‘Please take off your shoes,’ he says gently but firmly.
‘Oh, sorry. Um, my little brother needs the toilet. Where are they?’
He shows me the way outside the mosque to the toilets and then leaves us there. Nathan soon emerges, giving me a thumbs-up.
‘Let’s take a look inside the mosque,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say, feeling like we’ve already intruded enough.
But Nathan has already thrown off his shoes and walks into the mosque like he owns the place. I’m mortified and quickly follow after him, hoping to catch him before he speaks to anybody, but it’s too late. He’s gone right up to the front and is in conversation with a man wearing a suit and one brown and one black sock.
I approach cautiously. ‘This man’s name is Ahmet,’ Nathan says to me. ‘He’s going to give us a tour. I’ve explained that we have no interest in conversion.’ He turns to face the man again. ‘Andrew says that all Muslims want to convert people, and that being friendly is just a cover.’
I moan softly. ‘I’m sorry,’ I quickly say to the man.
He looks slightly bewildered. ‘It is no problem.’
‘We better get going.’ I grab Nathan’s hand firmly. ‘Come on.’
‘But I want a tour,’ he complains.
‘It is no problem,’ the man says. ‘I’ll give you a tour.’
‘We really need to get going,’ I insist. ‘Some other time. Thanks very much.’
I drag Nathan out of the mosque. He mopes behind me to the car.
‘I don’t understand you,’ he says when we are back in the car. The ignition is running but I haven’t moved yet. ‘Why did you want to leave?’
I can’t explain myself. I feel like a fraud. What am I hoping to achieve, being here in Auburn? Do I really think that being in a mosque will help me understand Mina more?
I drive to Auburn Road, hustle my way for a car space on the main road. We get out, walk up and down. Mina’s right. There’s a different kind of life pulse here. It’s vibrant, chaotic and rundown in places, thick with people, colours, smells. There are way more kids around too. That’s really obvious. Mums and dads walking surrounded by three, four, five kids or more. There are discount shops selling all kinds of cheap shit, next to tacky clothing stores, rundown barber shops, and all kinds of restaurants and cafés. God is available for everyone here too. We pass a Chinese church just up the road from an Islamic school. There are mixed business stores selling toilet paper, frames with hologram pictures of Jesus at the Last Supper, phone cards and kitsch dinnerware. There are coffee shops filled with old men wearing tweed suits. Women wearing long colourful headscarves that come down to their knees walk in front of pubs displaying happy hour signs. There are travel agencies, foreign exchange kiosks, signs in different languages.
Some of the food smells incredible. Toasting spices, roasting meat, fresh bread. It’s like every part of the world is here, dressed up in all their garb. Long white robes and black sandals, saris, turbans, tight jeans and muscle shirts, girls in headscarves and Havaiana thongs.
I even see a woman all dressed up in black, only her eyes showing. It makes me uncomfortable, pisses me off a little too. There’s a man with her, holding her hand. They’re deep in conversation. He’s in a T-shirt and shorts. Yeah, that annoys me.
We walk by a group of guys my age. They have an imposing presence about them. Their hair is shaved in different zigzag patterns. Some of them have thick, bushy beards. They wear tight muscle tops and trackpants. I catch snatches of Arabic in their conversation.
I feel myself tense up a little, unconsciously inch Nathan closer to my side. It’s not as though I actually think they’re undercover terrorist operatives or part of some gang. It’s like my body reacts before my brain. Because as soon as I realise, I feel like an idiot.
I feel like a tourist. Which is just so stupid and inexcusable, really. But to the people I’ve known all my life, Western Sydney is tacky and unsophisticated. It’s gangland and ghetto, underclass and trouble.
I look above at all the flats in the high-density apartment blocks that overlook us and I wonder whether Mina lived in one of them.
That’s when it hits me that I’ve crossed the line from thinking about Mina to crushing hard. I’m in that tragic stage where I’ll take any scraps on offer: the sound of her name; a visit to a suburb she once lived in, and misses.
Jesus. I’ve become Jane.
The thought sobers me.
‘I’m hungry,’ Nathan whines.
‘We just had McDonald’s.’
‘So?’
We end up going to a restaurant on the main street for a mixed plate. We can eat all day long, no problem.
Mina
I sleep restlessly, fading in and out of dreams and wakefulness. It’s past two when I hear footsteps shuffling in the kitchen. I get up and find Baba boiling a pot of tea on the stove.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask him.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he says. ‘Tea?’
‘Sure. Here, I’ll do it. Go sit down.’
He thanks me and walks slowly over to the couch. He’s only thirty-nine but he walks like an old man. Like a man hurting. A man trying to live with a body that has been broken and never quite healed properly.
‘Did you take medicine?’ I ask when we’re sitting across from each other, drinking our sweet tea.
‘Yeah,’ he says. I detect shame in his voice. He’s always been like this, exuded a sense of guilt at having been a victim, at feeling pain. ‘I’ll see the doctor tomorrow for something stronger.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Not tell your mother.’
‘Okay.’
‘I don’t want her to worry. Not with the baby.’
It’s kind of cute, him wanting to protect Mum given all she’s been through.
‘Are you happy here, Baba?’ I ask after some moments of silence.
He continues smoking, takes a little while to answer. Eventually he speaks up: ‘When you don’t have what you want, you have to want what you have.’
‘What do you want that you don’t have?’
‘A peaceful Afghanistan I can return to, of course.’
‘Isn’t this home now?’
He sucks on his cigarette. ‘When I die I want to be buried here,’ he says suddenly. ‘That surprises me but, well, look I suppose that is something.’
We get lost in our own thoughts. At one point I notice his face twist into a grimace. I know he is riding a wave of pain.
‘Why is it worse all of a sudden? Because of this stupid business with the media?’
He nods slowly. ‘The pain’s always there,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘But yes, I’m worried this media business will affect the restaurant.’
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Most people don’t take that show seriously.’ Paula’s advice comes back to me and I marvel at how easily I put on an act. ‘It’s all over now. Attention will turn to the next bad guy and things will go back to normal.’
‘Normal? I gave up on normal many years ago, Mina.’
We sip our tea in silence, both of us burdened by memories that continue to haunt us, no matter how much we pretend.
*
Paula’s over and we’re stalking the public profiles of some of the guys and girls in school as we bake cupcakes. Mum’s sprawled on the couch, having a power nap.
‘Let’s check out Michael’s page,’ I suggest as we stand in front of the laptop, polishing off the chocolate left in the mixing bowl.
She eyes me, a mischievous smile on her face. ‘That’s kind of random. Missing him in the holidays, are we?’
‘Why would I miss him? He’s a jerk.’
She takes another swipe of batter out of the bowl.
‘I’m just morbidly curious,’ I explain. ‘It’
s like when people are fascinated with the lives of serial killers. You want to know more.’
She smiles briefly. ‘Michael may be a racist jerk, but as far as I know, he’s not hiding dismembered bodies in his locker.’
We look up his page. We can’t see much, but from what I can tell from our last visit to his page, it’s had a major makeover.
His ‘likes’ have been cleaned up, leaving only bands, books and movies. No more Aussie Values; no more offensive memes. I search down the thread of public conversations too, but there’s nothing there.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘He went from being a white supremacist to a Hunger Games fan.’
‘Aren’t you the drama queen today?’ Paula chuckles.
I wouldn’t go that far, I think to myself, but he’s definitely changed his online persona. And something about that intrigues me.
*
Public service announcement from Bus Route 419:
Two male senior citizens on the bus here today. I spoke to them and they’ve been friends for sixty years. I hope we’re still friends in sixty years, when we’re sitting in our hover-wheelchairs.
*
It’s the first time I’ve seen Michael since the party. I walk into home room on our first day back from the holidays. Mr Morello hasn’t arrived yet. Michael is talking to Terrence and Fred. He notices me walk in and I can practically see the muscles in his neck stiffen. The awkwardness and tension between us is thick and heavy. I hold my head high, don’t acknowledge him, and walk straight past his desk.
Terrence, who’s sitting beside him, stops me. ‘Hey, Mina,’ he says cheerfully.
I pause and consider him.
‘How was your holiday?’
I roll my eyes at him.
He pretends to look wounded. ‘What did I say wrong? It was a polite question.’
‘Yeah, you’re really interested in how I spent my holidays.’
‘I don’t get it. I’m just trying to be friendly.’ He looks back and forth between Michael and Fred for support. Fred isn’t really interested, too busy sorting through his bag.
‘Okay, let me ask,’ Michael says, meeting my eye. ‘How was your holiday?’
My eyes narrow. ‘Fabulous,’ I say in an exaggerated tone.
‘Why are girls so sensitive?’ Terrence asks, all wide-eyed and innocent.
‘I don’t know what that is stuck between your teeth, Terrence, but I assume you’re saving it for later.’
He quickly cleans between his teeth with his finger. I laugh at him and, realising the joke, he looks momentarily duped. ‘Yeah, okay, good one,’ he admits begrudgingly.
I flash him a triumphant look and walk to my desk. But not before I notice the hint of a smile on Michael’s face.
*
Paula and I are goofing around in the café, both of us in a laughing mood. Paula shows me a ridiculous dance move, sending me into a fit of giggles. I love these moments. The laughter takes over your body, you don’t know why but you’re having too much of a good time to care.
We spot Jane and Leica and wave them over.
‘Too much red cordial?’ Leica says, laughing.
We shrug and then start giggling again.
Jane sits down next to us and takes out her lunch. Five cherry tomatoes and a green apple.
‘You serious?’ I ask.
‘I need to lose some weight,’ she says, mournfully popping a tomato into her mouth.
‘Please don’t do this, Jane,’ Paula says quietly.
‘You don’t need to lose weight!’ I wail.
‘She thinks Terrence thinks she’s fat,’ Leica says, rolling her eyes.
Paula and I groan.
‘No, it’s not that,’ she says defensively. ‘He’s never said that.’
‘But I know exactly what you’re thinking,’ Leica says. ‘You’re thinking, Maybe if I shrink, he’ll notice me more. Do you not see the irony?’
‘Come on,’ Paula says, standing and grabbing Jane’s hand. ‘Dance with me.’
‘Are you mental?’ Jane says. ‘Terrence and his group are over there. They can see you, you know.’ She pauses. ‘You know he won’t let you live it down.’
‘Oh well, we better stop then,’ Paula says, but she just keeps on dancing.
Jane looks embarrassed, picks up another cherry tomato and pops it into her mouth.
Michael
Andrew, Carolina, Li and Kahn have been visiting more frequently since Dad’s return from overseas. I’ve been coming home to find them sitting around the dining table that’s been converted into ‘organisation headquarters’, discussing strategies, media campaigns and policies with my parents. They’re all convinced that Don’t Jump the Queue will deliver them a national profile, which could transform them from an obscure organisation from the suburbs to a movement that people could take seriously – maybe even, with enough members, transform them into a political party.
Nathan responded to their presence the way you might react to a sudden infestation of ants in your home. Unsettled and put out, he tried to get rid of the invasion with his own version of Mortein. That is to say, he threw a terrific tantrum at dinner and told them all to go home.
When they all left, Mum and Dad had a long and patient chat with Nathan. My help was enlisted. Nathan eventually came round to the idea that the house will be a flurry of activity as Aussie Values gets bigger. The compromise was that the ants would be contained to certain days of the week. And the rules around PlayStation time would be relaxed. I’m pretty sure that was the clincher.
I arrive home from work tonight and find Andrew and Carolina in the family room with Mum and Dad. I’d forgotten it was a designated Aussie Values evening. Andrew sees me walk in and asks me to help them update the organisation’s Facebook page.
‘Michael’s brilliant with technology,’ Dad boasts. ‘He’s always had a unique way of being creative and seeing things from new angles.’
Genuinely chuffed, I grin at him. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
I give Mum a look as if to say, See, it might not be so bad, but she just shakes her head and signals with her eyes not to open the topic.
I show Andrew a few tricks with the Facebook page. He wants me to upload some memes he’s taken from the English Defence League website, but as one big collage so he can use it as the background picture. I play around with one of my programs and start to insert the memes into a single image. I start to read them as I transfer them across. A sick feeling lodges in the pit of my stomach. I realise that I’m seeing the memes from the point of view of somebody like Mina.
I feel conflicted and dirty, helping Andrew out. I fiddle around a bit more but the feeling gnaws at me. I pretend that the program crashes and lie and tell him I’ll work on it overnight.
*
‘As in Q for Queen – sorry?’ I say at work, leaning back in my chair to look up at the ceiling. ‘Huh? Q for cube. But cube is with a C. Yeah, it is. I’m pretty sure I know how to spell cube. Okay, right. Next. A for apple.’
Finally. Progress.
‘Next. N for what? N for envelope?’ I want to pull out my hair. ‘Okay, you know what, this phonetic spelling thing isn’t working. Just tell me your surname and I’ll figure it out myself.’
I get through the call quickly. All that torment for a thirty-dollar donation.
Anh, who’s always pacing around the call centre hoping to catch one of us out, hovers near me, eavesdropping. He doesn’t even make an attempt to be discreet.
‘Yes, we’re collecting money for guide dogs. No, the money goes towards training. Oh, are you okay? Excuse me, sorry . . .’ The woman is crying on the other end of the phone. ‘Sorry, have I struck a raw nerve or something? Are you blind? Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . yep, sure, I’ll put him on.’
Reluctantly, I wave Anh over. ‘She wants to speak to my supervis
or.’
I’ve been forewarned that this is the most annoying outcome of a call. Anh’s impressive death stare confirms it.
He takes the call.
He calms her down and manages to get a fifty-dollar donation out of her.
I don’t understand. He has zero people skills with his staff.
‘She wasn’t blind,’ he says, giving me a cold stare. ‘Her dog died recently. Notice I finished the call within time. That’s because I pretended to care about her dog dying but didn’t give her a chance to tell me all the sorry-arse details. Toughen up or they’ll have you by the balls.’
He walks off.
I figure I’m sounding too young on the phone and that’s why nobody’s taking me seriously. So I fake a British accent (because who doesn’t take a British accent seriously?) and sure enough the money starts rolling in.
*
The house buzzes with a frenetic energy. There’s something in the mood that I can’t quite put my finger on, until it hits me one night as I listen to them deep in conversation over a dinner of Thai takeaway. This one time Dad took me to a house auction up the road from our place. It feels like that now. Like they’re all bidding furiously, except it’s not to buy a house, it’s to stake a claim as the most worried citizen.
Andrew raises his worries about the economy and Carolina bids with her worries about multiculturalism gone too far. Li jumps in, worried about border protection and too many Asians buying real estate, and Kahn meets him with ‘Australia’s turning into an Islamic state’ and ‘the government’s given up on the “battler” ’. Mum’s worried that Australia is being bullied by the UN and it all swings back to Andrew, who’s worried about Africans on welfare. As for Dad, he’s worried about recruitment numbers. In other words, I think, they want more members to worry with them.
I can feel their anxiety, the way it travels through the room, like some kind of mobile energy, touching one person and then moving on to the next.
I watch them, fascinated and enthralled, as I slowly eat my pad thai.