As she accepted her money, Aida watched Evangelia’s curious gaze. It was not the respect of equals, but it was near enough. Then she left, with promises to catch up with Kat and Nina and her final full pay still sticky in her hand. As she did, she heard for the final time the explosion of marital discordance from the little back room.
*
Aida entered the house happy and hopeful, slapping the money down on the kitchen table. Elham, who had been sitting drinking tea, looked up, startled.
‘Guess who starts a new job on Monday?’ Aida announced.
Elham’s reaction was slow but when it came it lit up her face.
‘Oh, Aida-joon! Such good news. We will have to celebrate.’
‘I saw Massoumeh today, a woman from MITA. A hairdresser. She’s coming around tonight to do our hair.’
Elham nodded vacantly. She rose from the table, looking around.
‘I . . . Oh, yes, I have something for you. I found it this morning on my way back from walking Niki to kinder. Perhaps it was in anticipation of this news.’
She disappeared for a moment then reappeared, dragging a great hulking object across the linoleum.
‘What is it?’ Aida asked as Elham nearly toppled over under the weight.
‘Look!’
Aida approached the object, circling round. It was a mirror, ornate and cumbersome, its golden etchings chipped in sections.
‘I found it on the roadside,’ Elham told her. ‘Someone wanted to throw it out but I thought you might like it.’
Aida observed the mirror. It looked like something from a mafioso’s boudoir or a budget theatre production set in pre-revolution Versailles.
‘I love it,’ she approved.
She caught her reflection in it, a tired gaunt face framed by dark un-highlighted hair.
‘And we must celebrate your wonderful news,’ Elham said. She propped the mirror against the wall. ‘A celebratory meal. It will be ready in time for Massoumeh.’
She crouched before the fridge, her mind assessing its contents. ‘Ghormeh sabzi,’ she announced. ‘Without the sabzi.’
Elham pulled items from the fridge then opened the pantry cupboard.
‘Come, Aida.’
Aida looked at her, surprised.
‘It’s a celebration, not a restaurant. It’s time you learnt how to cook.’
Aida crossed the kitchen to the counter.
‘Okay,’ Elham began, pretending to roll up her sleeves. ‘You cut up this onion and I’ll start with the meat.’
They worked side by side, Elham issuing orders as Aida fussed about the kitchen. The smell of frying onion filled the room and was then muddied as the lamb, turmeric and kidney beans were added to the pot.
‘You can’t get the right greens here but spring onion will do,’ Elham said, scraping them into the pot with a knife.
She helped Aida measure out the fenugreek and parsley, then set the stew to simmer.
‘Normally you’d leave it for five hours but we’ll cheat a bit tonight,’ she said. ‘A couple of hours then we’ll add the dried lime just before it’s done.’
She stood back, hands on satisfied hips. Aida breathed in, the familiar smells transporting her across the oceans and into the kitchens of her mother and grandmother. She imagined her mother’s face on discovering that her daughter had cooked something. She pictured her now, leaning over the bowl suspiciously, tasting the smallest morsel from the tip of the spoon as if testing for poison. The surprised smile spreading across her face as she found herself alive and, better yet, impressed. Perhaps Aida would make it for her one day, once she had her visa and could start to save the airfare. Her father’s face flashed into her mind but she pushed it away for the moment. Not now, Baba. Now was for celebrating.
From the moment Massoumeh arrived the house was plunged into wall-echoing motion as she set about preparing her makeshift salon. After smothering Aida in a hug, she introduced herself to Elham, pulling her into her chest. Elham’s startled eyes met a lycra-clad bosom, her eyebrows high in confusion.
‘We’ll definitely need to do something about those eyebrows too,’ Massoumeh announced.
She stepped back, observing both women as if they were salvaged works of art in need of intensive restoration.
‘Some thinning out and at least a few inches off the bottom,’ she muttered to herself, hand on chin. ‘And we’ll obviously be putting some colour in because whatever you were born with is not worth keeping.’
Elham glanced at Aida, her household confidence muted by their brazen guest.
‘We haven’t got money for these kind of things,’ she began, but Massoumeh cut her off.
‘Who said anything about money? Think of this as charity. I certainly am.’
She laughed heartily to herself. There was a clatter of toys hitting carpet nearby. Massoumeh glanced over. Niki was staring at this new woman, her wide eyes tracking over the high-swept blonde hair, arched eyebrows and colourful makeup and clothing.
‘Tooth fairy?’ Niki whispered softly, her hands flying protectively to her mouth.
Massoumeh’s eyes lit up.
‘Who is this? Salam, azizam! How are you?’
She swooped upon Niki, grasping her cheeks in her hands.
‘Aren’t you precious, khoshgel khanoom! Beautiful lady!’
Niki’s eyes bulged with fear as if Massoumeh’s firm pinch might somehow wrench the teeth from her mouth.
‘No, no,’ she whimpered, pulling away.
Massoumeh, not noticing, released Niki and straightened up. She cast an eye over the room.
‘Okay, what we need is a chair, some water and that fabulous mirror over there. Look at it! Perfect for a salon.’
They decided Aida should go first. She sat in the chair, a towel draped over her shoulders. As Massoumeh started coating Aida’s hair with dye she began an exchange that was more monologue than conversation. Elham and Niki huddled to one side, watching Massoumeh with awe.
‘The thing they say about this country is that anyone can make it here. Or is that America? I don’t remember, and who knows with that clown who is running for President. But it’s true here anyway. Look at me. Back in Iran I was nothing. No opportunity. No rights to anything. Every last rial gone to getting us on those boats. I’m dust. But here, you look at Mansoor’s uncle and everything he has achieved. These chips – you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you how many people come for them! And there’s so much less hassle. No sanctions, no one bothering you for money to leave you alone. Of course it is better here. Not always, I know. Not for us asylum seekers. But you wait until we get our visas and then what’s holding us back? Take Mansoor’s uncle. He came here as a student and once he got his refugee visa he brought over all the family. His children – all of them at school, all of them going to university. One daughter is even modelling. You’ve seen the flyers for his store? That’s his daughter! No joke. Not a model at all, but his very own daughter Mojdeh. I did her hair.’
She paused for breath, laying aside the brush.
‘You’re next while this one sits,’ she indicated to Elham.
Elham raised her hands in gentle objection. ‘It’s really okay. You don’t need to –’
Massoumeh waved away her objections. ‘None of that. You’ll feel amazing. Have you ever been blonde before? You’ll love it. All those men!’
Elham nodded reluctantly as she sat down, her hands gripping the bottom of the chair until they were a startled white.
‘The thing is, now everyone is in a state about these letters. You know, the ones they’re saying people are getting telling them if they don’t submit their applications in time they’ll be cut off from welfare? They say there are thirty thousand of us all lining up for lawyers. All processed at the same time. Lucky for us Mansoor’s uncle can afford a private lawyer. So of course ever
yone is panicking. What if they get rejected? It means what? You either accept you must go back to Iran or they put you away in detention forever? Mansoor’s friend – Milad – he says there’s no way he can go back. They’ll kill him properly this time. He was whipped before. He’s a Kurd, though. So he’s like a double refugee, isn’t he? Iran and Australia – no one will take him. At least he’s got the scars, though. That should help his application. They want to see persecution but how do you show them what it’s like to always be discriminated against and picked on and barred from half the world because you’re Arab or Feyli or Afghan or Baha’i? You can’t show someone those scars. At least we got here before they shut the doors for good. Those poor people still stuck on Manus and the islands. With the heat and the rain and the tents so close together you can hear every fart and cry. The rashes, the headaches, the infections. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see the back of that place. And the desperation. Here too, but it’s different, isn’t it? One of Mansoor’s friends – friend of a friend, really – he was so terrified they wouldn’t believe him he changed his story. Told them he had become a Christian and they’d persecuted him back in Iran, even though he had a perfectly acceptable reason to flee in the first place. The things people do!’
She sighed, stepping back to check she hadn’t missed any hair. Elham watched her in the mirror, her soft brow furrowed.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked softly.
‘Still waiting,’ Massoumeh replied. ‘Spends all his free time struggling through the Bible in case they quiz him on it, foolish man. But this is a depressing conversation! We have this conversation every day. And we’ll have it every day until we get our letters telling us what is what. And even then, the visas are temporary anyway. Another few years and then you have to apply again. We’ll be having this conversation for the rest of our lives at this rate. What a depressing thought. Let’s talk about other things. Guess who I heard is applying for divorce?’
Soon, both Aida and Elham rose from their chairs crowned with their new haircuts and carefully shaped brows. Elham scuttled shyly to the stove to finish the meal while Aida helped Massoumeh sweep up the mess. When the meal was ready they ate in the lounge room, a tablecloth spread across the floor as their makeshift sofreh. Niki plunged into the food, rice and sauce splattering her clothing in a sign of five-star approval. Elham seemed not to notice, so Aida reached for the paper towels. The gaudy mirror had been dragged in from the kitchen and propped against the wall, an elegant companion for the television set. As she leant forward, Aida caught her reflection once more. The face was still gaunt, but softened of its hardness by the new curve of her hair and her strengthened brows. How that face had aged and changed in these last few years. But there was fire in those eyes, wasn’t there? She’d stood up for herself. She had a new job. She was still here. What would come next? Perhaps she would study, once her visa came. Start writing properly again, get back into journalism. For, of course she would get her visa. How could she not? They had her story, they knew she was genuine. The thought came to her that she had forgotten to check the letterbox that day. Elham rose to put Niki to bed and Massoumeh stretched, her back cracking. Aida showed her to the door and the two women embraced.
‘Monday, okay?’ Massoumeh told her, wagging a finger like a teacher. ‘Start earning proper money so you can pay taxes to prop up the detention centres, the Minister’s wages and all those mental health services we all need now.’
‘Bale,’ Aida replied with a wry smile.
‘There you go. Just like a real Australian,’ Massoumeh said, kissing Aida’s cheeks.
She saw her off down the street, waving from the weary fence. The letterbox was empty as usual. Yet despite this, it was the happiest Aida had felt in a long time. She looked up at the sky, stars peeping through the pockets of night-time cloud. Three things different: my hope, my hope, my hope.
When she woke up the next morning Elham was gone.
24
Nell
There were dreams she had sometimes – dreams that could not be real for she had been far too young to remember the events – yet dreams that masqueraded as memory of the time just before their father left. The second time he’d left, that was, because he’d left them twice – once when Seymour was seven and finally when Nell was still soft-crowned and sweet with the milky smell of infancy. There he was, draped in dusky shadows, watching from the doorway as his wife and son slept curled easily around each other’s bodies. There she was, plump and cocooned in the bassinet, her eyes bright, and gurgling with all the hope for what their family could be. It was from these dreams that the others spilled, all the violent, wakeful thrashing of them, that left her tangled in the bedsheets and soaked and shivering in the early hours of morning. Glimmers of violent men, locked glass doors and slithers of porcelain waiting in drawers. Had her father been like this? She had never thought about it, his absence being a fact of life no one felt the need to address. They had just accepted that he wasn’t there and no one ever seemed to miss him, his only legacy being the shared birth name Seymour no longer responded to. She’d always assumed he’d been a normal person who disappeared for normal-person reasons – fear of commitment, a secret family, unpaid Russian mafia debts – but abuse was so common, so prevalent, it seemed, that why wouldn’t this be a possibility too?
Seymour was lying on the couch balancing a bowl of cereal on his paunch. He was watching early morning cartoons, the same station they had watched as children, and she was comforted by the blur and shriek of the wide-eyed anime characters. Seymour spooned mushy Weet-Bix into his mouth, milk spilling over the sides onto his T-shirt. He seemed heavier these days, for what reason she had no idea, weighed down by a gravity and burden whose origins she couldn’t place. He lifted his feet when Nell approached, placing them back down on her lap after she’d manoeuvred herself into the snug. His feet smelt as they’d always smelt throughout her life, stale and warm and inherently Seymour. They watched the screen in comfortable silence.
In her mind, Nell saw herself as a child, a constant shadow in Seymour’s wake. He’d always been so determined – they both were – confidently chartering a life they fully expected to claim, fuelled in part by their mother’s insistence that not only were they capable of anything but that there was absolutely no reason life wouldn’t turn out exactly as they planned. Her mind drifted through the past before settling on a memory from years before. Their mother, steadfastly determined to instil in her children a love and fascination with art, had – at Seymour’s request – thrown them a surprise joint birthday outing to the National Gallery of Victoria. Seymour was known for this, instructing in great detail how exactly he wanted his ‘surprises’ to unfold. Their mother had wanted to take them to the visiting masterpieces but Seymour, fifteen and headstrong, had insisted on leading them through the upstairs galleries, the ones that usually housed the ‘innovative’ artwork. For all her years in academia their mother had never quite managed to shrug off the clear division her own parents had recognised in that there was capital-A Art, and then there was the rest of it. In keeping with this spirit, she largely found the upstairs galleries off-putting and unapproachable. Loud, too, for try as she might she did not understand the role of audio in art. As Seymour explained to Nell many years later, their mother did not like art that made her uncomfortable. On this particular visit she had begrudgingly humoured her son, seeing as it was his birthday, though she had lagged behind like a grouchy child.
‘I just don’t know what makes this art,’ she’d sighed, passing a number of pieces without pause.
As if to make her point, the next piece had been a large cropped photo of a neon-lit vulva with graffiti scribbled across it and a classical soundtrack playing on a loop. She had sighed again, profoundly. Their mother liked Carracci cherubs and pre-Raphaelite paintings because they had the respectable kind of nudity, the nudity of proper Art. Soon enough she had wedged her way far enough u
nder Seymour’s skin that he gave up and they made their way down the escalators to Federation Court. Their mother spotted someone she knew and while the two women chatted, Seymour had led patient, sore-footed Nell into the Great Hall.
‘Here.’
He’d pulled Nell up onto a cushioned bench, and they lay back, staring up at the ceiling. The siblings traced the kaleidoscope patterns of the stained-glass roof, connecting the mosaic’s emperor yellow with its Krishna blue and Derwent box green. They’d not said anything, shoulders pressed together, tracking the rise and fall of each other’s breathing as they lost themselves in the colours and shapes. And this became one of Nell’s most treasured memories, though she’d never wondered why, only now she could see it was because of the safety she’d felt – so loved and secure – and she realised now the precious rarity of this.
Her focus shifted back to the cartoons before her, her lap heavy with the weight of Seymour’s feet. They watched until an advertisement for a fast food chain broke their concentration. Nell turned to Seymour.
‘What was our father like?’
Seymour paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth.
‘Jesus. Where did that come from?’
‘Why did he leave? Was he . . .’
Seymour read her silence. He guided the spoon back to the bowl, depositing the cereal with a claggy splash.
‘Is this because of your client? I don’t think so. Not that I remember. But I was so young . . . I think he just wasn’t very good at being a father and sort of opted out. He wasn’t around that much anyway because he travelled for work.’
‘What did he do?’ Nell asked.
Seymour scrunched his face in memory.
‘I want to say travelling salesman? Like Willy Loman? But that could just be something I associated him with when I was little.’
Seymour placed his cereal bowl on the floor then pulled himself upright beside her. He put an arm around her, awkward and familial. His T-shirt smelt of sleep and dried milk, and of meals he’d eaten the previous day.
The Book of Ordinary People Page 27