The Infernal Optimist (2 page)

In factuality, Villawood isn’t that far from me folks’ place, but once we turned off Woodville Road onto Christina, and then turned up Birmingham, what is opposite Leightonfield Station what I never even knew a train to stop at, it began to feel like we was going to some kind a secret place what didn’t have no connection to the suburbs what surrounded it. Birmingham, what is a road with factories on, was completely empty at that hour. Not a person in sight. Birmingham hooks to the right, and that’s when you see the first gate, what has guards on, and when you drive through that you see razor wire around a big compound, what I later found out was called Stages Two and Three. The road forked, and we went to the right. We drove past some old Nissen huts, and some trees, and a minute or two later we was pulling up at what looked like a little fortress in the middle of nowhere—they told me it was Stage One, the maximum security part a Villawood.

Stage One held more than ninety men, mostly in three dorm rooms, what weren’t big but what held forty men each. I never seen anything like it even in prison. An officer took me into one a the rooms and pointed to a mattress on the floor, what had the kind a sheets on what be grey even when they be clean. Right away, I got farts, smokes, sweat and dirty socks in me nose.

I looked around. Some Vietnamese and Chinese were sitting in groups on their cots, playing cards. A big Maori dude was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and punching his fist into his hand, over and over. A little Eastern European bloke sat in the corner muttering to himself. A Fijian dude what was covered in tatts came up and asked for a ciggie. His name was Mingus. Me and Mingus went outside, into a tiny concrete courtyard with a punching bag and a couple of old picnic tables. The walls was topped with coils a razor wire. A Chinese bloke sat flicking old tea bags up at the razor wire, what was hung like a Christmas tree with them. Mingus told me some a the guys had been there seven, eight months. They were mostly criminals what Australia wanted to deport but their own countries wouldn’t take back. He told me a lot a them were hard-core. The more he told me, the more confused I got about what I was doing there.

One a the blues walked over and handed me a Detainee Information Booklet what set out all the detention centre rules about head counts and lockdowns and Codes a Conduct and the importance a taking a shower every day and all this other bullshit, what I chucked in the bin for a joke.

I asked Mingus where I could get some chow. It was already after eight. Me stomach, what had been looking forward to Mum’s home cooking, was getting pretty cranky.

‘Dinner’s over, bro,’ he told me. ‘They serve it from fourthirty to five-thirty round here. You miss it, that’s it.’ He musta clocked the look on me peach cuz when he finished his smoke, he said, ‘Wait here.’

‘Ain’t got nowhere else to go,’ I said.

He came back with a packet of instant noodles.

‘You’re a legend, mate.’ I gave him another ciggie.

In factuality, the noodles weren’t even enough to fill a man’s tooth, much less his stomach. But it was better than nuffin. Anyway, it was only for one night. As soon as I finished, I went to the public phone to call She Who. I wanted to tell her where I was, and that I needed a lawyer urgent—an immigration one, not a criminal one, what was for once. They needed to bail me outta there quick-smart.

She wasn’t home yet and her mobile was switched off—still at me folks, I was guessing. They took me own mobile off me when I got there, and they didn’t allow incomings on the public phone after eight at night. I didn’t wanna call me folks and get them all worked up. Couldn’t face the drama. So I left a message on Marlena’s home phone with the Stage One number telling her to call me in the morning.

I could tell it was gonna be a long way to morning, specially since I gave away the rest a me smokes and spare change to the Chinese and Vietnamese for protection—I knew how things worked even before the Fijian dude spilled it out. Even the Islanders what looked big and were covered
with tatts was respectful a the Orientals, what was well organised and what knew kung fu from the time they was born.

I didn’t wanna hang around that dorm any longer than I needed to. Taking a walk to check out me surrounds, I came upon this nice-looking bloke what was sitting on a chair in the corridor reading a book. He looked to be around me own age, in his late twenties. Later I found out he was younger than he looked, what comes from having a tough life. He was wearing clothes what was neat and clean but not flash. Cuz he didn’t look like a crim, he peeked me curiosity.

‘Yo, bruvva,’ I said.

‘
Salaam aleikum
,’ he goes, getting to his feet and touching his right hand to his heart. ‘I am Azad.’

‘Zeki.’ I went to give him the bruvvas’ handshake.

He laughed when his hand got tangled up and I had to show him what to do with his thumbs. He asked me where I came from. I told him Auburn. He didn’t know it. I told him it be in a different part a Sydney’s western suburbs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I mean your country.’

I was about to say Australia. ‘Oh—the
Old
Country, mate? Guess.’

No one ever picks it. I look like I could be anything. Me skin’s so olive it coulda dropped off a tree in any a them Mediterranean countries. Me nose points to the Middle East and me eyes got a slant of Oriental.

‘Turkish,’ he said.

I was surprised. He was one smart dude. ‘Bingo,’ I said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Don’t worry about it. Where are you from?’

‘I am a Kurd.’

‘Like what be made a yoghurt, mate?’

‘Sorry?’ He rolled his Rs like they was tyres.

Azad didn’t get me sense a humour in them early days. ‘Just a joke, mate. Me mum puts curds what be made a yoghurt into
tarhana
, what is the best breakfast, I swear.’

He smiled politely and glanced down at the book in his hand.

‘Watcha reading, mate?’ I asked.

He showed me the cover. ‘
A Fortunate Life.
It is supposed to be Australian classic. A visitor in Port Hedland gave it to me. I like to read to improve my English. Do you know it?’

‘Not personally,’ I said. ‘Me and books aren’t what you call real acquainted.’ I felt in me pockets for me ciggies and remembered I gave them all away.

He took a pack from his pocket and held it out.

‘Ta.’

‘Take the pack,’ he said. ‘I am trying to give up,
Ensh’Allah
.’

‘Oh, mate,’ I said, lighting up. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t got what they calls da meaner of a crim.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You don’t look like no criminal.’

‘I’m not.’ His dark eyes flashed in a way what made me think I shouldn’t a said that. His back went real straight. ‘I’m an asylum seeker.’

I thought about this for a minute. ‘Like a boat person, mate? What be on the news?’

He nodded.

‘Huh. I never met an illegal before,’ I go. ‘I mean of the immigration variety.’ What wasn’t strictly true, of course, but I’d already forgot about me uncle Baris and his hiring practices.

Them dark eyes flashed again. ‘I am not illegal.’ Azad explained me all about the Refugee Convention, what wasn’t a convention like what they got at convention centres, but some kind of international law. Apparently, it said it wasn’t illegal to seek asylum even if you did it illegal, or something like that. Anyway, I insured him that I wasn’t too hung up on issues a legality.

‘So why didn’t they give you a visa?’ I asked him.

He explained that his case officer rejected his application for asylum after his first interview. He appealed to the RRT what stands for Refugee Review Tribunal and what in factuality is just one person what determinates your refugee status. But the RRT gave him a dodgy translator what spoke a different kind of Arabic from Azad and no Kurdish. Azad’s English wasn’t good then like it was when I met him. The RRT rejected him again, but Azad’s lawyer said that was cuz a the Dodgy Brothers translator, so he’s taking the case to the Federal Court. The court hearing wasn’t gonna happen for another five months, and even if he won, he’d have to go through the whole process all over again, what made me head spin just trying to understand it. ‘And I am already in detention two years and one day,’ he said.

I was horrorfied. ‘You been in this place two years and one day?’ I never done more than thirteen months at a stretch meself and I was a pro.

‘Not all the time here. I was in Port Hedland detention centre, in Western Australia, until a few weeks ago. After September Eleven, I thought, “That’s it.” This government hated boat people anyway. Now they were saying we might be terrorists. I thought, they will never understand that I am a dissident and a refugee. They will never give me visa. They will try to send me back to Iraq. And then the Americans will bomb Iraq again, because Bush blames Saddam for what happened in New York. I am sick of bombs. I am sick of death.’ Azad told me more Kurdish people died in one town from being gassed by Saddam than what died in both them towers put together. Cuz it wasn’t all over the televisions a the world like September Eleven, and cuz it didn’t happen to Americans, no one hardly noticed. ‘I had enough.’ He decided to escape from detention. ‘They caught me before I even had the chance to take one breath of free air.’

‘Bad luck, mate.’

‘Maybe not. I am a refugee. Better this way, even if it is slow. I don’t want to live like a criminal, running from police all the time. I will fight for my right to walk with my head held high. I am not less than other people. My father, who was killed by Saddam, taught me this.’ He shook his head. ‘You know what my name, “Azad”, means in Kurdish? “Freedom”. Funny, isn’t it?’

Zeki means ‘smart’—I told him some people found that pretty funny too. ‘So what happened when they caught you?’

‘They put me in prison for a few weeks, then transferred me here.’ He told me he’d heard most asylums in Villawood were in Stages Two and Three. Only the ones they considered
‘high-risk’ were in Stage One. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe it. ‘A high-risk poet.’

‘You a poet, mate?’

‘Yes. We Kurdish people are famous for our poetry.’

‘Respect.’ I went the knuckles but he didn’t know to match them. He backed off like I was gonna punch him or something. ‘No, I mean it. I ain’t dissing you.’

He sighed and looked at his watch. ‘Almost nine-thirty. The news is on SBS. Some Algerian asylum seekers have TV in their room. It was a gift from visitors. What are you doing? Want to watch the news with us?’

‘Lemme check me diary,’ I said. He looked at me like he didn’t understand. ‘Just kidding,’ I go. ‘Lead the way.’

The Algerians’ room held just four guys, what was a luxury under the circumstances. But then they told me they been there eight months, what was no luxury in factuality. Azad introduced me to them and some other asylums, Palestinians and Bangladeshis. We didn’t get to say much before the news came on. It showed the Prime Minister making some speech.

‘Bore-ring,’ I said.

‘Sssshhh,’ they hushed me. They was concentrated like laundry powder on what he be saying.

‘I am furious at the behaviour of those people!’ The Prime Minister’s fist was punching the air and his long, flat lips flapped like something I didn’t wanna be thinking about when I be looking at the mouth a the Prime Minister. I was just glad he didn’t have no beard. ‘I don’t want people in this country who would throw their own children overboard!’ He
went on about how Australia needed to protect its boarders what already lived there or something like that. I didn’t know what he was squawking about.

‘
Akhoo sharmoota
,’ one a the Algerians said, what even I knew was an Arabic curse word meaning you got a sister what was on the game. All a them was getting working up and stressated about the news but I had enough on me mind with me own problems without worrying about the Prime Minister and him overboards. I excused meself and went back to me bunk, where I tossed like a Greek salad till the morning.

‘What’s happening? Where are you, Zeki? What’s going on? Why did they take you there?’ She Who always asks more questions than there be answers for. I’m used to it. I cradled the phone between me shoulder and me head so I could light up a cigarette, what I’d bought back from one a the Chinese with me last dollar, what I found in me pocket.

When I told her they’d cancelled me permanent residence what I had all me life and wanted to deport me to the Old Country, she gasped and gasped again. It sounded like she be pumping up a bicycle tyre. ‘They’re gonna deport you? For not buying a train ticket?’ Another gasp. If she put any more air into that tyre it was gonna explode. ‘I
told
you—’

‘Nah, nah. Told you not to worry about the ticket, darl. That’s just how they caught me. When they put me name into the system, they found out Immigration had me number. Woulda happened sooner or later, or so they said. I don’t
understand it real good, but they got me on something called five-oh-one a the
Migration Act
. Under five-oh-one, they can deport you if you ain’t a citizen and you’ve spent more than twelve months at a stretch in the nick.’

There was a brief pausation, but it didn’t feel too silent to me. I can hear everything what goes on in Marlena’s brain, I swear. She’d put down her air pump and was punching numbers into her mental calculator.

‘Thirteen,’ she said. ‘You just served a sentence of thirteen months.’ Like she was telling me something I didn’t know.

‘Yep. Thirteen. What isn’t turning out to be me lucky number.’

A little over a year ago, see, I was knocking off some a the houses along them back lanes in Surry Hills. Them lanes used to be for when even people in the inner city had dunnies out back and someone had to come and collect the shit from them. Anyway, them lanes were narrow and dark. From a professional standpoint—I’m talking me old profession here—that was all good.

Hopping the fence, I broke into the first place easy, just sailed through them windows. I was having a sticky in the desk drawers when I found a stash a mull and a pipe. I don’t mind telling you I enjoy a spot a dope from time to time. So I had a smoke. I was bagging the DVD player when it hit, and it was fucken full-on, pardon me French. Next thing you know I had the munchies, but they had nuffin much in the fridge, only hippy shit like lettuce and mango beans and them squares a tofu what don’t even taste like food. So I stuck the rest a the mull and the pipe in me pocket, picked up the bag
with the DVD and jumped the next fence, except it wasn’t much of a jump cuz I was more stoned than I knew. I fell into a bush what they got growing there. I got all scratched up and me clothes was torn, but I thought it was wicked funny and laughed me head off.

I got inside the second house easy and, mate, you shoulda seen what was in that fridge. Real fancy yuppy food, all types a posh cheeses and olives what was stuffed with fetta and almonds. I stuffed meself like one a them olives, had another smoke and decided to shower and change me clothes. The guy had Armano suits and everything. The pants legs were on the long side, and the waist was tight, but I was one styling dude. I sprayed meself with his cologne, what also be Armano. I’m not sure what happened next. I must’ve lied down for some shuteye. When I opened me eyes, there were all these coppers and the poofter what owned the place gathered round the bed laughing at me. They shouldn’t a done that. Robbers got feelings too.

Anyway, that’s when I got done for thirteen months. It shouldn’t a been such a big deal, such a long sentence. I mean, I didn’t take much a value. But I was sorta on parole at the time.

But back to me phone call. Marlena snuffled, then she gasped again, and then she began to wail. I knew I just had to stand there and cop it.

Maaan, I hate it when women cry. It’s the worst thing, I swear. If they tell us what we done wrong, we can at least argue that we didn’t do it, or make a joke or try to explain.
But when them tears start to fall, they make you feel so guilty. Every one a them salty drops is an accusation. They’re accusing you a cheating, they’re accusing you a lying, they’re accusing you a letting them down again. Even if it all be true, it ain’t fair. There ain’t nuffin you can say back to tears.