Princess Bari (14 page)

“What happened to you?” I asked as Bari. “Did you run into a bear? Did you run into a tiger?”

“No, my A-frame carrier kept tugging me this way and that, and I tripped and fell.”

“Ah, I have to move my hands back and forth to clean the house! What an idiot you are! Don't tie the thread around your carrier this time. Here, I'll draw you a picture of me instead. Take it with you and stick it to a tree. If it stays up, that means I'm still here. If it falls down, then it means I've run away. Be sure to use lots of glue and stick it on good.”

“So the
jangseung
takes the picture, and whenever he wants to see his future wife, he looks at it and smiles. He glues it to a pine tree, and it stays in place. Finally he can relax, knowing that she hasn't run away, and he goes to work chopping firewood.”

“Heaven brings the totem pole and Princess Bari together. Isn't that right, Grandma? And now they have to have children?”

At some point, while recalling, one by one, the stories my grandmother and I used to recite, I slipped into sleep.

O
ne day, around the time I'd nearly paid off my smuggling debt – which means I must've been working at Tongking for about a year by then – Uncle Tan called me into the hallway at the back of the shop where the toilets were. I hadn't done anything wrong, but the grim look on his face made my heart race.

“Have you heard?” he asked. “There's going to be a crackdown this week.”

“What kind of crackdown?”

“You don't have a visa or a work permit, do you?”

I looked down and thought about his question. Uncle Lou must have told him my story.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to fire you. The problem is that if we get caught, the worst that will happen to me is I'll be fined two thousand pounds and could lose my business licence, but you'll go to jail and get deported.”

Vinh, the Vietnamese girl who lived in a government-subsidized flat nearby, had gone home the night before to find that a joint squad of local police and UK Border Agency officers had arrived in several vans and were blocking the entrance to the apartment building. They searched door to door and took away a dozen illegal immigrants. Uncle Tan pulled some cash from his pocket and tried to hand it to me.

“I called up some friends,” he said. “They said it looks like the shops in this area will be inspected this week. I need you to lie low until things have settled down. Shouldn't be more than a couple of weeks.”

I bowed several times and said: “Thank you for warning me. And I don't need your money. I didn't earn it.”

“Take it. You can pay me back later.”

“As long as you'll hire me back, I'm really okay.”

I refused to take his money. When Luna saw me leaving early, she followed me out of the salon.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm fine. I'm just heading home early. I have a headache.”

She took my hand and shook it lightly.

“Okay, get some rest. Are you sure you're okay?”

I nodded, then turned and took my time walking back to our flat in Lambeth. By the time I got there the sun had already set, and the stairwell was dark. I groped my way downstairs. Suddenly the door across from ours swung open, and I saw a shadowy figure. It was the Nigerian woman who lived next to us.

“Oh! It's you,” she said. “I was hoping it was …”

I wondered what she was doing in the dark. The lights were turned off inside her flat as well. The window that looked out onto the courtyard let in some light from outside, but it wasn't much.

“Is the power out?” I asked.

Finally she flicked the lights on, as if she'd simply forgotten about them. I took out my key and started to unlock my door, but when I saw she was still standing there, I said without thinking: “Your husband isn't home yet?”

“No, I'm waiting for him,” she said.

I opened the door, but before I stepped inside, I glanced back again. She was leaning on the wall next to the door. I looked at her for a moment.

“Would you like some tea?” I asked.

I held the door open, and she slipped inside without a word. When I followed her in and closed the door, she collapsed against my shoulder and burst into tears. I was bewildered, but patted her on the back and asked what was wrong. She pulled away from me and sank onto the floor.

“My husband was arrested.”

I helped her up and led her over to the big, cushy armchair that Luna and I were always fighting over. Her face was streaked with tears.

“Someone who works at the petrol station with him called me. They took him because he doesn't have a work permit.”

My heart sank. So it was true!

“We went through so much to make it here …” she said. “We have nowhere to go back to.”

I put a kettle of water on to boil and took out the teacups.

“He doesn't have a work permit, so he was paying a hundred pounds a week to borrow someone else's. But there's such a big age difference between him and the person he borrowed it from, that if they investigate him in person instead of just checking the paperwork they'll catch him right away. You know, you get paid less if you don't have a permit – only half of what legal workers make, and sometimes as little as thirty percent. But if you borrow someone else's permit, you can make up to seventy percent of the regular wage.”

I poured her a cup of tea; she seemed to have calmed down already. She took a few deep breaths, and sipped her tea.

“If he's deported,” she muttered, “I'll run away.”

She stared down at the floor.

“We left our children behind,” she said. “All three of them. And we still haven't finished paying off the men who brought us here.”

I couldn't tell her that my situation was similar. I wasn't in a position to trust anyone yet. I'd been working hard to pay off my smuggling debt, not paying attention to anything else around me, but now I understood the seriousness of my situation. It occurred to me that I had to console her if I was also to console myself.

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe they'll let him go and he'll come back home …”

She shook her head weakly.

“That miracle already happened. There was a crackdown and he was sent to jail, but then there was a shift change and the new officer called names off of the list of work permit holders without bothering to check them against their photos. My husband told me a kindly old man who was among those being released took pity on him and had him take his place. Of course, they probably found out later what happened. Everything is the will of God.”

I kept my composure, but there was no doubt in my mind that danger was approaching. Her husband would be investigated; it would be discovered that he'd borrowed his work permit from someone else; they would find out where he lived; and his wife would be exposed too. The police might be there as early as the following morning. It was actually a good thing their children weren't living with them. She looked like she was out of her mind and giving up hope.

“Is there anywhere you can hide out for a few days?” I asked.

The gravity of her situation seemed to hit her all at once.

“
Ya Allah
… They could be here tomorrow!”

She pressed her hands to her chest and shook her head in panic. She seemed to freeze for a moment, then sprang up and opened the door.

“I'll call the woman I work for to see if I can stay with her. Who knows? Since I'm already looking after her house and children, she might prefer it that way …”

After she left, I paced nervously. I didn't know whether or not I should run away somewhere until things had calmed down. Soon there was a knock at the door. I checked the peephole before opening it. It was the Nigerian woman again.

“She said I can stay with her for a few days. Luckily, her husband is away on business. She said to come to the house first to discuss it. Also, I called my husband's friend. He said he'll go to the detention centre tomorrow to try to get visiting hours with my husband.”

“That's good! I'm sure your husband will be back in no time.”

She threw her arms around me and murmured: “Thank you. Why can't the rest of the world be like our building?”

After the door closed behind her, I paced some more and then came to a decision. I left the flat and went straight up to the second floor. I paused in front of Grandfather Abdul's door long enough to catch my breath, and tapped the bronze knocker. I heard him clear his throat, and then there he was. He lowered his reading glasses and peered down at me.

“Well, look who's here! Come in, Bari.”

I sat down across from him, but couldn't speak right away. I had my head down, deep in thought. He didn't rush me but simply waited, a soft smile on his face. Finally I explained why I'd come home early from work. I told him what had happened to the Nigerian couple across the hall from me. His smile vanished and he nodded, his brow furrowed.

“This country is very concerned with ‘public safety',” he said.

I didn't understand what he meant.

“It's the same everywhere you go. The powerful wealthy do whatever it takes to shore up their privilege. This crackdown is one example of that. I suppose you don't have a passport either, Bari?”

“Technically I do …”

“But of course, it's forged.”

Although I was still wary about trusting people, one thing I'd learned over the course of my travels was that if you needed help from a good person, you could best earn their trust by being honest with them. I told Grandfather Abdul where I was really from, and briefly described my journey through China and all the way here. He nodded now and then, and waited with a smile whenever I got worked up and had to pause to catch my breath. When I ended with my arrival in London, he sighed.

“Indeed. Let's consider what it is that keeps tearing the world apart. I came to London under very similar circumstances as you. I'm sure it's the same for the Nigerian couple. But I believe you're right, that you'd better be ready for the worst tomorrow. I don't think anyone else will be affected, though I worry about the young Filipino man on the first floor. By the way, have you had dinner yet? I can't imagine you've had a chance to eat.”

“Oh! Luna will be hungry when she gets home!”

“Hold on, now. I have some tandoori chicken. Let's eat that with
chapatti
. I'm tired of eating dinner alone. It would be nice if you could join me.” He put some marinated chicken in the oven and warmed up
chapattis
in a dry pan.

While we were eating, Grandfather Abdul said: “You can stay here at night, but it's best if you go somewhere else during the day. I'll ask Ali to drive you somewhere.”

“But Ali works nights. Doesn't he need to sleep during the day?”

“It's fine. He won't be getting much work while this is going on. I'll just tell him to take a few days off.”

When I went downstairs, Luna was already home and washing rice for dinner. She stir-fried some meat and vegetables, then suddenly turned and pointed the wooden spatula at me.

“Where on earth have you been?' she yelled. “I was so worried about you!”

I told her that I had gone to see Grandfather Abdul, and quickly filled her in on what Uncle Tan had told me at the nail salon and what happened to the Nigerian couple next door. She stopped cooking and turned off the stove.

“I don't know what all the fuss is about,” she said. “This has been happening for years. My mother went through the same thing before I was born, and I dealt with it once as well. What do you think? That Immigration is going to come bust down our doors and search through every flat and check everyone's papers?”

“Luna, I need to pack a few things. You can tell them my clothes are yours. I'll leave some toiletries and a change of clothes in Grandfather Abdul's flat.”

Early the next morning, while Luna was still asleep, I packed a small bag and went upstairs to Grandfather Abdul's flat. He told me Ali would be there soon to pick me up, but I was still nervous; so he called Ali to make sure he was on the way. It turned out he wasn't even awake yet. Grandfather Abdul shouted at him.

“What are you still doing in bed? I just spoke to you about this last night! Get over here now!”

After he hung up, he paced around the flat with his hands clasped behind his back and kept returning to the window to look down at the street.

“He needs to get here before the Border Agency opens …”

Nearly an hour went by before Ali came thumping up the stairs and banged on the door.

“Why are you so late?” Grandfather Abdul said. “Do you want her to get arrested?”

Ali didn't seem to have grasped the situation. He grumbled sullenly: “It took a while to get my friend to loan me his car. Doesn't she need a car if she's moving flats?”

“When did I say she's moving flats? I asked you to take some time off of work and take care of Bari for a few days!”

Ali caught my eye and grinned, his white teeth showing. Once we were out of the house and in the car, I felt more relaxed. I figured the Nigerian woman had also left home early to hide out at her housekeeping job. Grandfather Abdul said he'd warned the Filipino man, who worked as a hospital janitor. In any case, he had no desire to see any of his neighbours arrested or deported. He also didn't want Mr Azad, the landlord, to blame him when there was less rent to collect that month. The car that Ali had borrowed was a banger: the door was crushed in, and the bumper was nearly falling off.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I figure we'll go to my flat first,” Ali said as he slowly made his way out of my neighbourhood.

He probably didn't know the whole story, but I assumed that Grandfather Abdul had told him that I didn't have a work permit and was in danger of being deported.

“Don't worry,” he said. “The minicab company I work for is also crawling with illegal immigrants. Some of them don't even have driver's licences.”

I didn't say anything at first, just sat there sullenly in the passenger's seat and muttered to myself: “Why do we have to have borders, anyway?”

Ali lived in Shepherd's Bush, in West London, a neighbourhood filled with people of different races, much like where I lived. It wasn't far from Holland Park, where Lady Emily lived. A single street separated the two neighbourhoods, yet they were completely different. The road split off into five directions, and was centred around an ugly, garbage-strewn park with patches of dirt showing through the grass. It reminded me of an unwashed puppy. Narrow alleys led back between the shop buildings along a curving market street. Ali's flat was located down one of the alleys, in a three-storey building with an unlit entrance.

It wasn't much, just a railroad flat the size of a small studio divided into two rooms. The front room had a double sink and a beat-up table with rickety legs and four chairs, and the back room had a bed pushed up against the wall. I don't know where he'd found it, but a metal chest of drawers, like something you'd see in an office, stood at the foot of the bed. I started to ask Ali why he didn't just live with his grandfather, but held back. Most young people probably wouldn't feel comfortable living with someone so much older.