The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  More nerve-racking were the ambiguous cases, the ones where there was more conjecture than solid evidence. Don’t you ever worry about letting the wrong person in? she’d asked Mitchell once. To which he’d replied: I worry about sending the wrong person back.

  She had to admit, the possibility troubled her too. But she disciplined herself against rumination. If it was a choice between a stranger and her family, Grace would always choose her family. We have to take care of Canadians first, she’d said to Mitchell. That’s the priority.

  Utensils clicked together. Kumi chewed and swallowed, clearing her throat before taking a drink. On good days, she ate well. It was the bad days, more frequent since her move to the nursing home, that were the problem.

  I’m so tired, Grace thought, hopeless. She longed to lie down, right there on the floor, and close her eyes. Every night was a race. The faster she could get dinner on the table, harangue the girls about homework, the sooner she could go to bed. A zombie all day, stifling yawns and struggling to focus, she’d crawl under the covers only to feel drowsiness dissipate, insomnia take its place and snuggle up against her.

  Kumi wiped her mouth with her napkin then used it to cover her divided tray. She hated having the remnants of her meals inspected – how much she’d eaten, what was left behind – and Grace was scrupulous to avert her eyes.

  Imagine, Kumi said, struggling to sit up and waving away Grace’s attempts to help. At this stage in life, to become an activist again.

  She filled Grace in on the visit from her friends. The Nisei group had achieved a success. They’d convinced city council to issue a formal apology.

  It’s happening at the council meeting tomorrow, Kumi told Grace. I’m going.

  Let’s wait and see, Grace said. They had been cautioned to take each day as it came.

  The doctor said I could go, Kumi said. Not that I need anyone’s…anyone’s…

  Permission, Grace said.

  The girls are coming too.

  Grace was going to object then remembered the teachers had a professional development day and school would be closed.

  There will be a plaque unveiling afterward, Kumi said. Finally, an ack…ack…say what they did. That’s all we want. An…an…say sorry.

  That’s great, Mom. All your hard work is paying off.

  Resistance was futile, Grace decided. If Kumi was set on this course, she might as well be supportive. Odds were she’d be addled in the morning and the whole thing would be off.

  Let me show you, Kumi said. She groped at her nightstand, slapping Grace’s helping hand away.

  Everything Kumi did happened in slow motion these days, but being scrutinized only made her cranky, so Grace returned to the evidence. The migrant had worked for the Tigers for years, performing innocuous repairs by his account, planting bombs by Singh’s. No definitive proof either way. His lawyer claimed duress, that his client had never been paid. A widower with a child to protect. If this was the worst Singh could dig up, was it really so bad? High-minded scruples, Grace knew, went out the door when children walked in.

  Kumi twisted to dig deeper in the top drawer and pushed her tray table aside. It caught the corner of one of Grace’s papers and she snatched it up before it fluttered to the ground. A photocopy of the migrant’s Sri Lankan identity card. It reminded her of the documents found on the ship. She was sure now they were proof of some larger conspiracy and didn’t understand why this line of interrogation wasn’t pursued at every hearing. To Grace, this was negligent.

  Hold, Kumi said, forcing a book into Grace’s hands. She emptied the drawer, piling all its contents on top of Grace’s files. Exhibit L disappeared under a manila envelope labelled Photos. A pair of socks landed on a set of newspaper clippings.

  We c-c-com…com…paid. We paid a foundry in Richmond. Let no one say we are a…a…wasting public…taxes…dollars. Kumi squeezed a tangerine in her hand as she hunted for each word. Hold, she said again, pressing the fruit on Grace.

  When Kumi thumped another book down, some of Grace’s papers slid to the floor and she leaned over to retrieve them. Singh hadn’t entered the suspicious identity documents into evidence, signalling she wouldn’t raise them tomorrow either. Never mind, Grace thought. She’d question the migrant herself and gauge his reaction. If even one Tiger was allowed in, if it happened on her watch…Grace couldn’t risk that kind of blunder.

  Finally! Kumi said. She produced the drawing with a flourish. This is the design.

  Very nice, Grace said. The plaque was bronze, with the city’s logo. There were hundreds of these memorials around Vancouver, all identical and equally unremarkable.

  Yuki’s husband is a lawyer, Kumi said. He greased the wheels.

  Greasy lawyers, Grace joked.

  We were banned from practising law, Kumi said. I always h-h-hoped you would become a lawyer.

  This was decades-old bait and Grace knew better than to take it.

  There are memorials to everything in this city, Kumi said, sighing heavily, running her hands over the computer-generated image. But not one com-com-com…to show what happened to us.

  Grace gathered up Kumi’s things, separating stray fruit and books from government evidence, and crammed them back in the drawer.

  We don’t ad-ad-ad-vo…advocate. We don’t speak up for ourselves. My parents’ attitude was it can’t be helped.

  Grace bristled. But Mom, what were they supposed to do? You’re acting as if there was a choice.

  The worst part is, that…those…their gen…gen…Issei blamed themselves, Kumi said. The dishonour was a sta…sta…like a mark…could not rub it out. But we can do some-some…this. We can do this. It’s not too late.

  And you are doing something, Grace said, wondering how her grandmother would have felt, her disgrace etched in bronze, on permanent display for every passing gawker. Grace motioned to Kumi’s binders and photo albums on the bookshelf, and said: All your research, the information you’ve compiled about our family history. It’s a good legacy.

  Kumi fixed a gimlet eye on Grace. Come with us tomorrow.

  I have work, Mom. She gestured to her documents and files, now all in a muddle. I have a hearing to adjudicate first thing in the morning. It’ll probably go all day.

  Kumi waved her hand dismissively. Get someone else to cover for you.

  You have no idea what I do, Grace said, her patience finally snapping. She began packing her things. If her mother insisted on goading her, Grace would go home.

  I know what your job is, Kumi said. Making history…history…making it happen. And happen. Again. Again.

  This is totally different! These people are…we’re fighting a war on terror.

  Yes, yes. War is always the excuse. Real war, fake war. Either will do.

  Fake war! Forty-five years and they were still caught in the same impossible loop: Grace working hard to make her mother proud and Kumi scornful of all her best efforts. Grace told herself not to fall into the trap of anger. She silently counted to three, then said: You know very well it’s not the same thing. This is a new kind of war, one we’ve never seen before. The country’s security is at stake. It’s my job to protect us.

  Kumi pressed her lips together and pushed them out. The incisive look in her eyes made Grace feel as though she were fourteen again.

  Don’t fool yourself, Grace. You’re not that important.

  Native speakers

  Mr. Gigovaz was distracted. He kept tapping his foot and glancing at the front doors. It only made Mahindan more nervous. They were in the lobby of the government building, waiting for his admissibility hearing, sitting close to the water cooler because Mahindan had to keep refilling his paper cup. When he contemplated the magnitude of what was about to happen, his thoughts zinged in all directions and his mouth dried up.

  It was summer again. On the journey downtown, Mahindan had gazed longingly out the bus window at the sailboats anchored in the creek. Sunlight glittered on the water and shone off the blue-green g
lass of the staggered office towers. On the sidewalks, women wore skirts and men strolled with jackets slung over their shoulders. Mahindan had pressed his hand hard against the warm windowpane, thinking if only it would open, he would jump down and join them.

  Don’t forget the details, Mr. Gigovaz said. The details are important.

  They had been through all of this already, rehearsing answers to every question they knew the other lawyer would ask. But Mr. Gigovaz believed in last-minute revision. You have come to a place where the people are spoiled, he said. It is easier to call you a liar than believe what you say is true.

  Mahindan could still smell the lingering scent of sandalwood in the folds of Chithra’s wedding sari, feel the rough silk between his fingers as he pulled out the packet of certificates and identification papers, the hoard of rupees rolled up in a rubber band.

  They had been on the run for so long, days and months all blurring into each other. The firelight of a hundred thousand campsites at dusk. Kilinochchi’s toppled water tower lying on its side and bleeding like a fallen giant. The gates of the United Nations building gaping open, looters in the windows. Machine guns submerged in the lagoon. Children wailing in shallow trenches.

  But these were only fragments and they would never do. This was Canada, where they made the water to fall inside, where they drew a straight line between right actions and wrong. Messy and fragmented was how you ended up like Ranga. Neat was Prasad making his bed every morning, folding his dirty clothes before giving them for washing.

  Mr. Gigovaz glanced at his watch then toward the mouth of the corridor that led to the rooms where the hearings were conducted. After his admissibility hearing, Mahindan would have another detention review. The twelfth one since he’d arrived? The thirteenth? How many failed reviews were already behind him? At some point, he’d stopped counting.

  In his darkest moments, Mahindan thought he’d never get out of prison. The file the judges opened whenever he had to face them, it would drop to the floor, fall behind a cupboard, into oblivion. Mr. Gigovaz and Sam and Sellian would all go on with their lives, even his cellmate with the tattoos would one day finish his sentence and leave, and Mahindan would be left in the cell. Solitary and forgotten.

  Mahindan pressed his jittery feet down firmly. He had arrived with his papers in order. He had learned to speak English. He had stitched the pieces of his life together and re-formed them into a whole. He would tell the judge a good and compelling story and pass this hearing. They would release him from jail. They would allow him to stay.

  You don’t have to speak English, Mr. Gigovaz said abruptly. Let the interpreter do his job.

  I have been in this country nearly a year, Mahindan said. It is time to open my mouth. As much as I can, I want to speak and be heard.

  Mr. Gigovaz always had a rebuttal at the ready, but something caught his eye and his voice relaxed. Look who has come to see you.

  Appa! A body hurtled forward in a blur of blue denim.

  Mahindan’s mouth fell open. He jumped to his feet and held out his arms. Over Sellian’s shoulder, he saw Priya and Charlika ambling up, grinning.

  Appa! They didn’t tell me you would be here! Are you coming with us?

  But what…why are you here? Mahindan asked. Why are you not in school?

  No school today, Charlika said. Priya had the idea we might surprise you.

  To spend time with his son, outside the prison, without even handcuffs and only one mild-mannered guard standing unobtrusively to the side…what luxury! These women are angels, he thought.

  Sellian bounced on the balls of his feet and pumped Mahindan’s arm up and down. His words tripped over each other in their rush to come out. He was spending the day with Charlika Auntie and Priya Auntie! They were going to hear stories at the library! They were going to the park! There would be whales and sea otters!

  He said sea otters in English and Mahindan tried to imagine what such a thing could be.

  And then we will ride bicycles! Sellian said.

  And if he’s good, there might be an icy-choc, Charlika said, and winked.

  Mahindan was glad. This is who Sellian should be spending time with, he thought. Our kind of people.

  Sellian was still enthusing. And they have big tanks with different-different fish, he said. And sharks! Appa, have you ever seen a shark? Sellian’s eyes bugged out, transfixed at the prospect of being in close range to such a terrifying creature.

  You are lucky to have such nice Aunties, Mahindan said. Did you remember to say thank you?

  Sellian kept a tight hold of Mahindan’s hand, unwilling to let go. Will you come with us, Appa? To see the sharks and ride bicycles?

  Your father has a big meeting today, Charlika said. He needs to stay here and speak with some important people.

  Is it about the future? Sellian asked. He grew still. The word future was totemic, heavy with importance. A word he knew in both languages.

  Yes. Mahindan stroked his son’s head. Appa is here to make the arrangements for our future.

  Sellian considered this for a moment, a crease forming between his eyes. His tongue worried at something at the back of his mouth.

  Mahindan lifted his chin. What are you eating?

  Loose tooth, Sellian said. He opened wide and Mahindan saw a new gap in the bottom row – another baby tooth gone.

  It had happened two nights earlier, Sellian explained. He told a bewildering story that Mahindan only pretended to understand, about a creature that had crept into his room at night to take the tooth from under his pillow and leave a coin in exchange. Mahindan wondered if his son was developing unhealthy fantasies. Did that special doctor Sellian was seeing know about this? He would have to ask Sam.

  Soon I will have different teeth, Sellian said.

  You’ll be a new boy, Mahindan agreed.

  His overbite might disappear. Already, Sellian’s face was different. His cheeks had filled out over the past several months and his teeth didn’t protrude as much.

  Through Sellian’s whole life, Mahindan had spent nearly every day with him. He had grown from infant to toddler to child so gradually Mahindan had relied on photographs and visiting relations to notice the changes. But now, restricted to weekly visitation, he brooded on every small alteration – new gestures whose provenance he couldn’t decipher, unexpected haircuts.

  Mr. Gigovaz asked about school and Sellian switched to English. I like math the best, he said. And recess.

  Mahindan didn’t know what a recess was, but the others seemed to think this was a joke, so he laughed along.

  Mr. Gigovaz said they used to play cops and robbers when he was in school, and Sellian told him about soccer and ice hockey.

  It took less concentration to understand Sellian’s English. His pronunciation was clear, every syllable enunciated. Mahindan wondered if that too would change with time, if Sellian would soon swallow consonants and merge vowels like Charlika and Priya and other native speakers. They pronounced their t’s like d’s. Bridish Columbia instead of British Columbia.

  Mahindan watched Sellian with wonder, this boy who was his son but looked and spoke like someone else’s. How fluent his English had become in just a few months! The child, in whom Mahindan had once glimpsed his own youth, his wife’s idiosyncrasies, was growing mysterious to him. Soon, he would be wholly inaccessible.

  Yesterday at school, I won a race, Sellian told Mr. Gigovaz. He was still hanging on to Mahindan’s arm, absently patting and stroking. First time I won, he said. Then he wistfully added: But there was no gold medal.

  The others chuckled and Mahindan had the urge to grab his son and hold tight.

  Sellian wanted to show his father how fast he could run.

  Not here, Mahindan said. This is a place for business, not playing.

  Come outside, Sellian said.

  I must stay here, Mahindan said. His mouth was parched and he took another swallow of water. Have you forgotten I have this important meeting?

  Se
llian stood and tugged on Mahindan’s arm. Come outside, he wheedled. Come see how fast I can run. His voice jumped an octave. The whimpering threat of a tantrum hovered. Come, Appa, let’s leave this place.

  Priya turned to Mr. Gigovaz and asked: No one will mind if he runs here, will they? It’s pretty quiet now.

  Show us how fast you are, Charlika said, also in English. She pointed. Run to the elevators and back. We’ll time you.

  His gripe was forgotten in an instant and Mahindan was both grateful and chagrined. It was his duty to discipline his son, to break him of petulance. Sellian crouched, one knee to the floor.

  Be careful, Mahindan said. Don’t knock anyone down. Mahindan glanced at the guard, then scanned the lobby. But Priya was right. Apart from themselves, the place was deserted.

  On your mark, Charlika said, consulting her watch.

  Priya held out her arm in front of Sellian like a barrier.

  Ready, Charlika said. Steady…

  Sellian bit his lip in concentration. Even the guard watched, doting.

  Priya raised her arm as Charlika said: GO!

  From where had Sellian learned to run like this? He sprinted like an athlete, arms at right angles, slicing the air, soles kicking high. Mahindan tried to recall how he had looked in the Kilinochchi playground, at school game days. He remembered nothing. Had he been dreaming that whole time? Squandering precious moments of parenthood he should have been storing up for later.

  Sellian’s fingers grazed the panel of buttons on the elevator and he wheeled around. From the back, in his new summer clothes, hair and limbs longer, he had been unrecognizable, but when he returned, the triumphant expression on his face belonged to his mother.

  Priya and Charlika cheered at low volume, pumping their fists in the air like cricket fans. Mr. Gigovaz held out his palm for a victory slap.

  Record time, Charlika said.

  Future Olympian, Priya added.

  Well done, pillai. Mahindan ruffled his son’s hair.

  In the corridor, a door opened and Mr. Gigovaz said: That’s our cue.

  Wish your Appa luck at his meeting, Charlika told Sellian in Tamil.