When Michael Met Mina (5 page)

Michael

An angry journalist in Brisbane picks up on the story and spins it into an op-ed on people passing themselves off as Aboriginals to get benefits. Then some shock jocks in Sydney and Queensland flog it on the radio talkback for a couple of days. Facebook and Twitter typically start frothing, either casting Mason and Kahn, who spoke to the media for Aussie Values, as heroes (down with political correctness!) or neo-Nazis (racist scum!). Thankfully, the spotlight is off me. I warn Mason to keep me out of any media. As for Aussie Values, Dad wants the organisation to focus on the ‘issue', not my involvement in the fight. Then the best thing happens: a State MP gets accused of using government funds for escort services, and our story dies while the media works itself into a frenzy over that scandal. Thank God for government corruption.

I keep thinking about Mina. She's the one person I would least expect to have anything in common with. But our encounters have left me intrigued. One minute she's quiet, the next minute she's fiery and passionate. I can't work her out.

I'm playing basketball with the guys at lunchtime when I notice Mina and Paula talking to Mr Morello and then leaving him to sit courtside. It messes with my mind for a moment. I wonder if she's here to watch us play, but then I remember that I'm probably the last person she wants to speak to. Still, knowing she's there makes me feel all funny. I start showing off, flicking the ball between my knees, doing fancy tricks with my dribbling and shots. I steal a glance her way to check if she's watching. What a waste of time. She's deep in conversation with Paula.

Fred takes a shot from the halfway line and misses. The ball rolls in Mina's direction and, without even thinking, I run over to grab it. It lands close to her feet and she kicks it over to me.

‘Thanks,' I say, pausing for a moment, hoping she's noticed me flexing my muscles as I've been playing.

But she ignores me.

Paula acknowledges me with a slight tilt of her head, and then goes back to eating her lunch. I grab the ball and start to walk off, turning the ball on one finger, hoping Mina's watching me.

When the bell rings for the end of lunch I hear my name, and Terrence's, called out on the loudspeaker, asking us to report to the principal's office. My stomach sinks.

‘Relax, nothing will come of it,' Terrence reassures me as we wait in reception. ‘We'll get a slap on the wrist, at most.'

Mrs Robinson soon appears and ushers us into her office. Ever since I've been here, she's had the same inspirational quotes from famous dead people pinned to her pinboard.

‘I'm disappointed in you both,' she says after a long lecture about responsible alcohol consumption.

I'm tempted to alert her to one of her proverbs. Disappointed in us? Why, Mrs Robinson,
Nine-tenths of education is encouragement
.

‘It's not just that your behaviour reflects poorly on the school's reputation. Videos like that never go away. They will follow you to job interviews. And both of you have promising futures. With your grades and support networks at home, the sky is the limit.'

On and on she goes. Thankfully, after years of fine-tuning, I have perfected the ability to look at a teacher and give them the impression that I am listening and absorbing their every word. My mind wanders and I start imagining hidden augmented-reality devices with programs that would let me remove Mrs Robinson with one click, or replace her head with a giant Post-it note.

*

The last class of my day is one of my favourites, Design and Technology. Our teacher, Mr Riley, is wearing one of his Star Wars T-shirts (he has a big range) under a navy blazer, tan pants and suede shoes. Rumour has it that he has a Boba Fett tattoo on his back.

‘The chair you're sitting on, the shoes you're wearing, the icons on your devices, the graphic interface on your favourite games: don't forget that everything made by humans that you see and use every day started off as a design idea.'

I hang off Riley's every word. He announces that the DAT department has purchased a new augmented-reality design program and I shout out in excitement and swing back on my chair, grinning wildly.

‘Yes, I was expecting that reaction from you, Michael,' Mr Riley says. He tells me to settle down but I can tell by the gleam in his eyes that he's taken my enthusiastic outburst as a compliment.

We're assigned the task of designing a greeting card, uploading it to the program and then creating a personalised AR experience for the recipient.

‘Bring your card to life!' he encourages us. ‘How can you enhance it as an interactive digital experience? Do you want to include a video message? A music clip? An interactive photo slideshow? The possibilities are endless.'

*

The presenter, Joe, is wearing designer jeans and shirt. He has TV presenter hair and makeup but a genuine smile. The camera crew spends half an hour setting up, trying to get the lighting right, the equipment in order. We're going to sit side by side on a couch in front of the bay window. Mum fusses over Dad, Nathan and I, adjusting our clothes, reminding us to check our teeth.

‘Can I talk to him about planes?' Nathan asks.

‘Sure you can,' I say.

‘
Michael
,' Mum hisses.

I grin at her. ‘Just trying to spice things up.'

Dad gives me a pleading look. ‘Michael, no spice! It's the last thing we need.'

‘Okay,' I say, raising my hands in surrender. I turn to Nathan. ‘Nathan, you just stick to answering Joe's questions,' I say. ‘Nothing
whatsoever
to do with planes, okay?'

Nathan nods. ‘Yep.'

‘Is that clear, mate?' Dad asks gently.

‘Yep.'

‘Good on you, champ.' Dad ruffles Nathan's hair, much to Mum's annoyance. She leaps over, takes out the brush and fixes his hair again.

Joe is relaxed and friendly. TV sleaze factor is less than I expect. We barely notice when the cameras eventually start rolling. Joe asks Dad what he hopes to gain from the journey.

Dad starts off slightly nervous and self-conscious. Joe tells him to take his time. ‘It's just a conversation between us. Forget about the cameras.' Joe's a natural at this and eases us in by getting us to talk about where we've travelled, what we like doing as a family. Then he asks us how we'll feel about Dad being away from home for the month.

‘It'll be very hard,' Mum says. ‘We'll miss him.'

‘What about you, Michael? Will you miss your dad?'

‘Nah,' I joke. ‘He hogs the TV remote and always eats the last Tim Tam.'

We all laugh.

‘Luckily I don't like Tim Tams,' Nathan says. ‘I find that they melt too quickly and I don't like gooey chocolate.'

‘I have to agree with you there,' Joe says. ‘So, Alan,' he continues, turning to face Dad, ‘what do you hope to get out of this experience?'

‘I consider myself an open-minded person,' Dad says. ‘I've never denied that many of the people who come here by boat have suffered. If I learn a little more about their plight that would be a good thing.'

‘Do you think Australia should be accepting more refugees?'

‘No. I think we're meeting our obligations. I know this is an emotional issue and people get very worked up about it. I understand that. But policies should not be based on emotion.'

‘And what about you, Mary? Do you agree with locking people in detention?'

Mum's articulate, pleasant and firm. She's against people coming via the wrong channels. She doesn't want us to lay out a red carpet for them. Turning back the boats and offshore detention are good deterrents.

‘We have the sovereign right to protect our borders,' she says in conclusion.

Joe turns to me next. I feel my insides go all funny. I feel like a phoney. There's no way I can match my parents' passion and eloquence.

‘It's like my parents said,' I start, clearing my throat, trying to remember what we rehearsed last night. ‘Just because we want to protect our borders doesn't mean we're heartless. There are wars all over the world. More and more refugees. There has to be a limit, or we'll be flooded . . .'

I smile, but I'm sure it comes out a little constipated. Dad is beaming proudly at me so I must have got something right.

Joe turns to Nathan next. I can feel Mum tense up beside me. She's warned Joe about what to ask Nathan.

‘So Nathan, your dad flies out tomorrow. How do you feel?'

Nathan freezes, staring blankly at Joe.

‘Nathan?'

‘I can't speak about planes. Not allowed.'

Joe is confused and throws a look of appeal to my parents.

Mum laughs nervously. ‘It's okay, Nathan. You can answer.'

‘It's okay?' Nathan asks.

‘Sure honey.'

Nathan turns to face Joe. ‘What kind of plane is my dad catching? Is it a jet? Or an A380?'

Joe, bewildered, says, ‘Um, I'm not exactly sure, Nathan.'

Dad jumps in. ‘Nathan, champ, are you going to miss me?'

‘When you subtract the eight hours you're at work and six hours you're asleep, it only amounts to an absence of about three hundred and ten hours over thirty-one days.'

I freeze. Mum takes a long calming breath. Dad looks uneasy. None of us wants Nathan to be ridiculed or pitied on national TV. I'm eyeing Joe like a hawk, ready to pounce if he exploits the situation.

But Joe has obviously picked up on the sudden shift in our mood. He smiles brightly at Nathan and then turns to Dad.

‘It's okay, we can edit it if necessary,' he reassures him.

Nathan, bored now, sits back, stares up at the ceiling and kicks his legs against the back of the couch.

‘How do you feel about going to Iraq?' Joe asks Dad. ‘Given how dangerous it can be there, are you scared?'

Nathan suddenly sits up and dives in with a response before any of us have a chance to stop him.

‘Dad says Muslims are violent. So of course he should be scared. But you know, our bird was run over by a car in our street last year. Death is everywhere, not just in Iraq.'

Mina

‘You wouldn't believe it used to be a fish and chip shop!' I walk through the restaurant on opening night, marvelling at the transformation. ‘I can't believe how quickly you guys finished.'

Baba, looking thrilled, is eager for me to see every last inch of the place. He leads me around, pointing out all the trinkets and decor. The place is like a postcard from an Orientalist fantasy: part ethnic fetishism, part kitsch.

‘It looks completely different to the one in Auburn,' I muse.

‘The interior designer, he said, the more the better,' Baba explains. ‘People want it to feel
authentic
.'

There are decorations on every last inch of the restaurant walls: large stitched fabrics decorated with dangling swords as tassels; a huge Afghan rug depicting some of the sultans from the Ottoman Empire; a wooden cabinet filled with silver or wooden camels, tea and coffee sets, daggers and prayer beads. The centrepiece is a large golden throne with deep crimson upholstery. There is a huge sign behind it,
Kabul Kitchen,
in shiny gold calligraphy.

‘And we are putting a sign to encourage people to take a photo sitting on the throne and then post it on Facebook and Instagram,' Baba says triumphantly.

I look at him, gobsmacked.

‘The interior designer advised us,' he hastily explains.

I grin at him. ‘Will there be a belly dancer? I can handle gold calligraphy but please no belly dancer.'

‘That was the one thing we said no to.'

Who would have thought? A silver lining among all the kitsch gold.

*

Within two hours of opening, we've got enough customers to keep the kitchen busy. I'm helping behind the counter and Mum is in the kitchen with Baba and Irfan. I've just taken a photo for a couple sitting on the throne when Baba approaches me and asks me to check on Mum in the bathroom. He looks worried and I rush to the ladies. I find her bent over a toilet bowl, vomiting.

‘What's wrong?'

I wet some paper towels and help her clean herself up. She washes her face, wets the crown of her head and pulls her beautiful thick hair into a ponytail.

She stands in front of me, panting slightly.

‘I feel old,' she says wearily.

‘Mum,' I scold. ‘You're thirty-three, you just threw your guts up and you still look beautiful. Give it up.'

‘I'm having a baby.' She stands there, grinning at me.

‘
What?
' I lunge at her and give her a massive hug. I'm thrilled and feel like doing cartwheels around the restaurant. I'm surprised too. I'd given up on the idea of a baby a while back. Within the first few years of Mum and Baba marrying, I'd hoped for a brother or sister. Mum and Baba had their hopes high too. As time went on, and they murmured to each other about God's will, I resigned myself to being an only child. So the news that it's going to happen, after all this time, brings tears of joy to my eyes.

Mum hugs me tightly and then gently pushes me away. ‘Sorry. I smell like vomit. I need to go home and shower.' She giggles. ‘Oh, Mina, I'm sorry I had to tell you here, in a bathroom. I told Baba not to send for you. But he panics. Some nausea because I smelt the meat and he wants to send for an ambulance.'

I laugh. ‘How many weeks are you?'

‘Almost three months.' She puts her hijab back on, adjusts it around her head. ‘Come on, we can talk about it at home later, in more dignified surroundings.'

Baba is pacing outside the bathroom door. ‘Are you okay?' he asks anxiously when we emerge.

He looks at Mum with such tenderness and concern that my insides go all funny. There was a time when all Mum and I wanted was a safe place to live. We didn't dare to hope we could find happiness. It had been hard for a long time. Everything was different. Mum used to tell me,
Being in a new country is like learning to walk with a prosthetic. It takes time for the body and mind to adjust
. I caught her crying alone often enough to wonder how much time it would take. Things got better when she started doing some courses at TAFE outreach and making friends. That's how she met Baba, through one of the Afghan women doing the same sewing class. I was nine when Baba came into our lives and I wanted so badly to hate him. But it was impossible. He never tried to replace my father. He would sit and watch cartoons with me for hours. He rarely asked me to change the channel, and seemed happy just watching with me, laughing along sometimes too. I didn't know then what had happened to him back home.

I can't believe I'm going to be a big sister again. It seems a lifetime ago when I was in the camp in Pakistan, rocking my three-month-old baby brother, Hasan, to sleep, trying to find him powdered milk and clean bottles because my mother's milk had dried up. The water was dirty; there was never enough formula. He cried a lot. We all did. Except my mum. She was possessed of something I didn't understand. A strength that both comforted and terrified me.

Hasan died quietly. Just slipped away in his sleep one afternoon, a couple of months before we found the boat that brought us to Australia. It's hard to admit even to myself, but I can't remember what his face looked like. The realisation of that cuts me to the bone. Sometimes if I concentrate hard enough I can just make out a nose or mouth, but the image is always blurred.