Good Muslim Boy (14 page)

Sure I did.

I wrote, cool as a cucumber.

Then I panicked, and opened a fresh email. I added, all in a fluster:

She agreed to meet on a hot Thursday after school. I sat nervously on the park bench.
Some kids had graffitied an industrial-sized penis on the wall.

It was stiflingly hot, and I regretted my outfit choice as the minutes ticked on:
a shirt, tie and suit jacket I’d hurriedly donned in the locker room after class.

I chewed a little gum, to enhance my mouth’s natural flavours.

I dipped into the tub of hair gel in my bag; my hair was lousy with sweat. While
I was still mashing it through the sodden strands, a voice called across the park.

‘Osamah!’

I was stunned.
This
was Nadia? She was gorgeous.

I stood up to shake her hand, then retracted the offer.

‘Sorry, I have gel on my hands.’

‘You’re funny.’

‘Thanks, it’s a curse.’

I sat back down on the bench. She didn’t join me.

‘What’s with the suit?’ she asked me. ‘Are you going to a wedding or something?’

‘Yes,’ I nodded, grateful for the easy out. ‘I think there’s some kind of wedding.
Why, don’t you like it?’

‘Aren’t you hot?’

‘I think
you’re
hot,’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, hot like the weather can be hot. Yeah,
it’s a hot day because it’s hot.’

Awkward silence followed this, so I took the invitation to fill it.

‘How about that sun, huh? They say it’s millions of light years away and still it’s
so hot. No wonder we want to move to Mars. Sit down, please.’

I patted the bench.

‘Here?’ she asked. A drain had burst in the toilet block, and she sniffed at the
stink.

Despite the smell, she sat down gingerly and stared straight ahead.

We sat like that for a few minutes, dead silent, side by side.

At one stage, I loosened my tie.

Finally, Nadia got up.

‘Hey, nice to meet you,’ she said breezily. ‘I just remembered I have to babysit
tonight. Gotta go, or my mum will
kill
me!’

I followed Nadia with my numb eyes as she walked away. My hand was still sticky,
so I couldn’t even shake her hand.

Objectively, this was a total bomb-out, a total choke. But I couldn’t help feeling
a weird kind of elation.

I’d just had my very first date.

At school, they taught us that liquid could turn to gas at the right temperatures.
But today, the hottest day, the kind of day that could vaporise you, school was far
from our minds.

It was finally time for me and Moe Greene to see the famous Australian beach.

We’d once been to the beach in Iran, a casual six-hour drive from Qom; it was cold
and cloudy, and the water grey and sad. From this excursion, I’d learned a trip to
the beach was a formal occasion, and today I’d donned my best outfit, hoping to make
an impression: a snazzy shirt, duly ironed, and black pants.

We tromped off the tram, soaking with sweat.

Suddenly, the sky opened up. Vast blue seas. Bluer than any blue I’d seen, the bluest
blue in nature.

First, the beauty—then the shock. Nobody was dressed up like Moe Greene and me. We
were Eskimos in the Sahara.

‘Seriously, bro,’ spat Moe Greene. His jeans were sweaty and drenched. ‘Why did you
tell me to dress like this—oh, Osamah, holy moly.’

Our breaths arrested as soon as we saw the women. It wasn’t just that they weren’t
dressed up; they were wearing basically nothing. Some of them, literally nothing.
Even the women who wore bikinis flashed angles I hadn’t known existed. Even my best
wet dreams were revealed to be profoundly unimaginative.

‘Let’s count them,’ I said.

‘The people? Are you nuts?’

‘No, just the ones without tops.’

To do this, we scurried behind a pair of large beachside rocks, for fear of being
spotted by the ubiquitous Iraqi taxi drivers. This made us look deeply suspicious,
pointing and gawking.

This was the heaven the Koran had promised us, right here in Australia.

I counted fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…

We stayed there for hours, burning up.

Mashhad, Iran, 2013: two days until visa expires

It’s 6 am, still cold, still dark. Three hours’ sleep in an alley. My dad’s cane
and luggage. My luggage. My guitar.

I haul them to a main road and try to hail a cab. Twenty minutes. No one stops. They
all have somewhere to be.

An old, run-down, lightless car trails to a stop by my feet. The driver is an old
man, eyes filled with history. He winds down the window with a slow, manual creak.
It jams a couple of times, but he forces. It’s finally down, but only just.

‘Where, my boy?’

‘Actually, I’m looking for a taxi. But thanks.’

‘I can be your taxi.’

‘A taxi will be cheaper, thank you.’

‘I’ll charge you the same fee.’

‘No, but thank you, sir.’

‘You know what,’ he says, ‘you’ll get cold out here.’ He pops the boot and clambers
out. ‘I’ll take you wherever you want, for free.’

‘That’s very kind, sir. But you mustn’t.’

‘Of course I must,’ he says. ‘I see a person freezing, it’s my duty to help.’ He
smiles at me. I notice his yellowed teeth, and dark gaps where three are missing.

‘Listen, don’t be stubborn,’ he says. ‘Have you heard the one about the guy who got
caught in the flood? Everyone was rushing out of town, the flood was going to drown
them. A motorcyclist stopped for him and offered him a ride. The man said, “No thanks,
God will save me.” The flood was up to his knees. An hour later, a car stops, the
driver yells for him to jump in. Same thing: “No thanks, God will save me.” Now the
flood’s waist deep. A truckie sees him, toots his horn, urges him, climb in. “No
thanks, God will save me.” Of course, the flood drowns him. When he gets to the Pearly
Gates, he’s a little upset. He demands God say why he wasn’t saved. He was a man
of faith. God says, “I sent three people, dickhead. What else did you expect?”’

I burst out laughing.

‘So where do you need to go, prince?’

‘Department of Births and Deaths.’

‘Oh, that doesn’t sound good either way. If it’s birth, my commiserations for the
long road ahead. If it’s death, please ignore my poor sense of humour. Unless you’re
happy with the death, in which case I wish you a substantial inheritance.’

I like his sense of life. Anyone with no teeth and a decaying car who can laugh in
a blizzard is fine by me.

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I need to go a few places today. So maybe you can stay with me
the whole day, if you give me a good price.’

‘Free,’ he says.

‘Nope,’ I say.
Taarof
. I’m sick of it: just charge me.

‘Look into my eyes,’ he says.

I do as instructed.

‘My eyes are happy to take you for free.’

I am still suspicious. ‘Here’s the thing. I’ve had drivers say this exact same thing,
then charge me triple the fee.’

‘Well, you’re in luck,’ he says, ‘because triple zero is still zero. Come on, I’m
getting cold here. And I’m getting older too. So are you going to get in or am I
going to kick your ass?’

Once I’m in the car, we settle on 60,000 tomans—about $20 Australian, which seems
low to me.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ I say.

He keeps driving. ‘The only thing I’ve ever been unsure about is marrying my wife.’

He gets me to the Department of Births and Deaths by six-thirty. It doesn’t open
till seven. I invite the man to breakfast. He accepts.

We order the usual suspects: eggs, cheese, jam, butter, bread. It’s the first food
I’ve really
tasted
in days. That’s what kindness can do for you.

Once the department opens, I take a ticket and get called up first. I present a tiny
man with large glasses my thrice-stamped envelope.

He opens the envelope and peers at the materials within.

‘Where is his other passport?’ he demands.

‘What? Which?’ I respond, baffled.

‘His Afghan one.’

‘He is not Afghan. He is Australian.’

‘Why does it say he’s Afghan here?’

My heart sinks.

‘What? No, no, no. That can’t be. He is Australian. That’s what I told the lady-lieutenant.’

‘You have to get this rectified,’ he says. ‘Go back to Foreign Affairs. Get them
to issue you a new paper.’

‘Sir, I’m running out of time.’

But paperwork is paperwork. My driver burns rubber.

◆ ◆ ◆

Forty minutes later, I’m back at Foreign Affairs. I shove my way to the front and
feel very bad about it, but all the good feelings in the world aren’t going to get
me home.

I reach the female soldier I dealt with yesterday.

‘Ma’am-Lieutenant. Good morning,’ I say. ‘You wrote that my dad is Afghan, can you
please fix it up?’

‘Did I?’ she asks inscrutably. ‘Oh, I did.’

She corrects it with liquid paper, and blows it dry. I follow her neat handwriting:
‘Australian of Iraqi origin.’ She stamps and dates the changes.

‘Come back soon,’ she says.

◆ ◆ ◆

Back at the Department of Births and Deaths, I take another number. Ticket C397.
The screen’s only on C289. Nearly a hundred people, and only eight windows.

Two hours later, I’m standing at one of them. It’s not the same officer from before.

‘Why does this have liquid paper on it?’ the new officer enquires.

I explain the whole thing. ‘Okay, I didn’t ask for your life story,’ he interrupts.
‘You need a new paper from Foreign Affairs.’

‘What?’ I whisper, in shock.

‘Who served you here?’

I find the small man with the glasses. His colleague calls him up.

‘I told you to get new papers,’ he tells me. ‘Did I not?’

‘No, sir,’ I say.

‘Don’t
no, sir
me,’ he says. ‘Anyway, we can’t process this. The serial numbers won’t
match.’

‘Why won’t it match?’ I ask. ‘Actually, here you go. I have the coroner’s report,
the police report, the court report, the embassy report. Will it match any of those?’

‘Don’t create a ruckus,’ he says, ‘or I’ll have you kicked out. This is a legal issue,
not an emotional one. See this serial number? In our system, it means your father
is Afghan. It doesn’t matter that they’ve changed what the paper says. Our computer
won’t process it.’

‘We’re letting a computer tell us what to do? We built that computer,’ I say helplessly.

‘Don’t create a circus for us!’ the man shouts. ‘I told you nicely what needs to
be done. The onus was on you to listen to my instructions and carry them out. And
now, guess what? It’s still on you to go and fix it up.’

I break down inside, but keep my head up.

‘Sir,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here.’

‘And that is not our problem,’ he says. But he lowers his tone. ‘You seem like an
intelligent man. So go sort this out.’

‘There’s no way I can make it back here before closing hours.’

‘Then come back Sunday.’

‘My visa expires on
Saturday
.’

What can he do? He walks off.

◆ ◆ ◆

And soon, I’m face to face with the lady-lieutenant again. There is more barging
that makes this happen. I still feel guilt, but not as much.

‘Ma’am-Lieutenant, I need you to issue me a new paper,’ I say.

‘Why?’ she asks.

‘They didn’t accept this.’

‘They should have. It’s been stamped.’

‘They didn’t,’ I say simply. ‘Serial number problem.’

While she’s writing the new paper, and stamping it a zillion times, I break down
inside just enough to start babbling out loud.

‘Now I need to get back there, then get back here, to get the exit papers from you…’

‘You’ll need to extend your visa,’ she says calmly, not looking up.

‘I already have,’ I say. ‘I have no more extensions left.’

She gives the paper one last stamp.

‘Look here,’ she says. ‘Take this to them, quickly, and come back ASAP.’

‘What if you’re closed?’ I all but mewl.

‘One problem at a time.’

And so I take the paper, and get back in the car, grateful for the driver, who does
like to drive fast. He pushes his rust-bucket car for everything it’s got. In the
traffic, which does not comply with his attitude, I begin to recite the Koran under
my breath. Surely things can’t end like this.

◆ ◆ ◆

I march straight to the counter of the tiny man with the large glasses and drop the
paper in front of him.

‘Can’t you see I’m serving a customer?’ he barks. ‘Get a number and wait your turn,
this country has laws.’

‘But—’

‘Stop remonstrating! You’re not the only one with a problem here. All these people
sitting down, you see them? What do you think they’re here for?’

Fair point. So, I get a ticket. But it’s twenty-odd people behind, only two counters
are open, and it’s already three o’clock.

I start to tell my story to the people in line, and ask openly if anyone might help
by giving me their number. I’m so animated, I know I’m coming across as a total loon,
but I can’t help it: I look possessed because I feel that way too.

A few people protest gamely, saying I should just wait my turn. Others are sympathetic,
but say they’ve been waiting for hours, and can’t risk the place closing on them.

Suddenly, another idea sprouts up.

‘What if I buy your number?’ I suggest. ‘How much is it worth to you? I’ll buy your
number. Cash.’

Everyone stays quiet, so I keep pushing it.

‘What’s the daily wage here? Twenty thousand, thirty? I’ll triple it, quadruple it.
One ticket, one hundred thousand!’

I’m interrupted by the loudspeaker: the next number is called. A hunched man who
looks like he was buddies with Moses gets up. He looks at his ticket, then looks
at the cash in my hands. He approaches me gingerly, and speaks even slower than his
walk.

‘I came…all the way from…the village…to register my grandson’s… birth. And if I
don’t…do it…there…is a fine. I will need… to come back…Sunday. And I can’t…come back…on
Sunday. My wife…is very…frail.’

‘What’s the fine?’ I ask him.

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘So I’ll pay it. And your trip back to Mashhad. Deal?’

‘How about…my time…off?’

‘How can you possibly be working?’ I blurt. He looks like he retired before I was
born.

He takes a deep breath. ‘In a village…we are always… together. When I leave my…family…they
get…upset. That’s… our…lifestyle. And…’

‘Two hundred thousand, that’s my offer.’

He takes another long breath to speak, so I cut in.

‘It’s a lot of cash and you know it.’

‘Thank you…you are very kind.’

‘No. I’m just desperate,’ I toss back. It’s true. I’m horrified by my behaviour.
But I bury this in the growing pile of things I can feel bad about later on, once
my father’s not in a refrigerator, and I’m on a flight back home.

‘I see you buy people out,’ says the small man with the large glasses.

‘He was free to choose,’ I mumble.

He types the details into the computer.

‘Hmm. Actually, no. Can’t do this,’ he frowns. ‘The system already has it that your
father is Afghan, and it doesn’t know how to accept two deaths for the one person.
It’s saying this man’s already dead, and I can’t really change it. Your only option
is to get the matter overturned in court. That takes maybe two, three weeks.’

‘The hell it won’t,’ I utter, defiant but nervous.

‘Excuse me?’ he blinks.

‘You heard me,’ I say. ‘I don’t even have two hours, and you’re telling me two weeks.
For an error that wasn’t even my fault to begin with.’

‘Yes, it was,’ he affirms, ‘and if you’d listened to me—’

‘Who is your manager? I want to speak to him.’ I’m almost shouting now.

‘Lower your voice, sir, or I’ll kick you out.’

‘Fuck you, mate!’ I blurt in English.

I wildly scan the room. By the stairs: a sign, manager’s office. I take the paper
and sprint upstairs. I make it to the door marked
Manager
before a guard stops me.

‘The sheikh is in a meeting,’ he says.

I think about it for an ant’s time of a second. ‘I don’t care,’ I say.

I push past the guard and barge in.

The manager is a white-bearded cleric. Gathered around the room are a bunch of young
inmates in grey-striped uniforms. They are a dejected crew. He’s in the middle of
a moral lecture. He stops and looks up.

‘Out!’ he gestures.

Whatever I’m going to do, I have to do it fast.

‘My father was the lead cleric in Melbourne, Australia,’ I say all in a rush. He
goes to interrupt, but I just keep talking. ‘He passed away in the city and I am
trying to get him back. I need a death certificate from this department to take to
Foreign Affairs. My visa expires in two days and it’s a public holiday tomorrow.
I have no other option but to plead my case to you.’

He regards me for a moment. ‘Why not bury him in Mashhad?’ he asks.

‘Sir, his family and community are all back in Melbourne.’

He inspects my attire.

‘Why aren’t you wearing black?’

I don’t understand what he means. I look at my clothes: washed blue jeans, a charcoal
jumper with a blue shirt under it. A heavy grey jacket. Then I get it. Traditionally,
that’s the first thing the family of the deceased do: they wear black.

‘I don’t know,’ I stutter. ‘I didn’t think of it.’

He waves me off. ‘I’m busy with these young criminals. Come back next week.’

‘Please.’

Suddenly, he slams shut the thick book on his lap. ‘Australia!’ he exclaims. ‘Is
it good there? We hear a lot about its beaches.’

‘Huh? Yes. They’re good,’ I tell him, baffled.

He looks alarmed. ‘Why? Do you go?’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘No, of course not, they’re a place of sin. But they are good. So I’ve
heard.’

He eyes me apprehensively. ‘Is it true women roam around naked?’

‘I…think so?’ I tell him. ‘But as I said, I don’t know.’

He reopens his book. ‘Come back next week, I’ll see you then. Right now, all I can
see is that you have a big tongue instead.’