by Sharon Bala
She pressed the scalpel down, tip first. Drops of blood beaded up where blade met skin, a bright red line. Mahindan turned his head. The world lay flat, pinned to the wall. Sri Lanka was a teardrop in India’s shadow. America was green and, above it, Canada was orange. Large, unknowable countries oceans away.
The patient’s head jerked off the table when he screamed. The belt clattered loose to the floor. Mahindan and the other volunteer moved quickly to press his shoulders down. When he muffled the man’s shrieks with his hand, Mahindan felt spit and breath dampen his palm. The man’s eyes squeezed closed. His wail was primal. Mahindan gritted his teeth as a memory assaulted him. Chithra gripped his hand and keened.
Ammmmmmma! the patient yelled.
Tears prickled Mahindan’s eyes. He sniffed and bit down hard on his own tongue.
The incision was complete. The doctor peeled the skin back slowly, exposing muscle and sinew underneath. Rotten flesh fell away in clumps. The patient breathed in hot, hard bursts. Outside, a meal was being served. The smell wafted in – oats or gruel, something watery and insubstantial.
The doctor’s gown was splashed with pus and blackened flesh. There was less blood than Mahindan had expected. He caught a whiff of something sweet and oddly familiar. A pile of bananas rotting in the sun, the smell of the body fermenting.
The doctor turned on the saw. Its blade whirred and vibrated. The man whimpered. His eyes were open again, wide with terror. Mahindan saw his pupils roll up toward his forehead. The body under his restraining hands went slack.
Fainted, the other volunteer said.
For the best, the doctor said, and bent over her work. The noise was a high-pitched whine.
—
The body, in death, was heavy and stiff. It took three men to lower it into a wheelbarrow. Mahindan struggled with the head, trying to rest it as gently as possible.
He’s dead now, one of the volunteers said impatiently. Let’s just finish this quickly. He shook his head and clucked his tongue against his teeth. Poor bugger. Who deserves this?
The other two went ahead with the shovels and Mahindan was left to ferry the dead man through the hallways. He tried not to see the stump and its jagged stitches. Patients languishing on gurneys stared with blank eyes. The corridor to the back door was empty. An LTTE flag hung across the threshold. A yellow tiger burst out from a circle of bullets, its gaze following him.
Student artwork decorated the walls, a class project for Martyrs’ Day. The students who had made these drawings were probably all dead. Mahindan could hear the sounds of the makeshift hospital around him – the clicks and clangs of moving equipment, the babble of voices as if from far away, and the wheel of the barrow rolling on the floor. The man’s head was torqued, tucked against one shoulder. His intact leg dangled out.
He had grown feverish overnight, Mahindan was told. There were no medicines to give and nothing to do except let him shake and sweat, muttering gibberish. It had been hours before anyone realized he was dead. A complete and utter waste.
At the door, he stopped and set down the handles. After a furtive scan, he squatted beside the body and reached his hand into the man’s pocket. The man wore jeans, which were stiff. It was a tight fit. Mahindan struggled to pull out a billfold. He caught sight of a five-hundred-rupee note before stuffing the money away. There was something else. An identity card, slimy but intact. He pocketed that too without glancing at the name, then stood, picked up the handles of the barrow, and walked forward with purpose out into the sunshine.
Judge, jury, and executioner
Naturally, it was Mitchell Hurst who got to order the first deportation. The evidence was overwhelming. A long-time weapons smuggler. A lieutenant high up in the LTTE. The RCMP, foreign intelligence, the Sri Lankan government, everyone agreeing: a cut-and-dried case. Black trying to pass itself off as white.
Fred was triumphant at the podium. This is a good day for public safety, he proclaimed. In its clear-eyed decision, the Immigration and Refugee Board has reaffirmed the nation’s sovereignty and sent a message to the world. We will not, I repeat: We. Will. Not. Allow foreign criminals to steamroll over our laws.
In the lunchroom, Grace sliced her knife through the centre of an avocado and nicked her thumb. She jerked, sucking in her teeth against the sting and running the cold water. Checking for blood, she rinsed the knife and ripped off a paper towel as a makeshift bandage.
She was bone-tired, her whole body rebelling against being upright. It had been a long day of admissibility hearings and she envied Mitchell’s simple choice.
Slow progress on those illegals, Fred had said casually, the last time they’d spoken.
She hated disappointing him, but the evidence was spotty and inconsistent. Testimony conflicting with accounts given at the border, sincere-sounding migrants with improbable claims, or else the story was haphazard, impossible to verify. And Border Services was no better, putting forward spurious arguments with little hard evidence. Grace would return to her office with the meaningless affidavits, the newspaper clippings, the intelligence reports, and think the words: dog’s breakfast.
And here was Mitchell Hurst with his virtuous fruit salad, watching Fred run his victory lap on the noon-hour news circuit.
This criminal is a risk to national security, Fred said. Today is a good day for our country.
Trust Mitchell to get the easy one.
Mitchell snapped the TV off. Your pal Fred Blair is a real piece of work, he said.
You’re the one who ordered the deportation, she replied. But then she saw the anguish on his face, the hollow look in his eyes, the skin underneath beginning to bag out.
You know what? Mitchell said. I fucking hate this job.
He stared at her, haunted, and for once without enmity. The intimacy was unsettling. You and me both.
He’s going to die, isn’t he?
Isn’t it incredible. Mitchell tossed his fork into his Tupperware container and jammed on the lid. I’m not a judge and we don’t have capital punishment and yet I’ve just ordered a man to his death. Execution. Our citizens are too precious for that. But everyone else? They can all go to hell.
They were having a genuine conversation. After all these months, he was finally treating her like an equal. Grace put a fist to the small of her back, grinding her knuckles into the knots that had been tightening all day. She felt a heady urge to unburden her soul.
Does it ever get easier? she asked.
You get better at the job, Mitchell said. But it doesn’t get easier.
Grace’s eyes, under her contacts, burned. She’d spent half the night worrying about Kumi and wasted the other half tossing and turning. Every time she began to drift off, a rustle or thump would startle her awake. Grace bent over, head toward the floor, to ease her back. Her thumb smarted.
Are you okay? Mitchell asked.
She brought her toast and avocado to the table and took the seat opposite him. Do you ever wonder if it’s the process that’s flawed? she asked.
Definitely the process is flawed, he said. You could change everything and it would still be flawed.
Because fundamentally we’re making impossible decisions, she said.
We have these black-and-white rules. If you’ve done A, B, or C, out you go, he said, and jerked a thumb to the door.
That part at least is clear-cut, she agreed.
But people’s choices aren’t, he said. Were they coerced? Is there regret? Who’s a terrorist and who’s a freedom fighter? How about child soldiers? There’s no way to know if someone deserves asylum.
Or how they will act once we let them in, she said. The ache in Grace’s back climbed up her spine.
Yes, he said. We can’t predict people’s actions. Or their children’s.
That’s my fear.
You can’t let fear rule you. His voice was almost gentle.
But Grace was piqued by his gullibility. You can’t be governed by naïveté either, she shot back.
&nb
sp; He shook his head like an angry bull, nostrils flaring. Just how many refugees do you think are criminals? Let’s forget about the lucky ones who have family in Canada to sponsor them. Let’s just consider the most desperate people, who come with nothing and make a last-ditch effort at asylum. That’s who your buddy Blair is most concerned about, right? So how many of them go on to be murderers versus law-abiding citizens?
Grace’s voice rose to meet his. Do you really have to drag the Minister into this?
He’s the party crasher! I’m still wondering what rock the immigration minister is hiding under.
Grace slammed her hands down and yelled, Must you antagonize?
Mitchell startled. In the silence, Grace heard the clock ticking, footsteps in the hall. Closing his eyes, Mitchell inhaled deeply. Grace did the same and felt her breath slow. She was disappointed in herself for letting him goad her into revealing so much emotion.
The vast, vast majority of us want the same things, he said in a quieter voice. Don’t lose sight of that.
And a tiny minority want other things, Grace said. To attack our way of life. Don’t lose sight of that.
—
Later, Steve pointed out: The man was a terrorist.
They were sorting shirts and folding towels, Steve standing in front of the washer and Grace crouching at the dryer, hot air radiating out of the drum. She peeled off her cardigan and cracked open the window. Cold February air blasted in, drizzly and refreshing against her bare arms.
They were speaking in low voices and Grace had one ear tuned to the room next door, where Kumi had been napping since three. It was nearly eight and soon Grace would have to make a judgment call. Which was more important: sleep or sustenance?
He smuggled in weapons, Steve said. Weapons that were used against civilians. There’s no grey area here.
But does he deserve to die? she asked.
The doctor said Kumi was fortunate. Nothing had broken in the fall. The bad news was the concussion. She’d recovered from the delirium, but it had accelerated her disease.
They had moved her to the spare room on the first floor and found a woman to come in during the day. But these were not long-term solutions. Since the fall, Kumi slept more and her waking hours were often addled. There were places they could take her, benevolent spaces with bed rails and Foley catheters. Grace had the brochures the hospital had given her. Sign the papers and entrust your loved one to a higher power. The idea was seductive and unseemly. Why did it have to be her? Grace wondered. Why did she have to call all the shots?
Steve rolled two sports socks together. That’s not what you’re being asked to decide, he said. Does this man deserve to live here? That is the choice you’re being called on to make. What happens when he returns home, that’s for his country to determine.
I don’t think it’s like that, Grace said. Lethal injection. Or electrocution. Or anything so…humane.
Of course not, Steve said. They’ll take him to a prison somewhere, torture him for a few days, then burn him alive. Or whatever it is they do in those places. But he knew the stakes going in. Why are you beating yourself up over the fate of a criminal?
Grace folded a pair of jeans, legs together, then hem to waist. She should wake her mother up. She should bring her some dinner. Life or death, there were things that had to get done.
I don’t know, Grace said. I don’t think I’m cut out for this – being judge, jury, and executioner.
No business on our land
When Priya showed up for family dinner, she found Appa, Uncle, and Rat surrounded by cardboard boxes. Books were stacked on the floor. There was a dismantled doll house on the coffee table. A hula hoop leaned against the wall.
Priya hooked her scarf and coat on a peg and stepped out of her heels, rolling her ankles in relief. What’s all this, she asked, early spring cleaning?
Rat folded pillowcases in a laundry basket. The TV behind him was on, volume muted. A Mazda 5 sped down the open road. Donations for the Tamil Alliance, he said. See what you’ve started?
What brought this on? Priya asked.
Appa was flipping through elementary school readers. It’s time to clean out all these things we don’t need anymore.
Like three rice cookers, Rat said, hefting a box. Over his shoulder, bran flakes rained, slow motion, into a bowl. Did you know we have three rice cookers?
Priya crouched to help Uncle with the tape gun. What happened to not getting mixed up in all of that? she asked.
All of that is politics, Appa said, twisting both wrists upward. This is charity. How much help we got when we first came to this country.
Priya glanced at her brother and they both raised their brows. Growing up, they had routinely heard the parental refrain: We came with nothing and built all this ourselves. Hard work and education – the twin family deities.
Well, this is a new story, Rat said, indicating to Priya to come help him lift a Rubbermaid container.
It’s the old story, Appa said. You children were too small to remember. When you were born, Michael, we hardly had anything. You slept in a box. Some people at my office got together and made a collection. Crib, clothes, children’s shoes. So much we got!
All through this speech, Uncle silently carried things out to the car.
But what about when I wanted to join the Tamil students’ group at school? she said.
Priya. Her father flicked his hand out from his forehead. That is politics. Stay out of politics. All these protests and sit-downs –
Sit-ins, Rat corrected.
Sit-in. Sit-down. This and that petition. So-called activism, this is how trouble starts. Next thing you know, fellows are planting bombs on trains. I didn’t want you children getting mixed up in all of that!
Finish school and work hard, Rat said, jutting out his chin and wagging his finger as Ma used to do. See how good this country has been to us? Don’t complain!
They all laughed, even Uncle, and Priya felt an intense, fleeting contentment, as if her mother was still here with them.
Nearly finished, Appa said, standing up to survey the living room, a hand rubbing the small of his back. Will you children order a pizza?
Rat, a pair of pink earmuffs around his neck like a DJ, had the takeout menu open. Ham, bacon, and sausage, he said. Large or extra-large?
Ever heard of a vegetable? Priya asked.
There’s tomato sauce.
She stuck out her tongue, snatched the menu from her brother, and pulled out her phone.
Just don’t order some low-carb vegan quinoa nonsense, he said, rolling a bicycle to the door.
The commercials ended and Peter Mansbridge came onscreen, bald and sober behind the anchor’s desk. Rat pointed the remote at the TV and Appa and Uncle turned to face it. Priya took her phone and the menu into the kitchen. She’d already watched Fred Blair deliver his self-satisfied sound bite several times. The sight of his smug little bow tie incensed her.
By the time she returned, the news had moved on to Afghanistan.
Well, that’s a win for the Dark Side, Rat said, turning off the TV.
A good day for public safety, Priya mimicked. Reaffirmed the nation’s sovereignty! Is it possible to hate a man you’ve never met?
What would you give to slap the smirk off his face? Rat asked.
I’d prefer to toss a Molotov cocktail into his office.
Rat clucked his tongue. You Tamils, all a bunch of terrorists.
This man they’re sending back, Uncle asked.
He’s one of ours, Priya replied. We didn’t know about his past until Border Services blindsided us at the hearing.
If he did these things, Appa said, what choice does the government have?
Uncle grimaced and walked out with a box of books.
So it’s true, then? Rat removed the earmuffs. He was in the LTTE?
Appears that way, she said. Of course, now this makes it harder for everyone else. The adjudicators know one person lied. And if one, why not all o
f them?
Okay, okay, Uncle broke in loudly, returning from the car. Michael and your father need to go soon or we won’t have time to eat.
We’ll be back in half an hour, Appa said.
He had a shoebox of cooking utensils under his arm. Rat looped the hula hoop over his shoulder. Both were decked out in Olympic gear, red toques and wool mitts with white maple leaves.
If there’s kale on that pizza, Rat warned.
Scram, Box Baby! Priya pushed him out.
Uncle closed the door behind them and Priya fell back into her father’s recliner. A tight ache crept up the back of her neck. Her eyes burned, feverish. She’d spent the better part of the week on corporate. The battle between Newtown and CMP Russia was really heating up now and Joyce’s team was all hands on deck.
I need Priya for the next few days, Joyce had told Gigovaz on Monday.
We’re doing important work here, he’d said.
To which Joyce played her ace. Billable hours.
There was something unseemly about their tug-of-war. Like Jessica and Debbie in grade three, hands on hips in the playground, demanding of Priya: Tell us who you like better. Who’s your real best friend?
Rumour had it the firm was creating a new junior position and Gigovaz was hinting it would be on his team. But Priya knew all the partners would be jockeying to add a body, and there was no shortage of talent.
You’re a rare find, Ms. Rajasekaran, Gigovaz had said (he’d finally learned how to pronounce her name). I can envision a future for you here.
Regardless of what he thought, it didn’t change the fact that she wasn’t cut out for refugee work. The emotional toll alone, never mind the quasi-legal mess of it – this was not what Priya had gone to law school for. Market volatility and the price of bullion, dispassionate motions filed by one company against another. And at the end of the day, everyone cashed their paycheques and went home. No hard feelings. That was why she’d gone to law school.