Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ Stan had asked, which had rather surprised Massoud, as the man didn’t appear in the least gay, and there were several empty tables. But of course the bar was in Silom, so he presumed the man would have to be gay and that this was an attempt at a pick up.

  ‘Of course, please do,’ he replied politely, but also a little circumspectly, careful not to appear too inviting.

  Plonking his beer on the table, Stan sat. They introduced themselves, shook hands and then the Australian launched into a one-sided conversation, possibly because he sensed Massoud’s reservation and wanted to relax him. In any event he proved very pleasant.

  ‘I’m from Sydney, just arrived,’ he said, ‘off on the first leg of my big trip abroad. Thailand for two weeks, then Vietnam, Cambodia, Myanmar, a fortnight in each place, a whole two months, flights all booked, but just travelling around, seeing the sights …’ A quick swig of his beer. ‘Looking forward to it, I must say, never been further afield than New Zealand. Too busy working. Too many responsibilities.’ A likeable grin that seemed somehow meaningful. ‘Free of all that now. Time to play.’

  The Australian spoke in a form of shorthand, in energetic bursts, but now as he paused to take a more leisurely sip of his beer, Massoud felt some sort of reply might be required of him.

  ‘Free of all what?’ he asked.

  ‘Marriage,’ came the surprising answer, ‘busted up with my wife.’

  ‘Oh.’ Massoud didn’t know what to say.

  Again the disarming smile. ‘Should have happened years ago. When I finally admitted to myself that I batted for the other side.’ Then, in all seriousness, ‘Bit unfair on my wife, I know, but I was in denial. Becoming a partner in my dad’s building business, wanting to be like him and like all my straight mates … You know how it is.’

  Massoud managed a nod.

  ‘Oh well. At least we didn’t have any kids, and Jan’s only twenty-six, plenty of time for her to find the right bloke. That’s how I see it anyway.’ Stan skolled the rest of his beer and stood. ‘Knock that back and I’ll get you another one,’ he said, gesturing at Massoud’s half-empty glass.

  The offer was made with such bonhomie that Massoud nodded once again, said ‘thank you’ and obediently drained his glass.

  When Stan returned from the bar, he settled himself, they clinked glasses, and then … ‘So tell me about yourself, Massoud,’ he said. ‘You’re obviously not a local, and I heard you ordering your beer at the bar in English, so I’m curious. Where you from? What you doing in Bangkok?’

  Given the Australian’s frank account of his own background, Massoud did not find the questions intrusive, recognising they sprang from a genuine interest. He didn’t go into great detail in his response, but he did tell his story, succinctly, just the bare bones, and he enjoyed the freedom he found in the telling. He was from Iran, he said, where being gay was a crime. He’d belonged to an underground group of gay activists when he was at university in Tehran.

  ‘The group’s leader was a good friend of mine,’ he said. ‘He and his partner were murdered a couple of years ago. Bashed and hanged from the rooftop of a building.’ Then he added cynically, ‘It’s not easy being gay in Iran.’

  ‘Hey, hang on,’ Stan said, ‘I read about that. Bloody terrible. It was in all the papers back home. Sydney’s the gay capital of Australia, and there was a hell of a reaction in the gay community, at least so I read. I was still married then,’ he admitted a little shamefacedly, ‘so I wasn’t a part of it, but they’re a very politically minded mob in Sydney, and they put on a right song and dance. There were posters all around the place and demonstrations of support outside parliament for gay rights in Iran, the works.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  That was how Massoud’s two-week affair with the Australian started.

  Stan had intended to travel around Thailand for the fortnight of his stay before flying on to Saigon, but he didn’t. He remained in Bangkok instead. It was an affair and nothing more, they both knew that, and there was no suggestion from either that he consider changing his plans. But they very much enjoyed each other’s company and were reluctant to part.

  ‘You ought to come and live in Australia, mate,’ Stan said, ‘you’d love it. Particularly Sydney. It’s a great city. Like I said, the gay capital of the country. You should just see it at Mardi Gras,’ he rolled his eyes comically, ‘I wonder what your regime back home’d have to say about that!’

  Massoud laughed. The thought of Mardi Gras didn’t particularly attract him, a little too ostentatious for his liking, but Stan had painted beautiful pictures of his homeland and the freedom of lifestyle that prevailed there.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll pay a visit,’ he said. ‘Some day,’ he added with a shrug that suggested the prospect was highly unlikely.

  By now Stan knew the full story of Massoud’s background, they’d talked a great deal about their respective lives over the past fortnight, and an idea suddenly struck him.

  ‘You’d probably qualify for refugee status, you know.’ The thought hadn’t occurred before, but right now it appeared an excellent suggestion.

  ‘I very much doubt it.’ Massoud’s reply was dismissive. ‘I’m safe here in Bangkok, I’m not exactly on the run.’

  ‘Bullshit. Of course you are,’ Stan vehemently disagreed. ‘You’re here in order to escape, aren’t you? I mean you’re just marking time. You’re not settled! You can’t go home! If you go back to Iran they’ll kill you, Massoud. You’re a man without a home! Hell, I don’t know about you, mate, but that sounds pretty much like refugee status to me.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Massoud replied amicably enough, but he was calling a definite halt to the conversation, which he felt was becoming altogether too fanciful. ‘I’ll give the matter some thought,’ he said. He wouldn’t.

  ‘I hope you will.’ Stan returned a good-natured smile, aware he was being told to back off. But he had the last word nonetheless. ‘I’d like to see you again, Massoud. I really mean that. You’d do well in Australia, too. I know you would.’

  They’d already exchanged their contact details. They now said their goodbyes, and that was that.

  But in the weeks that followed, the words of the Australian kept returning to Massoud and he did give the matter some thought. Everything Stan had said was slowly starting to make an impact. I am marking time here, he thought. I’m not settled … I can’t go back to my homeland …

  He chastised himself. Wishful thinking: that’s all it was. You’re lonely in Bangkok, he told himself. You’ve just had a brief affair with a very nice man and you’re lonely, that’s all it is. Stop romanticising.

  But it was actually Stan’s parting words that continued to impact most of all. ‘I’d like to see you again, Massoud. I really mean that. You’d do well in Australia, too. I know you would.’ Simple words, very simple, but had they been said with a special meaning? It had certainly sounded that way. Massoud couldn’t fool himself any longer. He was more than lonely. He longed for a partner in his life, and brief though his affair with the Australian had been, he hadn’t felt that way about anyone since Ali. Of course it’s a case of wishful thinking, he told himself, but what’s wrong with checking things out? There’s nothing here for me in Bangkok.

  His enquiries led to exactly the dead end he’d expected. Any application he were to make to the Australian government for refugee status would take possibly years to process, even if it was accepted in the first place, and particularly as he was under no immediate threat.

  Ah well, he told himself, end of story.

  Then a month or so later another chat in another bar. A passing conversation, no more. About Australia. Hearing of a man’s cousin, a refugee, who’d made the trip from Indonesia by boat. The name Benny Hitono had cropped up.

  Why does every life-changing prospect seem to start in a bar? Massoud wondered. I never even drank in the old days. But on a whim, he decided to seek further information. A move from Bangkok w
ould do him good anyway. He was unhappy stagnating there, and a trip to Indonesia would be an adventure, even if nothing eventuated.

  During his meeting at the agency in Jakarta, when he’d been told that, along with other refugees, he would be safely delivered by boat to the shores of Australia, he did think to ask one sensible question.

  ‘And upon arrival,’ he enquired, ‘after we’ve landed? What happens to the refugees then?’

  ‘Community detention,’ came the airy reply. ‘While applications are being processed those seeking asylum live within the community. It’s all very civilised. Refugees are allowed to move about freely, and the application process doesn’t take long. Mr Hitono assures us of this.’

  How easy it had all sounded.

  ‘Massoud, do you want to add anything to the list at this stage?’

  Rassen and Lou were both looking questioningly at him, Rassen obviously puzzled by his lack of input.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘not at this stage, no thanks.’

  ‘Right.’ Rassen stood. ‘Let’s join the others and tell them our plans.’

  Massoud rose automatically to his feet, his mind still preoccupied. And now here I am in this mess, he thought, probably to be sent back to Iran. All my own fault. What a fool I was, following a whim and a tissue of lies. No, not lies. What would Stan call it? Bullshit. That’s right. Bullshit. How dumb am I!

  He followed the men from the hut.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There was a degree of relief for the others when, once again seated together in the blue hut, Rassen explained they would remain on the island for at least several more months until the fishermen returned.

  ‘We will use this time to grow strong,’ he said, ‘and to prepare ourselves for whatever may lie ahead.’ He made no hint as to what that might be. How could he? He didn’t really know himself. We’ll find out in good time, he thought. All of us. There’s nothing to be gained by instilling fear at this stage.

  ‘Lou says the first thing we must do is destroy the boat.’

  Some consternation followed this announcement, particularly from Hany and Karim, but Rassen ignored the interruption and went on to explain that they were now in hiding. The boat was a telltale sign of their presence, he told them, and furthermore upon their eventual discovery would cause delays and quarantine complications for the authorities.

  The group accepted the reasoning behind the decision, with the exception of the young Afghani couple, Karim and Azra, who appeared a little confused. The doctor had spoken more briskly than usual and they’d had trouble understanding some of the words he’d said.

  Recognising the problem, Massoud intervened and spoke to them in Dari, explaining the situation.

  Rassen waited until he’d finished. Then ‘I think we’d all agree it is wise we cause as little trouble as possible,’ he said, this time speaking slowly and simply. ‘Although I must warn you that in destroying the boat we will unfortunately need to lie.’ He explained Lou’s plan and the concocted story about their hitting a reef and swimming ashore. ‘We will practise this story together so there are no conflicting views when the time comes.’

  ‘But what about our fishing?’ Hany demanded with a look to Karim, who nodded vigorously. ‘We need the boat to catch fish.’

  ‘Lou says the boat is not necessary, that we can catch fish from the jetties, and there is no reason to doubt him. As you know, we are already in his debt for all the helpful advice he has offered. But I must tell you, my friends, he now offers a great deal more than advice. Lou has become our most valuable ally.’

  Rassen turned to the Australian, who had not seated himself, but remained standing near the door, patiently waiting for the translation to come to an end.

  ‘Lou has agreed to keep our secret for as long as is possible. He has also very kindly offered to supply us regularly with fresh provisions.’

  All heads had turned to the figure at the door, all eyes now focused on the burly Australian. Everyone was mystified. Why, they were thinking, why would this man be so good to us? What have we done to earn such kindness?

  Lou had no idea why the refugees were all staring at him in such a puzzled fashion, but he gave a nod and a smile and a wave. Perhaps they just needed a bit of reassurance.

  Returning to practicalities, Rassen took the sheet of paper and pencil from his shirt pocket. ‘To this end,’ he continued, ‘we have drawn up a list of items. I shall read them out to you and if you have any further ideas, within reason of course, I shall add them to those noted.’

  At the appearance of the paper and pencil, Lou gathered the basics had now been covered and that they were going to discuss the list.

  ‘Why don’t we scuttle the boat first, Rassen?’ he suggested. ‘It’s high tide right now, which’ll make things easier, and the sooner she goes the better.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, of course, an excellent idea.’ Rassen rose dutifully to his feet, then paused. ‘How exactly do we go about it?’

  ‘We tow her out and pull the bung,’ Lou said in a tone that implied of course. ‘We’ll do her a bit of damage as well though, so she goes down quickly before wind and tide take her. Perhaps one of your strong young men could row the dinghy out to my boat.’ He looked at Hany and Karim. He could remember Karim’s name, but what was the name of the Egyptian bloke? ‘And we’ll need to fetch an axe.’ These foreign names are so damn hard to remember, he thought, I must get Rassen to write me a list of who’s who.

  When Rassen had translated the instructions, Hany and Karim jumped up, eager to obey.

  ‘Tell them they’ll find an axe in my hut,’ Lou said.

  ‘Yes, we know,’ Rassen smiled apologetically, ‘we’ve already had a great deal of use out of it.’

  ‘Oh good, good, that’s good.’

  Karim fetched the axe while Hany set off to row the dinghy out to the boat.

  As the others all walked down to meet up with him at the end of the jetty, Karim with the axe slung over his shoulder, little Hamid jumped about excitedly. His father was going out on the old man’s boat. It was a pretty boat, white with red trim and a cabin in the middle. Much prettier than the boat they had boarded in Indonesia.

  ‘Can I come too?’ he begged. ‘Please, please, can I come too?’ Unlike his mother, the sea held no fear for Hamid. His near-death, semi-conscious state had proved merciful, for he had no memory of the storm and the shipwreck and all that had followed.

  On a signal from Karim, Rassen made the request. ‘The boy would like to join us, Lou, would that be all right?’

  ‘Of course, of course, Hamid,’ Lou said with a nod and the broadest of smiles to the child; he well remembered Hamid’s name. ‘You’re more than welcome to join us, mate, more than welcome.’

  Hamid’s elation knew no bounds.

  Rassen, Hany and Karim, together with the child, boarded the vessel and the others stood watching from the end of the jetty as the dinghy was towed out to sea.

  ‘What is this boat called?’ Hamid asked the old man.

  ‘She is called Principessa,’ Lou replied.

  Rassen translated their exchanges word for word, and as he did he was amused by the way the child and the Australian spoke directly to one another, not referring to him at all. Even while they paused to absorb the meaning of what had been said they remained focused upon each other. Their conversation seemed unimpeded by language differences, just a little boy and an old man making contact.

  ‘Principessa means “princess” in Italian,’ Lou explained, ‘but I call her “the old Princess”, because she is no longer young.’

  ‘She is not young,’ Hamid said solemnly, ‘but she is beautiful.’

  ‘Oh yes, she’s beautiful all right,’ Lou agreed. ‘A grand old girl of the sea.’

  ‘I like her very much.’

  ‘Then I shall take you out for a ride in her again, Hamid. Would you enjoy that?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ face beaming, eyes eager, ‘I would enjoy that very much.’

  Ra
ssen and Karim, who had been closely following his son’s conversation, shared a smile.

  They circled the area for a further ten minutes or so, Lou searching for an ideal shallow reef a swimmable distance from the shore.

  ‘About here’ll do,’ he announced, putting the engine into neutral. ‘Your dinghy could have struck that reef there,’ he gestured to the breakers barely twenty metres away, ‘and she’d have gone down around this spot. She’ll stay out of sight: it’s a good four fathoms or so here even at low tide.’

  Watching from the jetty, the others saw Karim climb into the dinghy and hack about with the axe. Then as the boat started to founder, he clambered back aboard the larger vessel and the tow rope was released.

  Lou didn’t steer Principessa clear, but kept her engine idling in neutral as he observed the sinking of the dinghy, checking it was going straight down and not being swept away by the current. But the process was proving speedy, efficient, all according to plan.

  ‘Good job,’ he said with a nod to Karim, ‘well done.’

  Azra, watching along with the others from the end of the jetty, had found the image acutely symbolic. Seeing her husband wield the axe, personally bringing about the destruction of the dinghy. In destroying the dinghy Karim was destroying the very threat to his life. And after he’d climbed back aboard the larger vessel, she’d continued to watch the dinghy, transfixed as it entered its death throes. He is saved, she thought, we are both saved. No longer will Karim be at the mercy of the sea. She gave thanks to Allah as the waves claimed their victim and the fearful dinghy was gone forever.