On Fragile Waves

by E. Lily Yu

  “Xuelai, I don’t understand you.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, the headache returning. “And maybe that’s for the best.”

  Crochet, crochet with fermata. Rest.

  Chapter Twelve

  That Gulalai had vanished from school became Firuzeh’s private shame and joy. She did not think to inform either Atay or Abay, who in the best case would worry and in the worst would fight. Now that she was thirteen, and wise, she was aware of their terrible fragility, like a pair of gilt teacups on the edge of a shelf. She was careful not to overfill or unsettle them, although Nour, who had achieved no such enlightenment, kept trying their tempers regularly.

  Firuzeh, of course, considered herself wholly responsible for Gulalai’s disappearance.

  We need stories as much as bread and sleep. I took hers away.

  Nasima said: You gave her a chance to tell a better one.

  I wrote her out of existence.

  You and the federal government.

  I was the nightmare.

  Nasima allowed that this might have been true.

  So preoccupied was Firuzeh with Gulalai’s fate that she did not grasp at first the abrupt rearrangement of their lives.

  The earliest indication was Atay’s ancient car at the kerb on a day when he would normally be at work.

  Firuzeh watched him through the kitchen window, where she stood washing dishes left from a guest. She rinsed and dried teacup after rose-painted teacup, and still Atay idled inside his car. Then, by degrees, he bent until his forehead was pressed against the steering wheel.

  Abay, Firuzeh said, Atay’s home.

  Is he?

  Something false, like paint, in her mother’s voice.

  He’s sitting outside. Why doesn’t he come in?

  Maybe he has to take a phone call.

  Firuzeh glanced at her father again. I don’t think Atay is on his phone.

  Then maybe he’s afraid of us. Have you done anything to frighten your father lately? No? He looks like a hero preparing to climb Mount Qaf, where the peris and jinn wait to torment him.

  Abay. I’m too old for that kind of thing.

  Nour said: I’m not too old. Abay, tell me what happens next.

  The door opened, and Atay came inside. Cleared his throat. Met Abay’s gaze.

  Shh, Atay, Abay’s in the middle of a story.

  They didn’t? Abay said.

  Atay said: I’m sorry, Bahar.

  That’s finished, then.

  I think we should call Sister Margaret.

  Feeling slow and stupid, Firuzeh said, Why?

  Because we need her.

  Nour said: Atay, why do we need her?

  That reminds me, Atay said. Don’t you have soccer practice?

  That’s tomorrow. But Jake and Aaron said they were taking a ball to the park. Abay said I couldn’t go.

  If you’re taking him, Abay said, go ahead.

  I’ll drive you, Atay said to Nour. Nour beamed and ran for his soccer boots.

  Atay went to renew our visas, Firuzeh said, as soon as the door shut and locked behind them. Didn’t he.

  Who taught you to be so perceptive? You’ll only get in trouble, seeing things like that.

  It’s been three years, Firuzeh said.

  You’ve grown so much, Abay said. I didn’t realize. There was always one thing or another. Bills. Rent. Fines.

  Abay lifted the phone, punched in a number, and wrapped the coiling cord around finger and thumb.

  Did they not renew our visas, Abay?

  St Kilda Sanctuary? Hello, is Sister Margaret there?

  Abay, why aren’t you answering?

  Sister Margaret, it’s Bahar . . . How are you doing? I am so sorry to bother you, but Omid said I should call. Yes, my Omid. You sound surprised. We have a small problem today. You see, the visa renewals—well. Yes, I am home. No, I’ve called in sick tonight. Yes, that would be—thank you. See you soon, Sister Margaret. Goodbye.

  Abay replaced the phone. She frowned at her fingers, which were snarled in the spiral cord.

  What are you standing there for? Abay said. Sister Margaret is coming, and she’ll need tea.

  Yes, Abay.

  Abay said: And don’t be crying like that when the sister gets here. She blotted her own eyes with a corner of her scarf. You cry too much, you’ll salt the tea.

  Shortly thereafter, Firuzeh was dispatched to the Lebanese bakery, where she bought a paper box of pastries dusted with pistachio. The whole way home, she swung it from her finger by its ribbon loop. Currawongs scattered ahead of her. The gum trees were unravelling in strips; the starry leaves of liquidambars flamed scarlet and gold.

  Sister Margaret’s loafers sat by the door to their flat.

  Inside, the sister said: I think they’re bluffing. I hope so. Either way, we’ll do our best.

  We waited, Abay said. We waited so long. And we worked. Look at my hands.

  You did everything.

  Now this. Abay sighed, twisting her hands together. Then glanced up. Where have you been, janam? Bring those here. And a plate, our mehman doesn’t have a plate—

  What should we do? Firuzeh said.

  We file an appeal, Sister Margaret said.

  Will that work? Abay said.

  We won’t know without trying. Firuzeh, darling, can you write a letter?

  What kind of letter?

  About your family, and why you came here. What detention was like. If I can, I’ll get it to the PM.

  The sister put a piece of pastry into her mouth and wiped the honey from her thumb. Her crucifix had acquired a shadow of tarnish, and a moth had nibbled two small holes on the back of her sweater, where she could not see.

  Okay, Firuzeh said.

  She flopped to the floor with a notebook and pencil. How should she begin?

  Dear Honourable Mr President Prime Minister Sir. Please don’t send us back to Afghanistan. We left because I wasn’t safe.

  Tapping the pencil against her nose, she underlined. Bit her lip. Crossed out, scratched through.

  Dear motherfucker—

  Dear man at the 901 stop—

  . . . we have the number of a barrister in Canberra . . .

  You said wait. We waited. In Nauru, where they put Abay in jail. Where Khalil. With pills and paper cups. With the rain coming in. There aren’t any mirrors in the camp anymore. They took the glass out of every one. Because Khalil. Because Mansour, Mr Nobody, Mr Hassani.

  I had a friend. Her name was Zahra.

  I had a friend. Her name was Nasima.

  It’s not fair to you, Sister Margaret said. Not in the least.

  Is anything in life fair? Abay said. Or does everything teach us to submit to God?

  Perhaps. But even so, we’ll fight.

  You said stay and Atay laughed, laughed like a war plane, like bombs bursting, and Abay danced. In our new home, on the first night. My mum danced like a girl. And we stayed.

  Now you say, time’s up, go away, we don’t want you.

  It’s true that my brother can be a real shit.

  It’s true that I’m not a good or obedient daughter. And my marks once made my mum throw her shoe at me.

  But.

  Nour burst through the door, mud splattered up to his knees.

  Baghlava! he said, delighted, and stretched out his hand. A finger’s length from the plate he noticed Abay’s skewering glare, then their guest, sipping her tea, trying not to laugh. He backed up and bowed with elaborate courtesy.

  Shower, Abay said. Now.

  Atay entered, cheeks bright with cold.

  I was sorry to hear, Sister Margaret said. But nothing’s finished yet.

  This is our home. You can’t make us go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Sister Margaret exhausted their legal options, thirty days remained before deportation. The finals of Nour’s soccer tournament were forty-two days away. He reminded them at every opportunity.

  Abay opened the mail and made
two piles: the mint-green rectangles of their plane tickets in one, the bills they would not have to pay in the other.

  When I block a goal shot, Atay, like this—you’ll cheer for me, won’t you?

  Of course, janam.

  Abay, Firuzeh, you’ll be at the finals, won’t you? If our team makes it? You have to be.

  Abay moved to the sink, rolled back her sleeves, and began scouring a pot with military efficiency. Suds flew, dishwater splashed, and Nour and Firuzeh backed away.

  All of us will be in Kabul, Firuzeh said.

  We can’t go. My team needs me.

  Too bad.

  Atay said, You can play soccer with your cousins when we’re back.

  Which cousins? Firuzeh said.

  Atay said, Amu Hassan’s three boys. We’ll stay with your Amu for as long as we need to, until we find a new place. He’ll meet us at the airport.

  We’re staying at Amu’s? What happened to our house?

  Atay made an unintelligible sound and stabbed a button on the remote.

  The clean pot rang against the counter.

  It’s gone, Abay said. Don’t ask any more.

  What about the furniture, Firuzeh said, that we left with our neighbours—

  That’s gone too.

  From everything to nothing, Nasima said. Again. What a story, your family’s. Over and over, without an end.

  Firuzeh said, I don’t like how this story is going.

  Atay said, That makes two of us.

  You can change it, Nasima said. If you want. If you’re brave. If you remember how.

  Firuzeh said: There must be something we can do. There’s always something. The hero has to win.

  Atay said, Sometimes the hero dies.

  Atay, why are you sitting there? Why aren’t you fighting? Why don’t you try?

  Firuzeh jan, I am very tired.

  He’s afraid, Abay said without looking at them. Her fingers rubbed grease from their melamine plates. Your Atay has always been afraid.

  That’s not true, Nour said, sticking out his lip.

  Firuzeh said: Atay’s a hero. He spears lions and dragons through and through. He’ll trick the evil div Dimia. He’ll cut off its head.

  Enough, Atay said quietly. Your mother is right.

  Firuzeh pressed on. She would tell this story the way it should be told.

  You’ll ride your spotted horse—the car, I mean—up to Dimia’s office, and you’ll swing the truth at them like a sword. Can’t you see how Afghanistan really is? We can’t go back; we’ll all be killed. And the truth will stab them straight through the heart. You’ll take the letter I wrote to the Prime Minister—

  Yes, Abay said. About that letter.

  —and make him read it. He’ll say, I never knew. You’re free to stay. Australia needs a hero like yourself.

  Firuzeh, the world doesn’t work that way.

  Abay said, Sister Margaret read your letter to me. It was full of bad language and disrespect. She said she couldn’t send the PM something like that. I ripped it up and threw it away. Why did you think you could write like that? What would people think if they saw?

  At least I tried, Firuzeh said. That’s more than you can say.

  With the faintest of smiles, Atay said: I knew we named you well. Hard as stone. Hungry for victory.

  So who sneezed and screwed up in naming you?

  Nour said: I’m playing in that soccer game. I’ll run away if I have to.

  Abay said: You’re not going anywhere.

  I am. You’ll say, Where’s Nour? and look for me, but it’ll be too late.

  Firuzeh said: As if we’d even care.

  Atay said, Bahar, how are these my children? Is this what you’ve raised them to be?

  I?

  Yes, you’re their mother, aren’t you? Some mother you are!

  Who said to his wife, go out and work? Who said, I will watch the children at night? Your children! I made them, I kept them safe, even when there was no safety for me! Who let the guards strip his wife naked? Who trusted our lives to faithless men?

  Don’t push me, Bahar.

  You can’t keep me from speaking here. Maybe among your brothers you’ll be brave again. Brave enough to blame your wives.

  I am warning you.

  My mother was right. I didn’t marry a man. You’re nothing but a frightened boy.

  The wet pans and plates trembled in sympathy at the flat dead sound of his palm on her face. After that, a lambswool silence fell.

  With infinite gentleness, Abay raised a hand to her cheek. Lowered it, just as gently. Went down the hall. The lock on the bedroom door clicked home.

  Atay was breathing heavily. He looked at Nour and Firuzeh.

  Don’t start, he said.

  Nour’s eyes welled up, but he did not make a sound.

  Nasima said: What a nightmare.

  Firuzeh said: I hate you, Atay. I wish you were dead.

  Padarnalat, I gave you life. I saved us time and time again. You didn’t know. You’ll never know.

  Does any of that even matter now?

  What an ungrateful daughter you are. Just like your mother and grandmother. As full of poison as fifty snakes.

  Wow, Nasima said. Tell him to jump off a cliff.

  Firuzeh said: We’re going back to Afghanistan. That’s worse than jumping off a cliff.

  Atay said: It’s happening. Whether or not any of us want it to. There’s nothing I can do, dokhtaram. If there was, I’d have done it.

  Firuzeh said: I can change our story.

  Stupid, Atay said. A big mouth and a brain crazy with dreams. What will that get you, in Kabul? A bullet. He cocked a finger against his head. I should have been much stricter with you. How will you survive, how will any of us—

  Firuzeh went into her room. Nour followed her.

  In the living room, Atay began to weep.

  At school, Firuzeh was already dead. She had not breathed a word of the news, and yet tragedy emanated from her pores. Other students pressed against the wall when she passed. Whole lunch tables emptied when she sat down. Five times a day she ducked into the girls’ to search the mirrors for what everyone else saw: drowned, bloated skin, seaweed for hair, the skull stark beneath her cheeks and lips.

  All she saw was herself.

  But that was not much better.

  If she glanced up from her notes, or an exam, she could catch a teacher watching her with a face soft with pity. Do something, she wanted to scream at them. Are you going to sit there and let me disappear?

  Ms Jones said: It was a pleasure having you in this class, and I believe I speak for everyone—

  I haven’t left yet, Firuzeh said, reddening. Her classmates stared.

  No, but—chook, you know what I mean.

  Ms Jones took out a handkerchief and wiped her glasses, then her nose.

  And I want to say, I will never forget what it was like to be your teacher. Give your family my best.

  Then she sniffles, Firuzeh told Nour in outrage, and blows her nose! Like it’s her lily-white bum that’s being deported! What is this, my funeral?

  That’s what you get for telling, Nour said.

  I didn’t tell!

  Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You’ll get on a plane and go back to Afghanistan. Absolutely no one will remember you. Or you could run away, like me.

  Don’t be silly, Nour.

  Suit yourself.

  I know you. You’d get hungry in minutes. Before you reached the end of the street, you’d turn around to get a bite.

  Oh, right, Nour said, springing to his feet. Lunch was hours ago. It’s sandwich time.

  Leave some of the tomatoes, or Abay will get angry.

  He rummaged through the crisper drawer. Abay’s always angry.

  Still. Doesn’t hurt.

  For you, maybe. You’re sticking with them.

  Stop pretending you’ll run away. It’s not funny. None of this is funny.

  You’re turning into her, Nour said
with his mouth full.

  Who?

  Abay. Tone of voice and everything.

  That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.

  Nour plopped down beside her, meat and bread in one hand. Is it any dumber than my plan to stay?

  Much dumber.

  Firuzeh, you’ve hurt my feelings.

  Do you even have feelings left to hurt?

  Yes, and you’ve hurt all three of them. You better make it up to me.

  Fine. Once there was a dumbass who was soccer mad—

  Firuzeh!

  Okay. Once there was a brave little boy—

  Little!?

  She sighed. If you don’t stop interrupting me—

  He’s at least eleven. That’s not little, Firuzeh. Eleven’s almost a man.

  This boy didn’t want to leave his new home, although his whole family was leaving. Although the government wanted him to. He even had a plane ticket with his name misspelled.

  Wait.

  N-O-O-R. Go see for yourself.

  In a bit.

  So the boy packed his bags and snuck away from the home that was no longer his home. In the middle of the night, so no one knew. And he hitched his way into the bush. There he made for himself a bow of spotted gum and hunted wombats and kangaroos. But he didn’t know how to cook, she added, so he had to eat them fresh and raw.

  Oh, yuck!

  No one said running away would be fun.

  He could make a fire with a glass bottle, Nour said. There’s bound to be some trash like that.

  Maybe he finds a glass bottle, fine. Maybe he cooks his meat sometimes. Is it really important?

  Yes, Nour said.

  Nobody knew where the boy had gone. His family shouted his name up until the minute they got on the plane, in case he was nearby and could hear. Do you think he will be okay? they said. Do you think he is hungry, afraid, and alone? We don’t know, they said to each other. Only God knows. And God has not been kind to us.

  Nour said: But he was fine.

  He was. At night, he could see the Milky Way and the stars that made serpents and peacocks and hares. He pitched a shelter of eucalypt bark, and day after day he shot his bow. It was lonely, since he had no one else. And then he heard that his family was dead.

  She stopped.

  Nasima said, smiling: Now where did that come from?