Good Muslim Boy

by Osamah Sami

  ‘Seriously, bro,’ spat Moe Greene. His jeans were sweaty and drenched. ‘Why did you tell me to dress like this—oh, Osamah, holy moly.’

  Our breaths arrested as soon as we saw the women. It wasn’t just that they weren’t dressed up; they were wearing basically nothing. Some of them, literally nothing. Even the women who wore bikinis flashed angles I hadn’t known existed. Even my best wet dreams were revealed to be profoundly unimaginative.

  ‘Let’s count them,’ I said.

  ‘The people? Are you nuts?’

  ‘No, just the ones without tops.’

  To do this, we scurried behind a pair of large beachside rocks, for fear of being spotted by the ubiquitous Iraqi taxi drivers. This made us look deeply suspicious, pointing and gawking.

  This was the heaven the Koran had promised us, right here in Australia.

  I counted fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…

  We stayed there for hours, burning up.

  PAPERWORK IS PAPERWORK

  Mashhad, Iran, 2013: two days until visa expires

  It’s 6 am, still cold, still dark. Three hours’ sleep in an alley. My dad’s cane and luggage. My luggage. My guitar.

  I haul them to a main road and try to hail a cab. Twenty minutes. No one stops. They all have somewhere to be.

  An old, run-down, lightless car trails to a stop by my feet. The driver is an old man, eyes filled with history. He winds down the window with a slow, manual creak. It jams a couple of times, but he forces. It’s finally down, but only just.

  ‘Where, my boy?’

  ‘Actually, I’m looking for a taxi. But thanks.’

  ‘I can be your taxi.’

  ‘A taxi will be cheaper, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll charge you the same fee.’

  ‘No, but thank you, sir.’

  ‘You know what,’ he says, ‘you’ll get cold out here.’ He pops the boot and clambers out. ‘I’ll take you wherever you want, for free.’

  ‘That’s very kind, sir. But you mustn’t.’

  ‘Of course I must,’ he says. ‘I see a person freezing, it’s my duty to help.’ He smiles at me. I notice his yellowed teeth, and dark gaps where three are missing.

  ‘Listen, don’t be stubborn,’ he says. ‘Have you heard the one about the guy who got caught in the flood? Everyone was rushing out of town, the flood was going to drown them. A motorcyclist stopped for him and offered him a ride. The man said, “No thanks, God will save me.” The flood was up to his knees. An hour later, a car stops, the driver yells for him to jump in. Same thing: “No thanks, God will save me.” Now the flood’s waist deep. A truckie sees him, toots his horn, urges him, climb in. “No thanks, God will save me.” Of course, the flood drowns him. When he gets to the Pearly Gates, he’s a little upset. He demands God say why he wasn’t saved. He was a man of faith. God says, “I sent three people, dickhead. What else did you expect?”’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘So where do you need to go, prince?’

  ‘Department of Births and Deaths.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t sound good either way. If it’s birth, my commiserations for the long road ahead. If it’s death, please ignore my poor sense of humour. Unless you’re happy with the death, in which case I wish you a substantial inheritance.’

  I like his sense of life. Anyone with no teeth and a decaying car who can laugh in a blizzard is fine by me.

  ‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I need to go a few places today. So maybe you can stay with me the whole day, if you give me a good price.’

  ‘Free,’ he says.

  ‘Nope,’ I say. Taarof. I’m sick of it: just charge me.

  ‘Look into my eyes,’ he says.

  I do as instructed.

  ‘My eyes are happy to take you for free.’

  I am still suspicious. ‘Here’s the thing. I’ve had drivers say this exact same thing, then charge me triple the fee.’

  ‘Well, you’re in luck,’ he says, ‘because triple zero is still zero. Come on, I’m getting cold here. And I’m getting older too. So are you going to get in or am I going to kick your ass?’

  Once I’m in the car, we settle on 60,000 tomans—about $20 Australian, which seems low to me.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’ I say.

  He keeps driving. ‘The only thing I’ve ever been unsure about is marrying my wife.’

  He gets me to the Department of Births and Deaths by six-thirty. It doesn’t open till seven. I invite the man to breakfast. He accepts.

  We order the usual suspects: eggs, cheese, jam, butter, bread. It’s the first food I’ve really tasted in days. That’s what kindness can do for you.

  Once the department opens, I take a ticket and get called up first. I present a tiny man with large glasses my thrice-stamped envelope.

  He opens the envelope and peers at the materials within.

  ‘Where is his other passport?’ he demands.

  ‘What? Which?’ I respond, baffled.

  ‘His Afghan one.’

  ‘He is not Afghan. He is Australian.’

  ‘Why does it say he’s Afghan here?’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘What? No, no, no. That can’t be. He is Australian. That’s what I told the lady-lieutenant.’

  ‘You have to get this rectified,’ he says. ‘Go back to Foreign Affairs. Get them to issue you a new paper.’

  ‘Sir, I’m running out of time.’

  But paperwork is paperwork. My driver burns rubber.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Forty minutes later, I’m back at Foreign Affairs. I shove my way to the front and feel very bad about it, but all the good feelings in the world aren’t going to get me home.

  I reach the female soldier I dealt with yesterday.

  ‘Ma’am-Lieutenant. Good morning,’ I say. ‘You wrote that my dad is Afghan, can you please fix it up?’

  ‘Did I?’ she asks inscrutably. ‘Oh, I did.’

  She corrects it with liquid paper, and blows it dry. I follow her neat handwriting: ‘Australian of Iraqi origin.’ She stamps and dates the changes.

  ‘Come back soon,’ she says.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Back at the Department of Births and Deaths, I take another number. Ticket C397. The screen’s only on C289. Nearly a hundred people, and only eight windows.

  Two hours later, I’m standing at one of them. It’s not the same officer from before.

  ‘Why does this have liquid paper on it?’ the new officer enquires.

  I explain the whole thing. ‘Okay, I didn’t ask for your life story,’ he interrupts. ‘You need a new paper from Foreign Affairs.’

  ‘What?’ I whisper, in shock.

  ‘Who served you here?’

  I find the small man with the glasses. His colleague calls him up.

  ‘I told you to get new papers,’ he tells me. ‘Did I not?’

  ‘No, sir,’
I say.

  ‘Don’t no, sir me,’ he says. ‘Anyway, we can’t process this. The serial numbers won’t match.’

  ‘Why won’t it match?’ I ask. ‘Actually, here you go. I have the coroner’s report, the police report, the court report, the embassy report. Will it match any of those?’

  ‘Don’t create a ruckus,’ he says, ‘or I’ll have you kicked out. This is a legal issue, not an emotional one. See this serial number? In our system, it means your father is Afghan. It doesn’t matter that they’ve changed what the paper says. Our computer won’t process it.’

  ‘We’re letting a computer tell us what to do? We built that computer,’ I say helplessly.

  ‘Don’t create a circus for us!’ the man shouts. ‘I told you nicely what needs to be done. The onus was on you to listen to my instructions and carry them out. And now, guess what? It’s still on you to go and fix it up.’

  I break down inside, but keep my head up.

  ‘Sir,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here.’

  ‘And that is not our problem,’ he says. But he lowers his tone. ‘You seem like an intelligent man. So go sort this out.’

  ‘There’s no way I can make it back here before closing hours.’

  ‘Then come back Sunday.’

  ‘My visa expires on Saturday.’

  What can he do? He walks off.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  And soon, I’m face to face with the lady-lieutenant again. There is more barging that makes this happen. I still feel guilt, but not as much.

  ‘Ma’am-Lieutenant, I need you to issue me a new paper,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘They didn’t accept this.’

  ‘They should have. It’s been stamped.’

  ‘They didn’t,’ I say simply. ‘Serial number problem.’

  While she’s writing the new paper, and stamping it a zillion times, I break down inside just enough to start babbling out loud.

  ‘Now I need to get back there, then get back here, to get the exit papers from you…’

  ‘You’ll need to extend your visa,’ she says calmly, not looking up.

  ‘I already have,’ I say. ‘I have no more extensions left.’

  She gives the paper one last stamp.

  ‘Look here,’ she says. ‘Take this to them, quickly, and come back ASAP.’

  ‘What if you’re closed?’ I all but mewl.

  ‘One problem at a time.’

  And so I take the paper, and get back in the car, grateful for the driver, who does like to drive fast. He pushes his rust-bucket car for everything it’s got. In the traffic, which does not comply with his attitude, I begin to recite the Koran under my breath. Surely things can’t end like this.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I march straight to the counter of the tiny man with the large glasses and drop the paper in front of him.

  ‘Can’t you see I’m serving a customer?’ he barks. ‘Get a number and wait your turn, this country has laws.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Stop remonstrating! You’re not the only one with a problem here. All these people sitting down, you see them? What do you think they’re here for?’

  Fair point. So, I get a ticket. But it’s twenty-odd people behind, only two counters are open, and it’s already three o’clock.

  I start to tell my story to the people in line, and ask openly if anyone might help by giving me their number. I’m so animated, I know I’m coming across as a total loon, but I can’t help it: I look possessed because I feel that way too.

  A few people protest gamely, saying I should just wait my turn. Others are sympathetic, but say they’ve been waiting for hours, and can’t risk the place closing on them.

  Suddenly, another idea sprouts up.

  ‘What if I buy your number?’ I suggest. ‘How much is it worth to you? I’ll buy your number. Cash.’

  Everyone stays quiet, so I keep pushing it.

  ‘What’s the daily wage here? Twenty thousand, thirty? I’ll triple it, quadruple it. One ticket, one hundred thousand!’

  I’m interrupted by the loudspeaker: the next number is called. A hunched man who looks like he was buddies with Moses gets up. He looks at his ticket, then looks at the cash in my hands. He approaches me gingerly, and speaks even slower than his walk.

  ‘I came…all the way from…the village…to register my grandson’s… birth. And if I don’t…do it…there…is a fine. I will need… to come back…Sunday. And I can’t…come back…on Sunday. My wife…is very…frail.’

  ‘What’s the fine?’ I ask him.

  ‘Twenty thousand.’

  ‘So I’ll pay it. And your trip back to Mashhad. Deal?’

  ‘How about…my time…off?’

  ‘How can you possibly be working?’ I blurt. He looks like he retired before I was born.

  He takes a deep breath. ‘In a village…we are always… together. When I leave my…family…they get…upset. That’s… our…lifestyle. And…’

  ‘Two hundred thousand, that’s my offer.’

  He takes another long breath to speak, so I cut in.

  ‘It’s a lot of cash and you know it.’

  ‘Thank you…you are very kind.’

  ‘No. I’m just desperate,’ I toss back. It’s true. I’m horrified by my behaviour. But I bury this in the growing pile of things I can feel bad about later on, once my father’s not in a refrigerator, and I’m on a flight back home.

  ‘I see you buy people out,’ says the small man with the large glasses.

  ‘He was free to choose,’ I mumble.

  He types the details into the computer.

  ‘Hmm. Actually, no. Can’t do this,’ he frowns. ‘The system already has it that your father is Afghan, and it doesn’t know how to accept two deaths for the one person. It’s saying this man’s already dead, and I can’t really change it. Your only option is to get the matter overturned in court. That takes maybe two, three weeks.’

  ‘The hell it won’t,’ I utter, defiant but nervous.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he blinks.

  ‘You heard me,’ I say. ‘I don’t even have two hours, and you’re telling me two weeks. For an error that wasn’t even my fault to begin with.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he affirms, ‘and if you’d listened to me—’

  ‘Who is your manager? I want to speak to him.’ I’m almost shouting now.

  ‘Lower your voice, sir, or I’ll kick you out.’

  ‘Fuck you, mate!’ I blurt in English.

  I wildly scan the room. By the stairs: a sign, manager’s office. I take the paper and sprint upstairs. I make it to the door marked Manager before a guard stops me.

  ‘The sheikh is in a meeting,’ he says.

  I think about it for an ant’s time of a second. ‘I don’t care,’ I say.

  I push past the guard and barge in.

  The manager is a white-bearded cleric. Gathered around the
room are a bunch of young inmates in grey-striped uniforms. They are a dejected crew. He’s in the middle of a moral lecture. He stops and looks up.

  ‘Out!’ he gestures.

  Whatever I’m going to do, I have to do it fast.

  ‘My father was the lead cleric in Melbourne, Australia,’ I say all in a rush. He goes to interrupt, but I just keep talking. ‘He passed away in the city and I am trying to get him back. I need a death certificate from this department to take to Foreign Affairs. My visa expires in two days and it’s a public holiday tomorrow. I have no other option but to plead my case to you.’

  He regards me for a moment. ‘Why not bury him in Mashhad?’ he asks.

  ‘Sir, his family and community are all back in Melbourne.’

  He inspects my attire.

  ‘Why aren’t you wearing black?’

  I don’t understand what he means. I look at my clothes: washed blue jeans, a charcoal jumper with a blue shirt under it. A heavy grey jacket. Then I get it. Traditionally, that’s the first thing the family of the deceased do: they wear black.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I stutter. ‘I didn’t think of it.’

  He waves me off. ‘I’m busy with these young criminals. Come back next week.’

  ‘Please.’

  Suddenly, he slams shut the thick book on his lap. ‘Australia!’ he exclaims. ‘Is it good there? We hear a lot about its beaches.’

  ‘Huh? Yes. They’re good,’ I tell him, baffled.

  He looks alarmed. ‘Why? Do you go?’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘No, of course not, they’re a place of sin. But they are good. So I’ve heard.’

  He eyes me apprehensively. ‘Is it true women roam around naked?’

  ‘I…think so?’ I tell him. ‘But as I said, I don’t know.’

  He reopens his book. ‘Come back next week, I’ll see you then. Right now, all I can see is that you have a big tongue instead.’

  ‘Your Highness, please,’ I say.