to go. The next day they brought us to an immigration office, and we filed for asylum. Now here I am.
And your wife?
Still in Eritrea. Along with my son. I have never seen him.
Along the table one word rose up:
Someday—
Someday our children—
—here, someday.
Firuzeh, Nour said, you have to watch. I’m going to beat Mo in two of three games.
Mo said, You can referee.
Nour could barely see over the edge of the foosball table, but he twirled the black handles furiously. The ping-pong ball clattered from row to row, then dropped into Nour’s goal.
I’ll win the next two.
We’ll see, Mo said.
Here’s the ball, Firuzeh. This time you drop it in.
Last time it was you, Mo said.
So?
I’m just saying.
Firuzeh held the white ball over the centre line. The rods of plastic figurines twitched. She let go.
The ball bounced, and their first kicks flew wild.
Bit by bit, tap and stop, Mo took possession of the ball. Nour made wet spit noises and effortful grunts, running back and forth to slam and block.
Light as air, the ball darted into Nour’s goal.
Mo laughed and shook Nour’s hand. Play again? You said three.
Nour pouted. No. I’m better at soccer.