by Clare Atkins
Baba’s eye …
I feel a hand on my shoulder. The nurse is looking at me with worried eyes. ‘I’m here. It’s okay. You’re alright. Just breathe … that’s it … as slowly and deeply as you can.’
She counts my ragged breaths from one to a hundred. I feel my body start to calm. She calls Lisa down from the IEC. I tell them my stomach hurts. It’s true. It hurts all the time; nerves corrode my organs from the inside like acid.
They ask me questions then talk amongst themselves in worried whispers.
I say I just need to lie down. Be still. Rest.
They let me. The room is air-conditioned and quiet. There is no-one playing cards or chess next door, or watching television all night, or arguing through the walls.
I sleep. It is mercifully dreamless.
When I next open my eyes, it’s almost time to go home. My schoolbag is on the floor beside me, next to the bed. Someone must have dropped it off. The nurse calls Lisa and she comes downstairs again, and walks me slowly to the bus. Stands protectively beside me. I am grateful she doesn’t make me talk.
Zahra arrives with Jamileh. I’m guessing Lisa told them I was sick; they give me small sympathetic smiles.
‘Are you feeling better?’ asks Zahra.
I nod, still weak. ‘Stomach-ache.’
The bus pulls in, and we are counted on. Instead of sitting next to Jamileh, Zahra slides in beside me. She reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘I get stomach-aches too. All the time. Sometimes I think I’m going to throw up.’ She leans slightly away from me. ‘You’re not going to throw up, are you?’
‘No.’
‘You should drink some water. You look pale.’ She unzips my plain blue Wickham Point–issued schoolbag, and pulls out my drink bottle. Something white falls onto the ground. She bends to pick it up, and hands it to me with a question on her face.
It’s a folded piece of A4 paper with Anaheeta written on it. There’s something inside.
I unwrap it slowly to find a battered iPod with headphones and a carefully handprinted note:
Zahra reads over my shoulder. ‘What does that mean? Why did he give you that?’ I shrug, but she persists. ‘I thought you said he wasn’t talking to you.’
‘He wasn’t.’
She frowns and points to the iPod. ‘They’ll confiscate that, you know.’
My stomach churns but curiosity wins out. I unwind the headphones and hold one earpiece out to Zahra, just as Jono did to me. She shakes her head.
Jamileh’s voice pipes up behind us. ‘Can I listen?’
Zahra shrugs and turns to stare out the window in silent boycott.
I pass Jamileh an earpiece, then scroll through the list of songs, searching for something I know. I see the name Michael Jackson and press play. And suddenly I’m back in my bedroom in Iran, dancing and laughing and trying to moonwalk with my cousin Yasmin.
Despite herself, Zahra leans in towards me. ‘Is that Michael Jackson?’
I pull my earpiece out and hold it between us so she can hear. She presses her cheek to mine. The tiny fountain of music bubbles between us. The song ends, as the city gives way to bush.
It clicks onto a new track and suddenly there is an Australian male yelling in my ear. Every tenth word seems to be ‘fuck’.
Zahra screws up her nose. ‘What is this?’
Jamileh is laughing. ‘Argh! Make it stop!’
I go to press stop, but the familiar beat of hip-hop makes me pause. ‘I want to listen.’
Zahra and Jamileh look at me like I’m crazy.
‘Are you joking?’
‘You don’t actually like that, do you?’
I ignore their laughter and say, ‘Just a bit more.’
They shake their heads, and Jamileh hands me the other earbud. I push both into my ears and close my eyes.
JONO
I ignore Will’s texts
and head straight home.
I watch the Tropic Thunder clip again,
searching for clues,
then google Iran war on a hunch.
Turns out there was one,
but it ended in 1988,
way before Anahita was born.
I follow the link and read about Iran.
One of the world’s oldest civilisations.
Natural supply of gas.
I scan down to ‘Contemporary Era’
and skim past the Islamic Revolution
to the Iran–Iraq War
and something about an election.
Nothing of interest there.
So I google Iran blood instead.
Images seep onto my screen
of backs covered in whip marks,
and a fountain spurting blood.
A woman’s face half obscured by trails of red.
I squirm,
wondering what it means,
and what Anahita’s seen.
KENNY
I see Jonathan emerge from his room and feel a spark of hope. For once, he isn’t wearing those bloody headphones – that thin white wire running from the buds in his ears to the beats in his pocket. I try not to take it personally, the fact he wears them all the time. The headphones are keeping music in, not shutting me out … right?
I know they’re one of Jonathan’s only connections to his mum; the iPod and headphones were a gift from Roxanne before she left. But it still bothers me to see him like that. Cut off. Plugged in. Wired differently.
He enters the kitchen and heads straight for the fridge.
I have to force myself to bring it up. ‘I saw Will’s mother today.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He doesn’t even seem to care, just stares distractedly into the void.
I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon, but I still don’t know what to say. Do I try to ground him? Or forbid him from going to Will’s? Things were easier when he was little: if I didn’t want him to go somewhere I could just carry him to the car. But now he’s taller than me. And canny too; he knows that with the hours I keep in this new job he can pretty much do what he likes.
I know Roxanne would call it pathetic parenting. (‘You’ve got to be able to back it up!’) But I don’t know what else to do, so I say it anyway: ‘I don’t want you to go there anymore. To his house.’
For a moment I could swear he’s about to call my bluff. But then, mercifully, his expression changes and he groans.
‘Oh, come on, Dad. He’s my best mate.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s a good one.’
‘I’ve known him since he was five. You have too.’
‘His mother said she’s been letting you smoke and drink at her house.’
He doesn’t meet my eye. Just reaches into the fridge and grabs the loaf of no-name bread, then says, ‘What about this? I still get to go over there in the mornings, but in the afternoons I’ll come home. That’s when they smoke and drink anyway. I won’t do that stuff anymore, okay?’
I feel quietly relieved that he’s given me a way to maintain a veneer of parental control. For now, at least.
‘Okay then. Deal. Sit down. I’ll heat you up some pho. Minh made extra today, so she dropped a pot over for us.’
‘Nah. Don’t want soup. Too hot.’ He moves to the cupboard and grabs the jar of peanut butter.
I watch in disgust and disbelief as Jonathan spreads a thick layer then folds the bread in half and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth. I’m about to say something about not wasting Minh’s good food, when I hear Jonathan’s voice again, part-muffled by the mouthful of sandwich. ‘Dad … do you remember that movie Tropic Thunder?’
‘What?’
‘You got a pirated DVD of it when I was about ten. It’s about soldiers during the Vietnam War. Well, kind of. It’s funny, you know. Like a spoof?’
I nod, bemused, as I recall: ‘Your mother didn’t want you to watch it.’
‘Yeah, but you let us anyway, one night when she was out.’
A smile passes between us, and I feel myself glow. It’s
been so long since we had a positive conversation. When I worked in construction I used to knock off in time to pick Jonathan and Lara up from school. We’d sit in the kitchen like this every afternoon, the kids’ small legs swinging as they discussed the world and everything in it. Before Roxanne left. Before Jonathan became morose and silent.
He asks, ‘Did it … bother you? Watching a film about the war? I mean, did it remind you about stuff that happened when you were small?’
I blink in disbelief. Is he seriously asking this? Doesn’t he know anything?
‘I was born in 1976,’ I say. ‘The war was over. No fighting or explosions. Not like that movie at all. Just sad, poor people struggling. No money, no food.’
‘Oh.’ He looks almost disappointed.
Maybe I should’ve talked to him more about how it was for me growing up. Is it too late to tell him now? Will he understand? I’m searching for a place to start, a beginning to the story of my childhood, when Jonathan says, ‘So you don’t actually know about the war.’
Despite myself, I snap. ‘You want to know about the war, you ask Minh.’
He nods and chucks the peanut-smeared knife into the sink with a clatter, then cruises off to his room, closing the door behind him. After a few moments discordant screeches of music scream out, infusing the whole house.
I stand alone in the kitchen, a leaden feeling in my chest, and ladle myself out a single serve of pho.
I put it in the microwave.
Beep.
ANA
Beep.
The metal detector sounds. Milly pulls my bag from the end of the conveyor belt and searches through it. She locates my copy of The Outsiders and flips it open to where the iPod is wedged in there with Ponyboy. ‘What’s this?’
‘My friend give it to me. To borrow.’
She raises one bushy blonde eyebrow. ‘It will have to go to property to be checked.’
My shoulders slump. ‘But … how long does it take?’
‘A week. Not more than two.’
‘I need to return tomorrow.’
‘Sorry. It’s got to be searched. Those are the rules.’ She says it like she knows it’s stupid but can’t say that out loud.
I picture Jono’s unimpressed expression when I tell him he won’t get his music back for weeks.
As if Zahra guesses my thoughts, she leans in and whispers, ‘Don’t feel too bad. Whatever he did, serves him right.’
Memories bob to the surface, often at night. In one dream, I see myself …
… walking, slowly and silently, around Baba’s old study.
I run my fingers over his belongings, like they hold magic I might absorb.
His telescope is angled at the smoggy sky above the apartment building next to ours.
There’s a Farad Farzin CD in the stereo.
A Science textbook open on the desk.
A bookmark in the Shahnameh.
I flip it open and see the story we’d been reading together before bed …
When I wake, my pillow is smeared with tears and blood, and strewn with long trailing strands of my hair, yanked out in my sleep.
I inspect the damage in the mirror. More patches of redraw scalp to hide. I wrap my headscarf firmly, holding it in place with bobby pins.
Maman watches from the bathroom door. ‘Ana, I’ve told you: just tie it in a ponytail, joon. Don’t wear the headscarf. We came here to get away from all that.’
I pretend not to hear.
She says, ‘No-one will notice the patches if you brush it over and tie it tight. Maybe we can ask Meena to find some hairspray for you on the black market to hold it in place.’
I tell her not to worry about it, but leave the headscarf on, as I go to catch the bus.
JONO
She keeps her eyes on the front of the classroom, away from me.
Her headscarf is wound tight today:
a protective shell.
As the lesson ends,
I make myself approach.
‘I, uh … how are you today?’
She doesn’t meet my gaze.
Murmurs, ‘I am well, thank you.’
But her voice is heavy,
and the words sound like something
she learnt from a textbook.
Maybe she did.
I ask, ‘Did you find my iPod?’
‘Yes.’
I try to fill the awkward pause.
‘Anything that really got you?’
‘Got me?’
‘Music you liked?’
She hesitates. ‘I listen to … Hilltop Hoods.’
‘Really?’ I’m stunned.
‘Yes. I like. It sound … ugly.’
I want to laugh, but she looks so fragile I don’t dare.
‘So, ugly’s a good thing?’
She nods. ‘Ugly is good … if it is honest.
If it mean … you have something to say.
Then it is beautiful ugly.’
I know exactly what she means.
I ask, ‘What songs did you listen to?’
‘I don’t know.’ She seems uncomfortable.
I say, ‘We could have a look.
Have you got the iPod there?’
She mumbles, ‘The officers took it.’
‘What do you mean? Will they give it back?’
‘In one week. Maybe two.’
‘Okay … Well, when they do …’
I reach out,
but she reels back,
fear in her eyes.
I say, ‘Sorry. Shit. I didn’t mean …
I was just going to write a band name on your arm.
To look up. When you get it back.’
Her arm shakes as she holds it out.
I scrawl letters slowly onto skin
and hope my smile is reassuring.
‘This is beautiful ugly music too.’
KENNY
I do an interior perimeter check of the Surf compound, walking slowly along the worn dirt path just inside the internal fence. The mood in the centre seems low today. Subdued. Depressed.
Across the central void, I can see Sand, the compound that contains all the single men. They hang in bored clumps, pacing in the common areas or draping themselves on the fence, staring out. I hate that area the most. That, and the section in Surf for unaccompanied minors: kids with no parents. I hate the areas for different reasons. The kids are an ocean of sorrow; the men are a field of dry grass waiting for someone to light a match.
I can feel their stares following me, even at this distance.
I’m almost relieved when Sally, one of the activities officers, pokes her head out of the computer room and waves me over.
‘Kenny! I’m dying for a smoke. Can you keep an eye on things in here?’
‘No worries. Of course.’
She gives me a grateful pat on the back as she moves off. I enter the room and automatically count heads. It is unusually empty: just three people on computers. All female. Two Rohingyas … and the girl from the bus.
‘Kenny,’ she says.
She remembers my name. It sounds almost foreign the way the syllables form in her mouth. Keh-nee. I chose the name when I first arrived here from Vietnam. My new construction mates said Dzoung was too hard to say. Some joked that it sounded like ‘dung’. One day, I saw a van passing with Kenny’s Pies written on the side, and figured it sounded suitably Aussie. But then a few years back a movie came out called Kenny; it was about a toilet cleaner, so I ended up having to put up with shit jokes anyway.
The girl seems to be waiting for me to respond.
She says, ‘KIN016 – remember? I meet you on the bus, my first day of school.’
‘I remember.’ I wish I didn’t. I’d almost forgotten.
She smiles, like she thinks we’re friends. ‘I meet your son. He is very nice.’
I can’t tell if she’s taking the piss or being overly polite. Didn’t Jonathan say he told her to get lost? I have a horrible feeling that maybe Cara
was right. Maybe by telling her about my son I’ve crossed an invisible line. The line that says: us here; detainees there. The line that keeps the ‘us’ safe.
I struggle to keep my voice neutral. ‘Thanks.’
She indicates her arm. There’s something written on it in pen. ‘He tell me about some music.’
I peer closer. The handwriting is sickeningly familiar.
The girl continues, ‘Is it alright, maybe, if I can listen here?’
The invisible line rises off the floor and winds around my throat. I sound strangled, as I say, ‘Sorry, that’s not allowed.’
Her big dark eyes stare back at me. ‘I can play it soft. It’s for school … well, a little bit.’
My heart stops in my chest. Is she making a veiled threat, referring to Jonathan like that?
I feel trapped into saying, ‘Okay. Just this once. Just quiet.’
She gives me a wide smile then types with one finger, copying the band name from her arm. The YouTube clip loads slowly. Everything is slow in here. Normally I don’t care. It doesn’t affect me; we have fast broadband at home. But today it is the worst kind of torture, as I wait … and wait … Finally, the music starts. It is a song I could swear I’ve heard pumping out from behind Jonathan’s closed door. Angry white men yelling at the world.
My mind runs screaming around the confines of my skull. How is this happening? Did Jonathan lie about this girl? Are they actually friends? And what else don’t I know about my son’s life?
One of the Rohingya women winces. ‘Very bad. Please turn off.’
I lurch towards the girl. ‘Yes, sorry. You’ll have to –’
She clicks the mouse and the music stops.
Our eyes meet in the silence, and she smiles at me again. ‘That’s alright. Is enough. Thank you.’
I want to take her thanks and her smiles and grind them into the floor.
JONO
I could swear Dad is watching me
as I lay the table with chopsticks
and a plate of chopped coriander and mint.
(If green had a smell, this would surely be it.)
Aunty Minh deep-fries spring rolls on the stove.
I say, ‘Cô Minh …’
It’s one of the only Vietnamese words I know: