The Outer Harbour

by Wayde Compton

  Riel sits and stares at the two photographs, of MC Kaaba and the Mystery Migrant, side-by-side on the smoke-coloured wall, then he shifts the mouse so his computer will wake up. He opens a program and stares at its grey-framed whiteness, thinking about writing. He stares and breathes until the screen saver finally blips back on, scrolling words that he punched in seventeen months earlier. The scrolling text says to him, BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY… GET OUT OF PORT CORBUS.

  IT’S FRIDAY AND Riel has attended every class of the semester so far, though it is only the first unfruitful week. Coming home from campus, he enters the apartment and encounters Frances doling out jib to some geezer and his young boyfriend. Riel got his student loan deposited directly into his account earlier in the week, so he gets in line. But the two guys don’t leave when they’ve scored, they make themselves at home, doing bumps off Riel’s textbooks without asking. This, he recognizes, is happening more and more: he’ll come home and Frances will be entertaining; there’ll be a strange kid asleep in the bathtub, some pale girl rooting through the fridge for food. Riel worries that his CDs are going to get scammed this way, or his computer. But he doesn’t feel like he has much to say about it because the place is really Kelly and Erika’s. He moved in by default, just by crashing here so regularly. Then Frances offered to pay a quarter of the rent so she can use the place to crash or deal when she’s in the neighbourhood. They presume she has another, real home somewhere else. It’s users’ economics: Kelly and Erika are getting thrifty, looking for ways to spend less on rent, more on drugs. He eyes the skinny hustler who is fondling his copy of 36 Chambers. Frances produces a small vial from her “files,” and she and Riel trade. He pockets the stuff for later.

  I was gonna make some tea, she says, and she ambles off to the kitchen. Riel follows her and takes a seat at the kitchen table. Frances flicks on the radio while she gets the kettle going, and Riel catches the wrap-up of a radio show: a male host thanks his female guest, they exchange pleasantries, and then, in summary, the host explains that he’s just interviewed the Mystery Migrant, and that what was thought to be human smuggling was in fact a hoax—some kind of art performance. The last thing the host says is that she—the artist—will be part of a panel discussion with some other artists that evening, presenting on her project. He ends by giving the time and place. Then the show moves on to some other topic.

  Riel stares at the radio until the kettle whistles, then he stares into its sound.

  HE CAJOLES KELLY and Erika into going to Mystery Migrant’s panel by promising that they’ll party hard afterward. It’s dumb, Riel knows, because his parents are visiting in the morning, but it’s also Friday night, and he has Frances’s meth and loan money in his pocket. The girls buy theirs from Frances, who is trying to nap before the evening’s work. He resolves to quit at a reasonable hour, and be ready to welcome his mother and Walker in the morning with at least a few hours of sleep behind him.

  At the downtown gallery, they sit through a presentation by a guy describing a performance in which he pierced his tongue with a stainless steel sickle on the steps of City Hall; then a woman talks about her series of rush-hour “interventions” in which she rode the bus wearing a business suit made of moss and cedar bark. Finally, the Mystery Migrant is up. She explains that she had herself shipped in that container, intending to get caught. She was carrying no passport, no ID. She wanted to make sure they had no idea who she was when they found her, and her intention was to document the stories that developed about her arrival, and how expectations shaped perceptions. To add to the enigma, she memorized a sequence of phonemes from the phrase “Tower of Babel” scrambled into nonsense, and resolved to say nothing but that during questioning. The Mystery Migrant was born in Canada, she explains, making all the calls to deport her fully ironic. It was only when she spilled some water in the Citizenship and Immigration office and swore that they realized she spoke English, and the whole thing came to a screaming halt. There are some criminal charges pending, but she factored bail into the cost of the performance, and seems unconcerned about the consequences.

  Kelly and Erika are half interested in the sickle guy but fidget through the rest. When the moderator starts a Q and A, Riel puts up his hand, but immediately Kelly pulls it back down again. Time to bail, she says.

  He shakes her off and raises his hand again, so she mock-punches him in the arm. The girls get up while the moss and cedar suit takes someone else’s question. We’re going across the street to get some smokes, Erika says. We’ll meet you over there.

  The crowd is small, and the Q and A doesn’t go long. Riel approaches the table and talks to the Mystery Migrant, or whoever she is. It all tumbles out: For some reason, I don’t know why, he says to her, this thing you’ve done is really important to me. Illegal migration. This performance—. Riel acutely feels the limits of his knowledge, his cramped vocabulary for talking about these thoughts; she’s at least five years older than him, and more than a few ticks smarter, and he’s unsure. Finally he says, I don’t know if this makes sense, but I was able to leave my hometown because of the Fujian migrants.

  She frowns. What do you mean?

  He lets his thinking unfold slowly. I saw in them—in what happened to them—the structure of something I want to take apart.

  She looks at him, considering this. Then she nods. I think I know what you mean.

  They talk a little more, about school and art, and after a moment in which she seems to take him in, she says casually, Let’s stay in touch, and writes down her name—Verŝajna—and her number on a scrap of paper for him. He’s surprised, smiles, nods, then turns to go.

  Kelly is in the doorway, watching them. She looks at him, then at Verŝajna, who is now talking to the sickle-tongued man.

  What was that? Kelly says tightly.

  It takes Riel a second before he says, Uh, you know, just to keep in touch.

  Kelly stares at him. Then she looks away and crosses her arms. So you’re obsessed with her, she says. That’s perfect. Then she turns to go. Erika silently mouths to him, Well? Riel understands that he is supposed to chase Kelly, so he does.

  ON MONDAY EVENING, Riel’s parents drop him off at the apartment. Tomorrow they’ll go home to Port Corbus. All weekend he managed to spend time with them away from the apartment, doing touristy things in the city, but now Riel can’t avoid inviting them up for tea, though he has no idea what they’ll find there.

  As he comes in with his parents, Kelly and Erika are on their way out, and Riel quickly introduces them as his roommates. Frances is asleep in the living room, so he guides his mother and father into the small kitchen. He starts the kettle and rinses out some cups. While they’re waiting for the water to boil, there is a knock at the door, which Frances answers, and three guys wearing black velour track suits come in. Frances peeks into the kitchen at Riel and his parents, and then leads the dark trio into the washroom, shutting the door behind them. Riel’s parents exchange glances, so he explains that the guys are helping her fix the baseboard. They emerge from the washroom shortly after. The three leave, and Frances returns to the living room wordlessly. Riel’s parents finally excuse themselves. They are staying with friends and have to get a good night’s sleep before the long drive home.

  After they’re gone, Riel phones Verŝajna. They talk about her performance, about university and illegality, and they laugh a lot. He wants to know something, but he’s been similarly interrogated all his life, so he holds back as long as he can, finally wording it as, Where does your name come from?

  My name?

  Yeah.

  Ah.

  He thinks he can hear over the phone that she is smiling. I can’t say, she says. I’m still performing, you see. A concept that overlaps with the last. I haven’t answered that particular question, in all its variations, for a little over two years now. I’m keeping a journal of all the ways I’ve been asked about my race, as well as all the responses to my non-cooperation. Every single guess and speculation.


  If you’re going to write about what I say, then I don’t think I’ll say anything.

  Too late.

  The two of them trade words for three hours. Then he says goodbye.

  As soon as he hangs up the phone, it rings.

  Hello?

  There is a little piece of silence. Then his stepfather’s voice: I’m not going to let you break your mother’s heart.

  What?

  You think I’m some kind of idiot? I know what’s going on in that place of yours.

  Where’s Mum? Let me talk to her.

  She’s asleep. You’re screwing up in school, right? You’re on drugs, I’m sure.

  You don’t know anything.

  But you are.

  Riel considers hanging up, but just squeezes the phone in his hand. If you called me just to tell me a bunch of shit that you think you know, then you’ve achieved that. Mission accomplished. See you later.

  You should come back to Port Corbus. Take some time off, straighten out.

  Not happening.

  There is a sound like Walker is moving the receiver from one hand to the other. He says, Be not deceived, his voice hardening. First Corinthians, remember? Evil company corrupts good morals.

  Something smacks into the living room window. Riel looks up. A bird has flown into it, he supposes. He reaches over and switches off the light. Look, I’m just starting the new semester. I’m not going north now, so forget it.

  There is silence, except for a bit of his stepfather’s breathing on the other end, then another thump against the window, and then the click of Walker hanging up.

  Riel goes to the window and looks out. Two young guys are on the sidewalk below, one of them holding a running shoe in his hand like he is going to shot-put it up at the window again. Riel unlatches and lifts the window, leans out, and shouts, What the fuck?

  Yo, is the Indian chick home? This the spot? Your line was busy, yo.

  Riel scowls at them. She’s out. He scribbles her cell phone digits on the pad beside the phone and tears the page out, spans his arm out into the air, and lets the note fall. One of the tweakers reaches up for it with both hands, looking, Riel thinks, somewhat like Willem Dafoe in Platoon when he gets blasted to shit by the Vietnamese. The little piece of paper floats down erratically, and Riel feels for a moment like Galileo dropping a feather to measure the velocity of plummeting bodies in motion. Or whatever the fuck it was he did to make the church burn him at the stake. Or was that Joan of Arc?

  RIEL IS DREAMING of birds. He is watching them each land on the leaves of an enormous red tree, each taking a place on a single leaf, and the sun is behind the tree, shining through the leaves. A figure in gold is driving an axe into the base of the tree over and over, but the birds will not fly. Inside the dream, Riel can see a close-up image of one birdless leaf, the sun causing it to glow red. The axe makes a terrible knocking noise, and then Riel sees that he is looking at the sun through the inside of his eyelids. There is a shift. He opens his eyes to the light of morning. There is knocking, real knocking—the sound of knuckles on wood. Muffled shouting. His name being called. Kelly is beside him. Who the hell is that? she says, squinting and stretching.

  Riel gets out of the bed and sits at the edge. There is more knocking and someone is shouting out there. Okay! he croaks back. He gathers himself and walks to the front door.

  He is reaching for the doorknob when he hears the voice on the other side.

  Open up! You’re coming with us, Riel! We know exactly what’s going on in this apartment! Get up and get your things! We’re driving back to Port Corbus, and you’re coming with us!

  He steps back, as if the door has suddenly burst into flames. There is no peephole in it, but he pictures Walker’s blowsy face on the other side nevertheless.

  Open the door! I know what’s going on here! This is a place of sin!

  Riel puts the heel of his hand to his forehead. Fuck off! Take your preachy bullshit and just fuck off!

  Kelly, Erika, and Frances, awakened by all the noise, congregate in the hallway. That your dad? asks Kelly, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. She leaves for the kitchen, and puts on the kettle. Erika goes to the living room. Frances wanders around groggily, like she’s searching for something.

  Stepfather and stepson argue through the closed door.

  Drunkenness, revelling, and such like: they which do such things shall not inherit the kingdom of God!

  Behold, a beam is in thine own eye, you fucking hippy redneck!

  Oh my God, Erika says. She’s sitting on the living room floor with the TV going. Oh my God, you’ve got to look at this.

  Open up! You think it’s heaven now, but there’ll be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth later!

  Frances is beside Riel now, no longer searching. Where’s my case?

  Your case?

  Walker starts kicking the door on the other side.

  Frances grabs Riel’s arm. My stash. Where’s my fucking stash?

  There’ll be weeping—

  How am I supposed to know? You sleep on it, don’t you?—and wailing—

  It’s gone. You saw the combo on my case. I saw you see it.—and gnashing of teeth!

  Riel steps backward and through the bathroom door, closing and locking it in front of him. Immediately, Frances begins pounding on that door, and cussing him out through it. It is almost syncopated, her pounding and Walker’s kicking beyond on the landing.

  Riel sits on the edge of the bathtub and puts his head in his hands. Frances is shouting about having brothers who’ve done time in Matsqui, brothers she is going to phone who will come down here and kick his head in. Then she’s quiet for a bit. Now she and Kelly are arguing. He faintly hears Walker’s preaching two doors removed, but he can no longer discern the words.

  Riel looks at the bathroom window. It’s wide open. Outside, it’s a rainless Tuesday morning. He looks out, then leans out, and observes the alley below. He climbs out the window feet first and lets himself drop onto the blacktop. Frances’s briefcase is on the ground down there, leaning against the wall, ripped open, and empty. He looks up at the window, then at the case, then down the alley. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, no shoes. He starts walking.

  He circles around to Fraser Street. It is just slipping into the after rush-hour lull. A half-block away, in front of the apartment, he spots Walker’s parked SUV and his mother sitting inside it. He’s too far away to gauge the expression on her face. She’s rubbing her forehead. Maybe she’s brushing her hair.

  He crosses the street. The corner market, where he sometimes shops, is open and empty. Tameem lets Riel use the phone for free and asks why he has no shoes, pointing down at his feet. Riel shrugs. How else can I be sure that the ground is really there? Tameem frowns and returns his attention to his small portable radio. Voices speak of attacks on New York and Washington. While the phone is ringing, Riel asks, Attacks? But then Verŝajna picks up on the other end.

  Outside, he takes a seat at the bus stop and waits. He watches his mother in the SUV half a block up, unaware of him as she stares ahead. When the bus comes, Riel tells the driver that he has no money because he has been robbed. He points at his bare feet. They even took my shoes, he says. The sloe-eyed driver shrugs. Such a morning, he allows heavily in a type of English that gently rolls its r’s. Riel takes a seat in the back.

  On his way to Verŝajna’s, he decides he is free. He is commuting to the future. He imagines he will not recover his things from the apartment. He imagines he will not complete the semester. He imagines he will neither return nor repent nor weep nor wail. It is the end of everything. Fin de siècle. Das Ende der Geschichte. Eppur si muove. Riel speaks out loud there in the back of the bus, but the driver guns it just as he opens his mouth. The engine sounds so that none of the dozen strangers sitting and standing around him can make out his words. There is no manifest reason to repeat.

  THE LOST ISLAND

  1

  Xonotlite
. Tuya. Phreatomagmatic. Anhedral. Halite. Felsic. Anhydrite. Lapilli. Pahoehoe. Hyaloclastite. Phillipsite. Rhyolite. Sideromelane. Kipuka. Phenocrysts. Scoria. Maar. Chabazite.

  Jean has seen it. It’s been there, above those waves, for a year and a half now. It’s a natural miracle for the way it rose up out of the sea burning and sending skyward a fountain of dry ash from the mouth of the inlet. But the island is nothing personal until the morning she is reading the Sun and drinking tea, and Fletcher, her roommate, tosses an essay on top of the paper, blotting out its field of words with his.

  Look, he says.

  The pages are warm and smell like toner, freshly poured forth from Fletcher’s printer. He sits down and stares at her. She realizes he is waiting for her to read it right now.

  The essay is a solid block of geological jargon, and after two paragraphs she stops and skims. When even her skimming mires, she looks up at him and asks, Why are you showing me this?

  I want to go there, Fletcher says.

  Where?