When Michael Met Mina (23 page)

Michael

We have a free study period at the end of the day. The bell rings and I steal a quick kiss from Mina, between the Steampunk display and nineteenth-century poetry. She laughs, and then quickly ducks, her eyes darting around, checking to see if anybody has noticed.

‘Relax,' I whisper in her ear. ‘Zoe and Clara are near the graphic novels shelf, their eyeballs glued to their screens. And I happen to know for a fact that this particular aisle, while affording a view of the library, remains – and this is really quite poetic – hidden
from
view.'

‘How do you know that?' she looks at me, a mischievous
glint in her eye. ‘I'll puke if I find out you've brought another girl here.'

I grin. ‘This is the PG-rated library aisle, Mina. You're my first PG-rated girlfriend.'

‘I gave you more credit than that, Michael,' she says, rolling her eyes at me. ‘Rating relationships by movie classifications is so juvenile.'

Then she takes me by surprise by giving me a long, hard kiss, says goodbye, and rushes off to catch her bus.

*

Dad's home early from work, drinking a coffee at the kitchen bench while Mum prepares dinner. Nathan's in the TV room, finishing his homework so he can earn some iPad time. I'm rummaging in the pantry for an afternoon snack. Dad gets a call and takes it outside; when he comes back he's wearing a look of concern and guilt. Mum notices too.

‘Something wrong?'

He throws a quick glance my way and then, clearing his throat, sits back up on the bar stool. But there's something diversionary about his manner, and I ask him what's wrong.

‘Jeremy and Margaret called immigration,' he says, his tone cautious. ‘I spoke to Andrew about leaving it all alone. I never thought Jeremy and Margaret would get involved. They've been so busy with the Jordan Springs campaign.'

Mum turns her back to the stove and faces us.

‘Has something happened?' she asks.

‘
Immigration?
' I repeat.

He nods. ‘The three people they had working at the restaurant were picked up and sent to Villawood.'

I'm frozen, momentarily paralysed as I try to process his words. It's like cement's running through my veins, choking me from the inside. My throat tightens with every thought of Mina, her parents, the asylum seekers working there.

‘I told you, Michael, this is bigger than us,' Dad tries to explain. ‘I'm sorry that you have a connection with the people who own the restaurant. But they're the ones in the wrong.' His eyes plead with me to understand, and then his phone rings again. He looks down and takes the call.

‘Michael,' Mum says gently.

I flash her a silencing look. ‘Don't,' I warn her through clenched teeth.

I don't drop my eyes from Dad for a second. He finishes the call, hangs up, and looks at me. ‘A reporter's out there,' he says slowly. ‘Jeremy and Margaret too.'

‘Are you serious?' I yell. ‘THIS is your idea of
I've got it under control
? I told Mina you had it sorted! She trusts me!'

Dad snaps. ‘I spoke to Andrew, Michael! He was the one who took an interest in the restaurant. I can't control people!'

Mum interrupts, her voice strained and desperate. ‘Jeremy and Margaret have had nothing to do with the restaurant, Michael. How was your dad to know?'

‘You're actually going to tell me you're surprised that people who spend their time opposing an Islamic school might join Andrew's witch hunt?' I laugh bitterly.

Nathan walks in, looking worried.

‘What's going on?' he asks. ‘Why is everybody screaming?'

‘Nothing's wrong, darling,' Mum says with affected cheeriness. ‘Why don't you go and play on your iPad.'

‘Why are you fighting?'

‘We're not fighting,' Dad says tensely, running his fingers through his hair.

‘I'm going there,' I say, and storm out. I can hear Mum urging Dad to follow me; warning that things could get ugly.

Dad calls out to me but I ignore him. He catches up to me as I'm at the door.

‘Calm down, Michael,' he says. ‘Just please calm down.'

‘I don't have the right to be calm,' I say coolly. ‘Not when three people are back in detention. Because of us.'

He rubs his eyes tiredly and takes a long, shuddering breath.

‘I don't want you driving in this state. We'll go together. Okay?'

*

We don't say a word to each other in the car. Dad tries to call Andrew, Jeremy and Margaret, but nobody's answering. I try calling Mina, but her phone rings out. I text her, asking her to call me urgently.

We pull into the parking lot behind the strip of shops. A reporter is standing on the footpath, talking to Jeremy and Margaret. There's a cameraman too. Mina's nowhere to be seen.

The reporter looks like a rookie. It's probably his first expos
é
. He keeps checking his teeth through the reflection in the camera lens. One protein-smoothie-drinking, kale-eating, foundation-junkie cliché.

Jeremy and Margaret grin wildly when they see us approaching. But their smiles dissolve when they see Dad. He steps close to them, a tense expression on his face, and whispers that he needs to speak to them privately for a moment. The reporter's too quick, and steps between them, breaking their huddle.

Flashing Dad a wide White Glo smile, he says, ‘Alan Blainey, leader of Aussie Values?'

Dad nods. ‘Excuse me,' he says politely. ‘I just need a moment alone with Jeremy and –'

‘This is perfect!' the reporter gushes. ‘Can I interview you instead?' He quickly waves over the cameraman, who's got the camera up on his shoulder and rolling before anybody knows what's happening.

‘Look,' Dad says, firmly this time, ‘do you mind if we do this after I've had a chance to speak to my associates?'

The reporter looks disappointed. ‘Fine, but can you make it quick as I have another story to get to.'

Dad takes a confused-looking Jeremy and Margaret to the side. I take a step closer, but Dad motions at me to remain where I am.

The reporter is using the time as an opportunity to practise his face-to-camera piece. A restaurant serving halal food taking over an Aussie fish and chip shop. Steeped in controversy ever since. Asylum seekers working illegally. Being sent back to Villawood because of a concerned citizen's tip-off. Raises questions about halal funding.

A few moments later and Dad, Jeremy and Margaret return. Dad asks the reporter to adjust his story, focus on the anti-Islamic school campaign the organisation is leading, and a more general story about halal food funding terrorism.

‘You can talk about asylum seekers rorting the system, but can you leave this particular restaurant out of it?'

He throws a glance my way, expecting me to thank him.

It's like the feeling you get after a swim. Your ears are blocked and then suddenly you're walking along and
pop
they clear and you can hear again, find your balance. Dad's words pierce the air bubbles trapped inside my head and I can finally hear what he's saying.

And I realise that I don't want any part of it.

The reporter presses Dad, arguing that the restaurant will make the piece stronger. Jeremy and Margaret nod in agreement. Dad seems torn, looking at me and then back at the reporter.

‘Michael, talk to your dad,' Margaret urges me.

The reporter overhears, jerking his head to face me. ‘You're Alan's son? It'd be good to get a young person's point of view.'

Suddenly the camera starts to roll and the reporter is asking me
‘as one of the organisation's youngest members'
,
for my opinion on asylum seekers and Aussie Values' platform generally. It all happens so quickly. I try to gather my thoughts, ignoring the look of apprehension on Dad's face.

The reporter asks me again. ‘So what's your opinion about it all?'

‘I guess I feel that there's a racist way to be worried about the economy, or people dying at sea, and there's a non-racist way,' I start, looking the camera squarely in the lens. I feel myself gaining momentum, as though with each word that I utter I'm throwing off a rock in a backpack that's been weighing me down. ‘We've signed up to international laws.'

I can hear Jeremy and Margaret draw in sharp breaths and hiss my name under their breaths, trying to stop me. Dad's looking at me, his eyebrows knitted in confusion, but I feel an unassailable urge to keep going.

‘Legally, we have to help these people. Instead, we lock them up. We abuse them. Then we bring in laws so that we can jail people who report the abuse. I don't get how we can let that happen in a democracy.'

‘So then you
don't
support your father's organisation?'

Dad's eyes plead with me.

‘Sorry, Dad,' I say. ‘But Aussie Values is all about being angry, defensive and paranoid. You said that bad things happen when good people remain silent. So I'm speaking up. I'm against your organisation and everything it stands for.'

Mina

Irfan is pacing up and down in front of the counter, running his fingers through his hair, muttering under his breath. Baba's sitting in the ridiculous velvet-cushioned throne, nervously jiggling his leg up and down, smoking in urgent, short drags.

‘Mina, we don't have to talk to that reporter, do we?' Mum asks, gently placing her hand on Baba's arm.

‘Of course not! They can all wait outside as long as they like. They'll give up eventually.'

‘I can't live with myself if they're sent back,' Baba says, so quietly I almost don't hear him.

‘The lawyer will help, Farshad,' Mum says brightly. Even I can tell she's trying to put on a brave face.

I walk over to Irfan. ‘What happened? Is it true? Did they take them to Villawood?'

He nods slowly.

‘Who came?'

‘Immigration officers. I'll never forget the look on their faces, Mina.' The words catch in his throat. ‘We're in trouble too,' he adds eventually. ‘Your dad called a lawyer. Hopefully she can fix this mess.'

*

I sneak a peek out of the window from behind the blinds. To my surprise, Michael's on camera, talking to the reporter. I see his dad too, but he looks devastated as he watches Michael. I don't know what to make of it all.

We're supposed to open in an hour. There are too many reservations to contemplate cancelling, so Baba, Irfan and Mum head back to the kitchen to start preparing. I call in some extra help from our list of casuals and then start setting tables.

I feel numb. I can't see how Michael and I can pretend as though we exist in a bubble, when every moment we're together his family threatens to burst it.

But the thought of saying goodbye to him hurts so badly that I want to vomit.

I keep checking what's happening outside. Eventually, the footpath is clear and they appear to have all left.

I grab my phone from off the charger and switch it on to call Michael. I see that I've missed his calls and texts. I go to a corner of the restaurant where I'm out of hearing, and call him.

‘Where have you been?' he asks in a panic. ‘I'm so sorry. Some members went behind Dad's back. Are you all okay?'

‘Yeah, we're okay,' but then I start to cry silently. I collapse into a chair and try to stop the tears. ‘They took away Adnan, Mustafa and Mariam. I thought you said your dad was going to take care of it?'

‘I thought so too,' he says quietly.

*

We go to bed early. I expect a restless night but I'm out before I know it and wake up in the exact same spot I fell asleep in.

I'm lying awake in bed, trying to buy some time before I have to get ready for school, when Baba receives a telephone call: Tim, from the pizza shop next door.

The next few minutes are chaos. Mum rushes to the bedroom to quickly get dressed, Baba's looking for his keys as he argues with me, insisting that I will not miss school, while I insist that I will. He decides there's no time to draw the fight out and orders me to bring my schoolbag along just in case. He's so distracted that he doesn't realise that I'm wearing jeans. I don't even bother bringing my bag. Mum's ready and the three of us race outside, into the car, and speed off to the restaurant.

*

Visually, the graffiti is quite impressive.

Fuck Off We're Full
on the front door.
Halal Funds ISIS
on the window. Well, the window that isn't smashed through with a brick.

‘Don't you love how they've made halal a noun?' I say drily to Mum as we survey the damage. ‘It's like halal's a person. Some bearded, hairy monster in a cave somewhere, counting the money he's making from the labels on Vegemite.'

*

Irfan is on the phone with the insurance company, while Baba and Mum take photos of the tables close to the windows that have been showered with shattered glass. I finish taking photos of the graffiti on the front windows and then go back inside.

We sit down, unsure if we're supposed to clean up or wait for instructions from the insurer. Baba gets up to make some tea as we wait for Irfan to end the call.

Mum's phone rings. She rummages in her bag, and takes it out.

‘It's Emily,' she says. ‘I'll call her –'

I grab it from Mum's hand, answer the call and dangle it back in front of her. If looks could kill.

‘Hi, Emily. Yes, I am fine. I am good. Yes, we had to come here to the restaurant this morning for something important. No, everything is fine thank you.'

She goes on like that for another minute. When she hangs up, I shake my head at her.

‘You could have told her, Mum.'

‘Why? So she can see that we are nothing but problems? We are on the TV and speaking to police and sitting here in our own restaurant surrounded by broken glass . . .' She takes a deep breath, tries to compose herself. ‘She has enough to deal with anyway.'

She scratches at her stomach and tries to get comfortable.

‘Look, don't worry about all of this.' She smiles at me, bright and big and reassuring, and it pulls at my heart, the way she's trying for my sake, because my mum doesn't do big smiles, not unless something's wrong. She's always left her big smiles for moments when she thinks I need to be protected.

I want to tell her that I'm grown up now. I'm not that little girl on the boat who can be distracted with a story, or song, or forced big smile.

Baba returns with tea and we clasp the small glasses like they contain the solution to all our problems. We sit in silence until Baba's raspy voice interrupts our thoughts.

‘I love this country,' he says. ‘But I don't feel it's mine because I must tell people I love it. That's a fact.' He shakes his head angrily. Mum is sitting silently, not saying a word.

‘We refugees are different to immigrants, Mina. The immigrant's heart is caught between the struggle of wanting to stay or return, return or stay. The uncertainty never stops. Every decision is shadowed by what they are missing out on back home. And when they return to their birthplace, they want to come back here. And when they come back here, they wonder if they should have stayed. But us? We have been robbed of those choices. I cannot return to my homeland. And so I must simply stay in somebody else's homeland, as an outsider and a guest. I am the guest who brings a gift of food to their host. Except what I think more and more is that they do not eat the food, they eat
us
here.'

I peer into his face, frowning. ‘What do you mean?'

‘When they don't like the taste of us, when we have too much flavour and spice, and do not follow their recipe, we are like indigestion and they want to vomit us back to where we came from.'

‘Even if you're right, Farshad,' Mum suddenly speaks up, ‘don't you dare lose hope. Don't you dare hand your power over to these people.' She takes his hand, places it on her stomach and looks him straight in the eye. ‘Not just because you let them win, but because despair is a luxury people like us cannot afford.'

*

I grab Mum's phone when she's in the bathroom. I take down Emily's and Rojin's numbers and then send them a text from my phone, letting them know what's happened but reassuring them that everything is okay.

Irfan emerges and tells us we can start cleaning. Baba insists that Mum remains seated but she waves him off, grabs the broom and starts sweeping with such urgent, fierce strokes that we don't dare argue with her. Baba shifts his attention to me and tells me I should go to school, but then he sees the look on my face and doesn't bother continuing.

‘Let's hope it's a boy,' he mutters to no one in particular, and Mum and I lock eyes and share a brief smile.

‘Shocking,' I hear coming from a voice near the front door.

We all look up. It's Tim, from the pizza shop.

‘Too bad there are no cameras,' he says, shaking his head as he surveys the mess.

‘Yeah. Too bad,' I say quietly.

‘The writing outside looks very bad for us,' Baba tells him. ‘Very bad for business.'

Tim smiles and holds up a bag. ‘There's a trick to removing it,' he says. ‘I've brought over the magic tools. If we start now, we should have it done in no time.'