Between Us Read online

  Aunty – a term of respect.

  ‘Dad said you might be able to tell me about the war.’

  She flashes Dad a look and he shrugs.

  ‘What war?’

  ‘Vietnam, of course.’

  ‘Why you ask that now? It over long time ago.’

  I consider telling her about Anahita

  and Tropic Thunder.

  But Dad’s eyes are following me like a hawk’s,

  and I don’t want to open up,

  just so he can rip me down.

  ‘What year did you come out here again?’

  (I add the ‘again’ because she’s probably told me before.)

  ‘1977. I tell you the story already, remember?’

  (See?)

  ‘I was in the newspaper.

  Picture too.

  Me and the others in a little wooden boat,

  hands in the air.

  So happy to arrive.’

  ‘And then what?’

  She sighs. ‘You know. It famous story now.’

  ‘Please, Cô Minh.’

  I give her my best puppy-dog eyes.

  KENNY

  I watch my sister and son, the easy banter between them. Minh is getting into the story. She always tells it the same way, even using the same words. She never talks about the journey, only the arrival. I know it was a nightmare trip. Her husband and baby daughter died on the way. I’ve never pushed her to talk about it, too scared of dredging up tears.

  I wonder if Minh thinks I cheated, avoiding the journey, being sponsored out by her so many years later. The baby of the family, the ‘lucky accident’, always getting the easy ride. But if she resents me, she’s never shown it; even when I had the perfect family, all here under one roof, while Minh remained alone. She’s never remarried or had male friends, as far as I know.

  She gestures with her hands as she speaks in broken English. ‘The boat come in to Darwin. Near Nightcliff beach. It early morning. Foggy. All white. Then we see a small little boat. It come towards us, two men dressed in singlet and shorts. White stripes here.’ She touches the bridge of her nose. ‘Zinc, you know? Sunhat too. And they stand up with beer in their hand and wave. And they come close, very close and very fast to our boat. And one of them hold up his beer and say, ‘G’day, mate! Welcome to Australia.’ And the people in our boat, they asking, ‘What he say? What he say?’ She laughs, raw and real.

  Jonathan smiles. ‘And then what?’

  ‘I stay in hostel in Darwin. St Vincent de Paul give me cooking things, cutlery, pans. I still got them. People give us blanket, clothes, help us find somewhere to live.’

  ‘At Wickham Point?’

  She shakes her head. ‘There no Wickham Point at this time. Only hostel in Darwin.’

  She switches to Vietnamese to ask me when boat people started being detained up here.

  I answer in English for Jonathan’s benefit. ‘There were other centres, but Wickham Point opened in 2011.’

  Jonathan ignores me, and keeps talking to Minh. ‘You’ve been out there, haven’t you, Cô Minh? To Wickham Point?’

  ‘Yes, I visit friend. They take away they visa.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  I feel suddenly panicky, picturing the layers of wire fencing, the endless gates. The sad little rooms and despondent faces.

  I don’t want Jonathan to think any worse of me than he already does.

  I hear myself say, ‘It’s like a hotel. Bedroom, bathroom, meal area. Normal.’

  Minh squints at me like her glasses have gone blurry. She speaks in Vietnamese again and, for once, I’m glad Jonathan can’t understand. She says, ‘It’s not like a hotel.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ I want to change the subject, but she raises a pencilled-on eyebrow.

  ‘Hotels let you eat what you want, when you want. Hotels don’t have high fences. And they let you check out.’

  Jonathan’s eyes dart between us, trying to intuit what we’re saying. He takes a random guess. ‘Do you carry a gun at work?’

  I laugh, as if that’s ridiculous. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘But they’re locked up, so does that mean you think they’re dangerous?’

  ‘Ha!’ Minh’s exclamation comes out as a high-pitched yelp.

  ‘It’s different to when you came, Minh.’ I look straight at Jonathan. ‘They’re Muslims now – like that girl at your school.’ I watch for a reaction, but he doesn’t even blink, so I continue, ‘We might think these people appear nice. They might seem friendly. But they are illegal. Sneaky. After September 11 we have to be careful.’

  I picture the girl’s overly friendly expression as she pointed to my son’s writing on her arm.

  I want him to stay away from her.

  I want to keep him safe.

  I couldn’t bear it if he got into trouble. Or fell into depression again. Or worse.

  Jonathan frowns. ‘Sounds a bit paranoid to me.’

  But I’m determined to make sure he understands. ‘Please trust me. It’s safer to stay away.’

  JONO

  She appears before me

  and presses the iPod into my hand.

  ‘Thank you. For the music.’

  I’m caught off guard.

  Had almost given up on getting it back.

  I manage to mutter:

  ‘Um … when did you … I mean …

  When did they …?’

  ‘They give this morning.’

  Despite my musical withdrawal, I stop.

  ‘Did you get a chance to listen?’

  ‘Yes, on the bus to school.

  I listen to Hilltop Hoods whole way here.

  Only I am listening.

  My friends don’t like.’

  Her smile erases Dad’s warning from my mind.

  I say, ‘I’d bet you’d like Bliss n Esso too.

  D’you wanna hear?’

  She nods, looking as nervous as I feel.

  We hover in the corridor,

  a safe in-between space,

  that avoids the strangeness

  of the outer

  or upstairs.

  We stand.

  And then we sit.

  Backs on brick,

  side by side.

  A thin stream of music

  stretched between us,

  joining her world to mine.

  ANA

  We start to sit together at lunch every day. He plays me his music, and I tell him about mine: Iranian rappers like Felakat and Yas and Hichkas. Artists who sing of a future without fear.

  Jono downloads the songs for me at his home and brings them in on his iPod.

  We sit in an alcove near the stairs, soaking in sound.

  I tell him this music is illegal in Iran.

  Jono stares at me, disbelieving. ‘Are you serious?’ Then his face cracks into a grin. ‘Actually, maybe we should bring that rule in here. Wish our government would ban some music. Like Taylor Swift. And Miley Cyrus.’

  I know he’s joking but I can’t bring myself to smile. ‘No, you would not like. In Iran … there is no freedom.’

  He frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  But the question is quickly forgotten, as another song comes on. His body seems to flood with energy, and his face glows, as he says, ‘The Living End. These guys were up here last year for Bass in the Grass.’

  He tells me it’s a concert they hold in Darwin every year. It is out in the open, under the sky, with music so loud you can feel it through the earth. He describes a throbbing, heaving ocean of bodies jumping to the beat as one. Mums and dads trying to look young, dancing alongside teenagers sneaking sips of beer. All together. All free.

  I listen in awe, asking more and more questions, stringing my words together in awkward upward inflections.

  He laughs, ‘What is this – an exam?’

  But he seems to enjoy answering. He’s good at painting the world with his words. I don’t understand all of them but I drink in enough to taste the
flavours and swill them around in my mouth.

  I ask more. I ask about his family. His life. The words pour out of him as if he hasn’t talked in years. He tells me he gets lonely just living with his dad; they barely talk. He misses his sister, who just moved to Sydney and is now living with his mum.

  He says, ‘It kind of feels like she’s gone to the dark side, if you know what I mean.’

  I don’t. I ask why his mum doesn’t live in Darwin.

  ‘She walked out on us. At the start of last year.’ His eyes warn me not to ask any more.

  He tells me about his house: a small brick cube on a large block of land, empty apart from the careful rows of cucumbers and baby tomatoes out the back. His aunty grows them, and sells them at a local market somewhere called Rapid Creek. He’s never been overseas, but he thinks the market feels like what Asia might be like. You can stand there and be surrounded by the chatter of foreign languages, hear the whir of blenders making fresh fruit drinks. See piles of green vegetables and smell the waft of herbs.

  His descriptions are so vivid that, for long minutes at a time, they are enough to quench my thirst for the outside world.

  Almost.

  JONO

  We dive down into our own underwater world each lunchtime.

  It is quiet and dark down there, just her and me.

  The world swims above us in blurry zigzags of light.

  We stay below sharing soft-spoken stories and loud-played beats, only resurfacing when the bell goes to signal the end of lunch.

  We blink at the bright sunshine as we emerge back into the reality of school.

  Will isn’t impressed. ‘Can’t believe you’re dumping me for a girl.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’m at your house all the time.’

  I’m there every morning, and still go some days after school despite my deal with Dad. I reckon he knows, but for some reason he hasn’t brought it up again. When he’s on day shift I make sure I’m home by 6.30pm, and I don’t drink or smoke. Much.

  But Will isn’t satisfied. ‘Yeah – only ’cause you can’t see Ana before or after school.’

  ‘You’re the one who told me to go for it.’

  ‘I know, but you’re falling so hard. Getting obsessed.’

  ‘I’m not obsessed.’

  ‘Then why do you have to sit by yourselves? I thought we could hang out as a group, with Ibrahim and Mac, like we used to with Priya.’

  But Ana is a world away from Priya. She is something different, amazing and constantly surprising.

  And I can’t tell him about our private submarine universe – that would only prove his point.

  So instead, I say, ‘Ana likes to sit in the air-con. You guys could always sit inside with us.’

  We both know they won’t. The outer gives them the freedom to smoke.

  Will shakes his head and sighs. ‘Just be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt again.’

  I shrug off his concern. ‘Who says I’m going to get hurt? We’re just listening to music. What’s the big deal?’

  ANA

  Zahra frowns, as I pick up my packed lunch then start towards the stairs. ‘Are you going to sit with him again?’

  There’s no point lying. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? What would your maman say?’

  I pause. ‘Are you going to tell her?’

  ‘Are you?’

  I’ve asked myself that same question, lying awake in bed at night. What would Maman do if she knew I spent my lunches alone with an Australian boy? Baba might not have minded; he was quite liberal. But Maman has always been more protective, anxious, on edge. And she’s already so fearful of doing anything that might damage our chances of living in Australia.

  ‘Please don’t say anything.’

  ‘Of course. I never would. I’m just worried, Anahita. I don’t think you understand … Australians are different to us. They have different rules. It’s like the Socs and the Greasers.’

  I roll my eyes. Lately she’s become totally obsessed with The Outsiders, quoting it and telling me to, ‘Stay gold.’

  She says, ‘Seriously, you can make fun of me, but it’s true: it’s the Socs and the Greasers … and I don’t have to tell you which ones we are, do I?’

  She doesn’t. The acid in my stomach burns.

  ‘I just don’t see this coming to any good.’ My little mother places a gentle hand on my arm. I shake it off. ‘This isn’t The Outsiders, Zahra. No-one is going to die.’

  I walk slowly downstairs, trying to pretend I didn’t see the hurt in her eyes.

  JONO

  Dad starts to grumble about his work. His comments seem aimed at me, but I can’t be sure.

  He’s been in the job four months now. Maybe the thrill of being employed again is wearing off.

  Or maybe he was always negative about this job, but I didn’t pay attention until now.

  Until Ana.

  Tonight, he says, ‘The bloody detainees. They’re always wanting things – and the Iranians are the worst. The food’s not right. The internet’s too slow. They want to see their case manager now. Why did they come here in the first place? What did they expect? Rick says they’re not refugees at all, just economic migrants who want our jobs. He reckons in their own countries they’re all driving around in BMWs.’

  He looks at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for a reply.

  I shift in my seat. ‘I don’t know if that’s true.’

  He says, ‘That’s right. You don’t know. You don’t know.’

  I ask about her past.

  First curiously: where in Iran did you live? And with who?

  Then guiltily, thinking of Dad’s grumbles: what was your house like? Did you have a car?

  She tells me that she lived with her family in an apartment near the middle of Tehran. I’d imagined Tehran as a third-world backwater, but from what she says it isn’t like that at all. She describes a modern, bustling city with twenty million people and polluted skies from all the traffic. They had a car but just a small one, nothing like the huge four-wheel drives she’s seen on the roads here, or the Ferraris the upper classes had in the north of Tehran.

  I am almost relieved to hear this. ‘So you weren’t upper class?’

  She shakes her head and explains: those people had lots of money, big houses, luxury cars. They were politicians and government workers. The women draped their headscarves loosely around their heads and wore whatever they liked. The police made different rules for them.

  ‘So were you lower class, then?’ I ask.

  She wrinkles her nose in distaste. ‘No, no. We were middle class. My father was Science teacher – and he work in carpet factory in the night. And my mother was nurse. But we are not – peinshahr – lower class.’ She says it like it is some kind of insult.

  ‘What does it mean then? To be peinshahr?’

  ‘Those people live mostly south of city. They have little money. Old car. They work, maybe like, cleaner or security guard …’

  My face burns: she could be describing me and Dad.

  She continues, ‘It is very hard for the peinshahr to … keep face. You know? Show good face? This is very important in Iran. To look good … and be proud. To not have … old things.’

  I ask, ‘What was your apartment like? Did you have a TV?’

  ‘Yes, with satellite.’

  ‘And a mobile phone?’

  ‘Of course. My parents have.’

  ‘Laptop? iPad? Internet access?’

  She nods.

  ‘But if you had all that, if you were middle class, then why did you come here?’

  Her eyes plead for understanding. ‘We want democracy … freedom. We don’t want to live under that government.’

  I stare. ‘But all our prime ministers are dickheads, and I’m not about to jump on a boat.’

  ‘It is different …’

  ‘How?’

  ‘There … is … many … reason …’
r />   She’s stumbling over her words now, but I persist.

  I ask her straight out: ‘Why did you leave Iran?

  ‘Please. I don’t want talk. I have only bad dream … Please. Don’t ask.’

  Her voice is desperate, aching, raw.

  ANA

  He asks me about my life in Iran, but I can’t bring myself to respond. It feels like another world. There is so much that I don’t want to think about. So much that I can’t say.

  I remember …

  … crouching in front of the satellite television.

  My older cousin, Yasmin, begs to watch an illegal US movie. I tell her to wait.

  There is a news item from America about the Green Movement in Iran. Footage from protests across the city in 2009.

  I search for Baba’s face in the crowd.

  Maman moves past, walking her new boyfriend, Abdul, to the door.

  I glare, as she kisses him goodbye …

  I feel the sting of hot, angry tears.

  Jono reaches out and rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. This time I don’t flinch or pull away.

  He says, ‘Sorry. It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.’

  Relief pools in my eyes.

  JONO

  I remember the fear in her face when she watched the clip from Tropic Thunder. I remember her staggering out the door. I don’t want to be responsible for anything like that again.

  So I promise not to ask about her past.

  We agree to concentrate on the now. The here. Ana’s confidence seems to surge.

  In Science, she starts to ask questions when she doesn’t understand. I wonder if she realises she’s become the teacher’s pet, or hears the soft groans each time she raises her hand.

  At lunch, I tease her gently.

  She says, ‘What is a nerd? I never heard.’

  ‘Someone who is … a bit too smart.’

  She beams. ‘Really? Thank you.’

  I have to laugh. ‘Why do you love this stuff so much?’

  She tells me about the books her father used to have in his study, about nature and animals and stars. He had a telescope too, and sometimes late at night, he’d scoop her onto his lap and help her look though it, out into the universe beyond.