‘I was trying to help you choose your wedding gown.’
Laila stares at the door handle. Then her fingers leap to her mouth and she starts chewing her fingernails. When she looks up, she sees that Jim’s face has reddened. Even his scalp is scarlet, and there’s a strange flashing in his eyes—it reminds her of the lone kerosene lamp glinting at the far end of the longhouse verandah on nights when she sat out while the family slept. He stands there, his paunch hanging out, hands on his hips. She isn’t sure what to do, hopes people nearby will not hear them. Her hand moves to the door handle, twisting it.
‘Okay, fine, so I butted in. I was only trying to be helpful. So what do you want me to do?’
She stares ahead, silent.
Jim walks around in circles, and lights a cigarette. Suddenly he stops, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.
‘Okay, so you want to shop for the gown yourself? I’m cool with that.’ He starts pulling notes from his wallet. ‘Here, take this, go look around the shops and find a gown you like. Go on.’
He approaches her and tries to push the notes into her hand. She moves away, brushes him off, then brings her hands to her sides. He pulls at one hand, now fisted, and starts to prise her fingers open. A struggle follows.
Laila glares at him, drags her hand back and looks away. ‘No.’
I don’t want the stupid gown. I want a house.
Jim continues grabbing at her hands.
She turns to face him, her eyes blazing. ‘I said no!’
Jim raises his arms in the air. ‘Okay, okay.’
The car park is starting to fill up with people. Shoppers come their way, clutching multiple shopping bags or with trolleys veering here and there. In the longhouse there were always crowds, along the verandah, gathered outside by the riverbank, people dropping into the bilik to see what was going on, to chat with whoever was home.
Now the shuffling and murmurs bouncing off the asphalt take her right back to the noise, the intrusions, at the longhouse. She cringes, exhales air and watches a family of four getting into the car next to theirs: father, mother and twin toddlers being bundled out of a double pram. One of the toddlers has three fingers in his mouth, his nose scrunched up, saliva and mucus running down his hands.
‘Don’t want to go home,’ he screams, throwing his head about.
Jim falls into silence. The father looks at the crying child in irritation. The mother ignores the yells and lifts the other child from the pram. The first baby screams again, louder this time. His wails stab the air. Laila glances at the commotion. The mother tosses aside her hair, yanks her sleeves up to her elbow.
Watching the woman’s agitation, Laila feels energy suddenly draining from her own body. She looks at Jim, and sees the same weariness. He gestures towards her, as if attempting to resume their conversation above the child’s yelling. With a wave of her hand, Laila dismisses him.
‘Let me into the car, please,’ she says, edging aside to make way for him.
She checks the stamp in her passport, locates the word Immigration. Placing her elbow on the White Pages to keep it open, she runs her index finger down the list of “I’s” until it comes to the Immigration and Multicultural Affairs Department. She scribbles the phone number on a slip of paper and returns the directory to the shelf, the chain scraping the edge of the wood.
Before slipping the coins into the phone box, Laila looks behind her, to make sure no one is queuing up. She doesn’t want a long line of people hassling her to hurry up. The phone booth is set back from the main road, shielded from the noise of the traffic. She dials.
‘Welcome to the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs. Please select from the following options. For information about visas, Australian citizenship and Australian passports, press one. If you want to report someone to Immigration or if you are an employer and want help checking work rights, press two. For all interpreting services, press three…’
By the time the recording plays the message for pressing five, she has forgotten the first message. She hangs up, drops another coin in and dials again. Cradling the receiver under her chin, she scribbles the instructions on her scrap of paper, squeezed into a tiny space beside the phone, her elbow jammed up against the glass wall. She hangs up, reads the notes carefully and dials again, pressing the receiver close to her ear so she can catch every detail. After listening to the same drone, she presses ‘one’, certain that it is the option she is after.
‘If you are an Australian citizen and want to apply for a passport, press one. For student visas…’
‘Shit!’
Laila slams down the receiver. She slaps her palm on the wall, leans her forehead against it. Anger pulses in her brain. She takes a deep breath, runs her fingers over her face, and composes herself. Reaching for more coins, she drops them in and dials again. After pressing ‘one’, she strains to listen.
‘If you are an Australian citizen and want to apply for a passport, press one. For student visas, press two. If you are an Australian permanent resident and want to apply for a resident visa to travel overseas, press three. For information on how to support a visitor to Australia, extend a visitor visa in Australia…’
Her head swims with recorded words. She places the receiver back on the phone. She gets out of the phone booth, finds a nearby bench and slumps onto it. Exasperated, she reaches for her bag and takes out her passport. She opens it to the page where her visa is stamped.
Single travel. Temporary entry permit for stay of six months on entry to Australia. Valid until 3 Oct, 1996.
She looks out into the distance, makes the calculation.
Five months. Thoughts rattle in her head. Five months to come up with another strategy.
8
‘YOU DIDN’T TELL HER before she got here?’ Peter says.
‘No,’ Jim says, removing his cap. He plays with the rim, his fingers picking at the stitches.
It is smoko, and he and Peter are sitting on a wooden fence. Earlier Peter had asked Jim about the big day, jabbing his ribs. Since he took up a casual contract with Rick, Jim’s fruit-grower boss, a week ago, Peter has been hassling him for details. Peter knew Laila had arrived in Adelaide, but Jim wouldn’t let him in on any other facts beyond that. Today, cornered by Peter, he’s finally spilled his guts. He’s told Peter everything.
‘Why didn’t you?’ Peter’s eyes widened.
‘She didn’t ask.’
‘She didn’t ask.’ Peter expels air, rolls his eyes. ‘What did you expect her to ask? Do you live in a house with three bedrooms, roller doors and ducted air conditioning?’
‘I know, I know.’ Jim screws up his face, rubs his forehead. ‘I couldn’t exactly advertise the fact that the caravan’s all I got, could I?’
‘Man, you’re in deep shit.’ Peter shakes his head, lights a cigarette. ‘Didn’t the subject of accommodation ever come up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Come on.’
‘I swear.’
‘Maybe not directly. But you must have sent her photos, magazine cut-outs, things like that. That’s what people do in a long-distance relationship.’
Jim looks at the horizon. The orchards spread out before them, trees fringing the horizon, breaking the uniformity of the blocks. A life of wedded bliss with Laila slowly disintegrates before his eyes.
He now regrets having confided in Peter. It’s not like him to talk to his mates about his girlfriend problems, for good reason. This is what happens, more hassling. He wishes Peter would just shut his face and leave him alone.
Jim sucks in air between his teeth. ‘I did. Just the one photo. You know, the one you took of me after your mum’s sixtieth?’
‘Yeah, I remember the one. Amazing you could even stand up straight. The amount of grog you had.’
‘Yeah, I was practically falling over the picket fence.’
Peter swings his leg and kicks his heel against the timber. He looks down at his shoes, then he lifts his head slowly and his eyes widen
. ‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t send her that one.’
Jim swallows his saliva. ‘Yeah, I did. It was the only decent photo I had.’
‘Shit, Jim. You standing there in front of Mum’s house. Red bricks, perfect garden, white picket fence. What would she be thinking?’
‘I know. Fuck, don’t I know. You should’ve seen her face when she asked me that the first day she got here.’
‘About the house?’
‘Yeah, after she saw the caravan. I said the house was a friend’s.’
‘Jeez. You’ve really screwed up this time.’
‘Gee, thanks. This is all I needed to hear. Great.’ He raises his hands in the air.
Peter continues kicking his heel against the fence, staring at the grass.
‘This is just as much her fault, you know. I mean, she could have checked with me if the house was mine. She just assumed,’ Jim says.
‘Now that’s not fair. She was just being naïve, that’s all.’ Peter takes his flask and unscrews the cap.
‘I mean, she did mention a couple of times in her letters. About how nice the house was and things, but she never did ask me point blank if it was mine, or even what kind of a house I lived in.’
Peter shakes his head. ‘Jesus.’ He hands Jim a tumbler and fills another for himself. ‘Fact is, if she comes from a poor background, her expectations are going to be that much higher, you know what I mean.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that all she ever wanted from me was a house. Bloody hell. Is this some kind of a barter, a trade or what?’ Jim punches his knee. ‘Fuck!’
Peter rubs him on the shoulder. They both fall silent, sipping their coffee, the steam rising off their tumblers in unison.
‘What’re you going to do now?’ Peter says.
‘You tell me. You’re the one with the experience.’
‘Me and Marietta, we’re in a totally different boat. Marietta would have been happy in a tent.’
‘Aren’t you so lucky.’ Jim purses his lower lip and smirks.
‘I mean, sure Marietta did not kick up a fuss at all when I mentioned the caravan…mind you, it was pretty soon after we met. I don’t believe in hiding these things from someone you care about. I guess I learnt the hard way from my first marriage, about being honest and all. But you know, Marietta’s situation was totally different.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Got caught in some kind of scam. She’d paid her life’s savings to come over here from the Philippines. Ended up in Indonesia. In a brothel.’
Jim raises his eyebrows. ‘Shit.’
Peter grimaces. ‘Shonky agents, operating from Manila. Pretty gruesome stuff. She survived, though. God knows how. Two of them escaped, got their passports back and Marietta made it to Adelaide. When I met her, she was working in a sweatshop.’
‘The bastards. Must have been awful.’
‘Yeah. You hear about these things, on TV and stuff, but to meet someone who’s really been through it. Boy, that’s something else.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘She’s one hell of a woman, Marietta. She doesn’t get into the detail, but you can tell it was horrific. And she’s the stronger for it, and such a big heart.’
‘Well, good for you. Glad one of us is happy.’
‘Hey, come on. You’re not giving up so easily, pal.’
‘Frankly, Peter, I don’t give a shit anymore. Laila doesn’t even want to go through with the wedding.’
‘She said that?’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s what they say. But they don’t mean it.’
‘Oh yes, she does. I’m about ready to chuck it in, if you wanna know the truth. Don’t give a rat’s arse. Even happy to pay for her plane ticket back.’
As soon as he says that, he knows he’s kidding himself. He’ll never forget the first day. It was enough for him to base his life on. It wasn’t just her looks, she had a way of looking at him, with a mix of coyness and admiration, hanging off his every word, making him feel like everything he said mattered. He couldn’t get enough of it. The way she walked, a gentle swagger, leaning towards him that day, seeking his protection, her petiteness emphasising his strength.
None of the women in his past had made him feel like that. He had slipped fast, deep, into a zone he couldn’t get out of. Since she arrived, and in spite of her coldness towards him in the last few weeks, he has thought about nothing but marrying her.
Peter hops off the fence. He paces up and down, hands in his pocket. Jim sips his coffee and lights another cigarette. He looks up into the sky. Clouds linger, the white plumes feathering out into expanses of blue.
After a while, Peter comes back and joins him. They sit for a time in silence, the sun on their backs, each immersed in his own thoughts. A faint wind starts, leaves and branches rustle. Jim breathes in the fresh scent of earth. Deep, full, filling his nostrils, throwing him back to the first time his father took him for an ‘outing’. He was four years old, watching his dad wading out into the Murray, yabbie nets in his hands. That year the river water had receded and there were backwaters everywhere. The best time for yabbies, his dad said. Slowly the outgrowth of roots at the bank merged into silhouettes, and sunlight flashing on the water turned gold. Dad came back to the riverbank after positioning the nets, and they sat and waited. All his senses could take in was the sight of the backwaters, the thought of ‘the catch’, although he had no idea what yabbies looked like, what they tasted like. He clung onto his father’s knee, the scent of the river washing over him.
Now, as he watches Peter pack the flask and tumblers back into his bag, a sense of failure overcomes him. He looks at Peter’s face, there’s a glow in it he hasn’t seen before. Certainly not for the entire time he was married to his first wife. What does it take?
Peter throws his cigarette onto the ground and slaps Jim’s knee. ‘I got it. Why don’t we let the two girls meet? You know what it’s like when women get together—especially with both being Asian. Meantime, I’ll let Marietta know what’s going on, and we’ll leave it to her persuasive skills.’
Jim shakes his head. ‘Don’t know. Somehow I get the feeling Laila’s not going to be that easily persuaded.’
‘You never know. And it’d be good for the girls to meet anyway.’
Jim shrugs, makes a face. ‘Blow that.’
‘Stop being so negative.’
Jim keeps silent. Peter slaps him on the back. ‘What do you say, hey?’
‘Whatever.’ Jim’s shoulders droop. ‘Thought she was still in Kapunda.’
‘She is, staying with friends of ours, but it looks like we’re moving back to Renmark. Rick told me yesterday they’re extending my contract. Six months, most likely.’
‘Great, about the contract, that is. Back in the caravan park then?’
‘Sure thing.’ Peter stands up. ‘Tell you what. I’m going to bring Marietta back next week, and we’ll organise a get-together, maybe a day trip to Adelaide or something. Have you taken her into Adelaide yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet?’ Peter kicks him in the feet. ‘Chinatown. That’s the first place you take them to. Let them indulge in all that Asian stuff. Jesus, what have you been doing, Jim?’
‘She hasn’t been in the mood, okay?’
Peter smiles. ‘Well, we’ll get her in the mood, don’t you worry.’
9
SHOPPERS JAM THE AISLES. They gather around stalls, looking, pressing, smelling, then reach for their money. Vendors shout from every corner: ‘Avocados, three for two dollars, the best avocados in the market!’
At the end of an aisle, a balding man in overalls grills sausages for tasting, oil snapping like fireworks. At another end, a lady crouches to console her wailing babies, the double pram choking the passageway. Shoppers wriggle past in a hurry, irritation on their faces.
The pulse and energy of the Central Market has Laila in its grip. Her eyes whizz around and she takes in the various shades of skin colour
, the Asian-shaped noses, the full lips of people who look like they have just stepped out of Jogjakarta or Bangkok or even Kuching. Hippies in tie-dyed drawstring pants, dreadlocks pulled up into oversized knots, silver jewellery dangling from strange parts of the body.
At the atrium straddling the market and Chinatown, two Chinese-looking men massage clients’ shoulders while a woman minds a stall displaying jade artefacts, jewellery and oriental knick-knacks.
Entering Chinatown, Laila spots kangkong, choy sum, okra, bean sprouts, their green leaves greeting her like old friends. She hasn’t seen these Asian vegetables since leaving Sarawak. When she catches sight of petite, Chinadoll women with long straight black hair, hand in hand with rugged, blond men in cowboy hats and blue jeans, she looks at Jim, wondering if they look like any of those couples.
Sounds, flavours and colours explode in the air. For the first time since she came to Australia, Laila feels she’s close to being at home. Energy seeps back into her body. It’s here, as little Asia unfolds before her, that she comes to grips with the fact that she’s now truly in Australia—that a place like the Central Market allows her to reconnect with the world she left behind. She finds that here she can relieve, if only temporarily, the ache of missing Sarawak.
When she comes upon sago seeds packed in sealed plastic bags, sitting on the shelf at New Hong Kong Grocer, she squeals. The label reads ‘Product of Vietnam’ but it is the same sago seed that her Mak used to buy in Sarawak. It’s the first thing she sees as they step into the shop. She picks it up from the shelf, presses the pack, feels the seeds between her fingers and thumb, and runs to Jim.
‘Look,’ she says, her face radiant. ‘Sago. Just like back home.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Jim says.
‘I love sago.’
‘How do you cook it?’
‘Boil or steam, with coconut milk and palm sugar…mmm.’ She closes her eyes and the corners of her mouth lift. She brings the pack to her chest and hugs it.
‘Sounds yummy. We’ll get a few packets,’ Jim says.
‘Just one will do.’
‘Nah, we’ll get a couple.’ He takes three packs and puts them into the shopping basket. ‘Now, what else?’
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