Good Muslim Boy

by Osamah Sami

  HUMAN LIE DETECTOR

  It means you won’t be dining with your seventy-two virgins on our soil. We’re deporting you out.

  OSAMAH

  (desperately)

  I’ll sing you a song from the play...

  (OSAMAH begins to belt out ‘Stayin’ Alive’, complete with the scratchy voice of Saddam.

  The HUMAN LIE DETECTOR throws up his hands in disgust.)

  HUMAN LIE DETECTOR

  Deported!

  OSAMAH

  (hysterical)

  No! God has cleared a path for me! I must enter the country and carry this out! It’s God’s plan!

  (realising this all sounds pretty terrible)

  Should I sing you the closing number?

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I was thereby deemed unfit to enter the United States, and was removed, effective immediately. It turned out we also had the wrong visas, so it wasn’t all Starsky and Hutch’s fault. The problem was, we’d been expelled for a period of seven years, so even if we were to leave and gain proper documents, they’d never have let us back in.

  It was possible, I realised, that our theatre troupe had been dealt a bum hand from the start. Nobody had ever mentioned anything about our visas before—if someone had happened to not want to deal with us, they sure would’ve made a convenient loophole.

  The rest of the troupe, I could already tell, were all having the same thought. We just knew what had happened, without saying a word. That’s how close you get in the theatre.

  They clapped us in cuffs and dragged us aboard a flight home before the first-class passengers could board. I looked at them, waiting in the terminal: each and every one of them frightened. All they saw was a line of dishevelled Muslim men being tugged around by Homeland Security officers. I wondered if any of them would flip out and try to get on another flight.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ the air marshals suggested, and took off our handcuffs once we were safely tucked at the rear of the plane, away from the white people. We chattered in Arabic all through the long flight, in our best attempt to piss them off, but they were actually pretty nice guys.

  The truth is, I was wrecked by the ordeal, and all the nice guys in the world couldn’t have helped that. Iran and Iraq were in the business of stealing your dreams; now the US was as well? I knew we’d get new dreams, new ideas, new musicals—our theatre troupe would rise again. But I also got the feeling our options were narrowing, in this big, little world we called home.

  CLEARANCE

  Mashhad, Iran, 2013: zero days until visa expires

  I spend the night walking around the sleepless city, amid the pilgrims—surging millions, all here to pay tribute to someone they, too, lost long ago.

  It is a sea of people, and none of them are mine. I wish my darling soulmate were here. I wish my daughter was, too. Soft snow falls on my grey jacket and slides right off again.

  Dawn breaks, and there’s nothing for it but to cab it to Reza’s Paradise.

  I arrange with the main office to release Dad and have him taken to the airport. The ambulance driver is the same one who brought Dad’s body here, days prior. He does not remember me, but I remember him very well.

  When he learns I want the airport, he gets it. ‘Wow, are you still in Iran?’

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I arrive at two-thirty—way early, but I need everything to go smoothly from this point on.

  Dad’s body is placed on a gharry. The ambulance goes.

  I clutch my ticket and my exit papers, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I walk into the small office in the middle of freightland. Outside the office, there are forklifts and aircrafts and their commotions, their personnel. Inside the office is a tranquil, quiet zone.

  ‘Salam,’ I greet the clerk. He, of course, sips tea.

  ‘What carrier are you after?’

  ‘Qatar.’

  ‘Aircraft’s not even here. You’re too early. Sit, sit down. Do you want some tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. But if you could just take care of this?’ The main airport terminal—where I have to check in our other cargo, namely me—is six kilometres from here. About an hour’s walk. And even without my father, I am going to have a lot of luggage to drag over.

  ‘Sit down. Relax. You look stressed,’ he advises. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m really, really sure.’

  He grins. ‘You are not doing taarof?’

  ‘When is the Keyhan guy coming? He said he’d meet me here.’

  ‘He won’t be coming today, but don’t worry. We’ll see you load the box in safely. May I see your exit papers? And are you sure you don’t want tea?’

  I hand him all my paperwork. He calls Qatar Air. He murmurs for ten minutes. I wait impatiently, eyes closed.

  He hangs up and snaps me out of it. ‘No,’ he says simply. ‘Qatar says they don’t have clearance.’

  ‘Clearance?’ I say. My life flashes before my eyes—or at least what my life’s become: this one job, these million jobs, every paper under the sun, every department.

  ‘They don’t have Australian clearance. Melbourne Airport doesn’t have the paperwork.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ I whisper.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Tea?’

  When I spoke with my brothers, they said they’d organised it days ago.

  ‘Your sorry doesn’t do,’ I say, tight and firm. ‘This is impossible.’ He calls the airline again. My watch reads two-fifty. I watch him while he’s speaking. His air of regret doesn’t change.

  He hangs up. ‘Sorry,’ he says again. ‘They have no record of such a shipment, and apparently your country has tough laws on human remains. That was the Qatar Airways head office in Tehran I just spoke with. They cannot authorise this boarding until Australia gives the green light.’

  ‘Australia will accept his body.’

  His eyebrows lift beatifically: maybe they will, maybe they won’t.

  A horrid thought occurs to me.

  ‘What will happen to my dad?’

  ‘You’ll have to take him back to the morgue,’ he says. ‘You can’t leave him out there, of course.’

  Surely there is someone who can make it all okay—who can press the okay button. Who can green-light this event.

  Someone who is human, and who understands everything.

  In lieu of such a person, I could at least call my bro.

  ‘May I use your phone?’ I ask.

  The man sips his tea. ‘Don’t you have a phone?’

  ‘Mine only works with wi-fi.’

  He looks at me sadly. ‘There’s wi-fi in the main terminal,’ he says.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  I leave my luggage and take the six kilometres at the fiercest run.

  I draw energy from the universe, import
it from the past: every jog I’ve ever taken, every lap round every pool. I will my body to keep going. It just can’t stop now.

  I throw myself through the doors with one hand and with the other, switch the wi-fi on.

  Voila.

  I open Viber and get Moe Greene on the phone.

  ‘But I did it,’ he says, baffled. ‘They never sent a confirmation email. Oh.’

  I can hear Mum and my younger siblings sobbing in the room. He must have me on speakerphone. I try to calm them down. ‘It’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘If God exists, He is watching.’

  I ask Moe to get in touch with the Aussies and let them know to expect a call from Qatar Airways Iran. ‘When?’ he asks.

  I feel ill. ‘Just as soon as I can sprint back to the freight terminal, bro.’

  And so I bolt back. Twenty minutes later, I am there, in the tranquil office in the middle of freightland. I fall through the door, ready to pass out.

  ‘Wow, that was quick,’ the man says, impressed.

  ‘I called my brother,’ I pant, ‘and we have 100 per cent confirmation. One hundred per cent. You can call Australia and find out for yourself.’

  He sighs. ‘Believe me, son, I want to put your father on the plane. I really do. But I don’t want to lose my job. Put yourself in my shoes.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘I forgive you. Can you please call Qatar?’ It’s already 4 pm. I still have to check in myself.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  I wonder if he is messing with me. I don’t think so.

  ‘No, no tea for me. Just boarding the plane, please.’

  He speaks to Qatar headquarters in Tehran again, sipping on tea with one hand, sugar cubes in the other, the phone wedged precariously between his chin and shoulder.

  They place him on hold while they contact Australia. I sit there silently. Three minutes tick by on the wall clock. Each tick jolts my heart.

  Finally, he hangs up. ‘No,’ he whispers. ‘Qatar’s been calling Australia, but no one is picking up. It’s 11 pm on a Saturday there. Apparently that’s the worst time.’

  ‘Who are they calling?’

  ‘They tried the manager of Qatar in Melbourne. All the offices are shut.’

  ‘Please, get them to try the airport. The freight terminal. Anyone.’

  He nods. He’s a sweet man.

  Twelve minutes pass, fast and slow.

  I can tell from this sweet man’s face that nothing’s going to change.

  He hangs up the phone. ‘The men in the warehouse say their supervisor needs to give the okay. They have no knowledge of the shipment themselves.’

  ‘So let them call the supervisor.’

  ‘They refused. They said it’s too late to wake up the boss.’

  ‘It’s Saturday night. He’ll be out. That’s what they do in Australia. Tell them to call him, please. He will have a mobile phone.’

  But the sweet man’s hands are going nowhere near the phone.

  ‘I think you should get your father’s remains back in the fridge,’ he says. ‘And leave Iran tonight for Qatar with your ticket. From Qatar, you get a ticket back to Tehran and on re-entry, explain your circumstances to the officials. They’ll issue a temporary visa. We can sort this out next week.’

  I consider this. It sounds reasonable. But it also sounds so wrong.

  ‘I’m not putting him back in a fridge,’ I say. ‘He’s been in a fridge all week. We want to bury him. My family. The community. Everyone wants him back. And I just can’t keep doing this. Surely someone can say yes.’

  ‘Unless there’s written proof, we cannot authorise this boarding.’

  ‘I will get you that proof,’ I growl.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  By 4.37 pm, I am back in the main terminal. I’ve got the wi-fi switched on, and I’m gasping down the phone to Moe.

  ‘I don’t have the confirmation email,’ he says. ‘That’s the whole problem.’

  ‘Do you have any correspondence?’

  ‘Let me see…okay, yes. There was an initial email. But that’s not the same thing, Osamah.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be.’

  And that’s when I tell Moe that I am going to write the confirmation email myself. All I need is an email address, letterhead and signature; I’ll fill in the body myself, and send it to Qatar.

  Unfortunately, the initial email is just an automated response, no letterhead or signature—a few lines of text is all. ‘It does have the right email address,’ Moe says.

  ‘That’s all I need, bro!’ I shout.

  This is not new territory. Moe and I have spent our whole lives coming up against the authorities and finding creative workarounds. All week, I’ve felt so helpless—so many procedures and forms. But a bit of deviant behaviour in the hope of doing some good? This is my forte.

  I find an internet kiosk tucked away behind a hamburger joint. A young man is on it. I approach, keeping my cool. With the adrenaline pumping through me, it’s hard not to jump him.

  ‘Excuse me, how long do you think you’re going to be?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes?’ he replies, not looking up at me.

  I clear my throat. ‘I will give you ten thousand tomans if you get off right now.’

  Now he looks up at me.

  ‘But it’s just three thousand an hour to use.’

  ‘Come on! I need it urgently.’ I wave the large note—my last dime—at him.

  And he takes it, still processing what it means. The time on the monitor reads 4.45 pm. I have work to do.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  At 5.18 pm I burst back into the tiny office in freightland.

  ‘I have forwarded,’ I pant, ‘the email, from Australia, to your office.’

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ the man urges. ‘Would you like some water?’

  This completely throws me. ‘No tea?’ I want to ask. Instead, I say, ‘Yes, but not now. Just check the email first please.’

  My forgery is simple, though it has an elaborate trail. I think it looks pretty clean, considering the speed.

  And all it needs to do is look clean, if I’m lucky. It does say we accept the body—but in English, which the man can’t read. So he simply drinks more tea. He nods at me, approvingly. He calls up Tehran again.

  He stays on the line, downing mug after mug of tea, for an alarming thirty minutes. Not once today have I seen this man get up to pee. More alarming still: Qatar Airways is verifying the email. Because the Australian warehouse knows nothing of the body, they need to make an ‘executive decision’.

  He hangs up. He sets down his tea. ‘I’m afraid the email won’t do,’ he whispers.

  ‘You said if I gave you the confirmation…’

  ‘Yes,’ he agrees. ‘But I am just an employee. This goes back to the airline. They said the email needed to have been sent to them, is the thing. Why was it sent to your brother and not the Qatar office, they asked.’

  So here we a
re. It was a good forgery. It was not enough.

  It is 5.47 pm on the wall, I idly notice. The flight is all but closed. And the answer is no.

  I remember everyone I have encountered, right from Aioli Cop to the countless tea-sippers to the knife-wielders on the bus to the man punching me outside the airline agency to the homeless woman to the drivers to the father-to-be soldier and the deputy to the black-market exchange boys. It all seems years ago.

  Something tells me that I need to capture this moment. It is the moment when all my efforts have finally come to naught.

  So I hold up my phone, find some good light, and take a selfie. I frame Dad’s coffin behind my shoulders and face. He lies in a box, on a trolley. The shutter clicks.

  I look scarier than the coffin. I have deteriorated by the day.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  At 6.03 pm, the phone rings in the tea-sipping man’s office. Three minutes into the call, I notice that he’s begun to speak with more energy. I can’t help but sit up and lean closer to the desk. His mug of tea is empty by the time he’s put on hold, but instead of filling it, he chooses to update me.

  ‘A manager up the food chain heard your story from a colleague,’ he says. ‘And now he’s personally trying to get this whole thing sorted. He’s been on the phone with Qatar headquarters, in Qatar. He’s the only man in Tehran who has the power to call them. You’re a lucky man, Osamah. Inshallah you’re sorted… oh, hang on.’

  They’ve taken him off hold.

  He listens without responding. I read his face for clues, but it’s blank. I pray with every fibre, to everyone I can. Please, Imam Reza. Please, God. Please, Universe. Please. Please. Please.

  The man hangs up the phone.

  ‘You can go. They said yes. You can go.’

  My body floods with chilly goosebumps.

  ‘Huh?’ I say.

  ‘Qatar in Qatar have said yes. They’ve said yes. You can go.’

  ‘I can go?’ I ask him.