The Haha Man Read online

  Marzuq rolled up his prayer mat and placed it on the shelf, then turned to Basim who was sitting cross-legged on the floor reading the Quran.

  ‘I talked with a man today …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He told me an extraordinary thing. He claimed that the Australian government is no longer issuing citizenship to Moslem refugees.’

  Basim shrugged. ‘They hate us. So what’s new about that?’

  ‘They are issuing what they call TPVs — temporary protection visas.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the thing is that under the new regulations, anyone on a TPV is forbidden to have their family join them.’ Marzuq fixed Basim with his eyes. ‘This man is trying to find them work.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything … ‘ Basim began, his voice tinged with concern.

  ‘Of course not. I let it pass.’

  ‘We need to contact them individually.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Marzuq squatted down on the floor.

  ‘So, how do we do that?’

  Marzuq grinned, saving the best until last. ‘He says there is a group of them that come together every week to play soccer. Not a real team, you understand, but just to kick a ball around and talk. He says that because they all live in different parts of the city, they meet in Centennial Park at two on Sunday afternoons.’

  ‘It sounds perfect.’ Basim closed the Quran, his attention now completely on Marzuq.

  ‘It gets better. These young men are Shia, Hazara —’

  ‘Infidels!’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Marzuq said. ‘Just perfect.’

  ‘Hazara. And they will all die,’ Basim whispered. His eyes were shining. For several minutes he sat in silence, savouring the thought that their victory would be even sweeter.

  Karim knew that if his new identity should ever come under question he would need to be a convincing Sydneysider. So once the jet lag had subsided, he dedicated himself to settling in. Armed with a street directory and tourist brochures he took to the trains, buses and ferries. As soon as he had ascertained that his bank account was operating, he transferred the remainder of his funds from the Grindlays branch in Peshawar and withdrew sufficient to purchase a television. For the next few weeks he devoured the news, bringing himself up to speed with local politics and sport. The cricket test series against South Africa was easy to follow, but the political machinations were perplexing. The enormity of the bush fires on the outskirts of Sydney simply amazed him.

  Not even his time in England had prepared Karim for the city he was exploring. Somehow he had imagined it would have a certain English flavour, something discernibly British. But the style and self-confidence of the people were markedly different, imbuing the streets with a brash openness that he found disarming. Total strangers would see him peering at a map like a lost tourist and come to his rescue, calling him ‘mate’, generous and unperturbed by his Indian appearance.

  Karim spent the late-night hours listening to the radio and imitating the Australian vowel sounds, but it was an effort he abandoned after an incident in Oxford Street.

  ‘You’re not from here, are you, mate.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Sorry?’ Karim twisted around in his chair to see a young Indian-Australian grinning at him. Next to him a younger woman, European, freckle-faced and blue-eyed, was looking slightly embarrassed.

  ‘I was listening to the way you spoke to the waiter. I was just saying that I reckoned you must be a Pom.’

  ‘Oh.’ Karim hadn’t noticed the young man when he sat down. He had spent the afternoon in the art gallery and then taken a walk up to Oxford Street looking for somewhere to eat. He had never tried Khmer food and, having seen the restaurant on a previous walk, had headed to the Angkor Wat. It was a good choice and he had chatted for a minute or two to the waiter about the cuisine. ‘Yes, I lived in Britain for a while …’

  ‘See, I told you so!’ The man flashed a triumphant look at his girlfriend. ‘I can always pick an accent.’

  Karim relaxed and smiled. ‘Damn, and there I was thinking I was blending in.’

  ‘No way, not with your voice. You sound far too educated.’ The man extended his hand. ‘I’m Sanjay Rajpal, by the way, and this is Donna.’

  Donna blushed and looked down at the table.

  ‘Rashid Khan. Nice to meet you.’

  The following week, Karim began the hunt for his father. Having no idea of where to start looking, he decided to email the Haha Man for advice. Following the security warnings Zulfi had given him in Peshawar, he ignored the nearest internet café in St Johns Road and went into the CBD, where he found one above Hotel Sweeney’s in Clarence Street. He sent the email from his web-based account and then went for lunch. When he checked two hours later, much to his surprise there was a reply. All it contained was what appeared to be a time and place for a meeting the following afternoon.

  Ever since the moment his Uncle Javed had broken the news that his father was alive, everything he had done was aimed at their reunion. Yet now Karim found himself unsettled by the idea of seeing his father again and realised he had been putting the moment off for as long as possible. He had wanted to postpone the pain he knew it would bring. It would not be an easy task to tell his father that his daughter-in-law and grandchildren were dead, or that his own home had been razed and his orchards put to the torch …

  His mind veered away. Would whoever had agreed to meet him actually know where Ahmed Mazari was? Would it be as simple as handing over an address?

  He slept badly. Several times in the night he stared at the clock until he was convinced that the hands were moving, but slowly and laboriously, as if in honey. Dawn was no better. It came too early and yet the sun lingered below the horizon. Karim lay for a long time watching the walls around him solidify and take shape.

  Eventually he left the house at eleven and took a bus ‘into town’. He ambled around the Queen Victoria Building, then took the underground from Town Hall to Bondi Junction. There he caught a bus down to the beach.

  He had visited Bondi twice before, the first time as part of his discovery tour, the second simply for pleasure. Now he forced his mind to concentrate on the journey, counting the stops, watching the people getting on and off the bus.

  It occurred to him that, with few exceptions, a decision had been made here to forget fashion or taste and to dress in whatever was closest at hand. At first Karim had thought this a matter of poverty, that many people could not afford good clothes. But then he saw a man — singlet, shorts and sandals — climb into a Jaguar and drive away.

  Number 75 Hall Street turned out to be another internet café.

  Confused, Karim checked his watch; it was only one-thirty. He walked in and looked around, but seeing all the booths were occupied he retraced his steps to the beach. There was enough exposed flesh here to have the Taliban foaming at the mouth and reaching for the whip. Though Karim had often contemplated how best to exact revenge on the Taliban, now it seemed that the Americans and the Northern Alliance had done it for him. Still, an image came to him of a string of mullahs, pegged out in the sand and forced to watch the women on Bondi beach. He smiled grimly.

  At five minutes to two he was back in Hall Street, but although there were spare terminals, there was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like they were here to meet him.

  For fifteen minutes he waited outside, then, deciding that he should email the Haha Man again, he went in.

  ‘I was expecting to meet someone here,’ Karim said to the young woman. ‘I don’t suppose anyone left a message?’

  The girl looked up and smiled. ‘Only if your name is Mr Rashid.’

  ‘Rashid Khan, actually.’

  ‘Some bloke came in about twenty minutes ago and left this for you.’ She handed him an envelope.

  Inside was a poorly printed business card advertising The Original Piccolo Bar, 6 Roslyn Street, Kings Cross, where, according to the card, they served Cheap Eats — Great Coffee
. Karim turned the card over. On the back someone had scrawled in red biro: 8 pm.

  Karim took his time over a late lunch, then made his way back into the city. He got off the bus in Paddington, wandered along Oxford Street for a while then down to Hyde Park. There he found a bench and parked himself, content to let his mind drift from the pigeons to the people and back again. A bag lady, equipped with an elaborate and overloaded trolley, circled past before coming in to ask for a cigarette.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Any change, luv?’

  Karim fished in his pocket and gave her the coins his fingers had come up with.

  ‘You’re a good boy,’ the woman said and moved away, counting her prize as she went.

  It was dusk when Karim set out along William Street. Turning the corner at the top of the hill, he found himself suddenly swept up in the crowded main street of Kings Cross. It was a strange experience; he was at the same time both attracted and repelled. Darlinghurst Road had all the tackiness and squalor of an aging, over-painted whore. Sightseers ogled and gawped at other sightseers, small groups of backpackers cruised the street, failing in their attempts to blend in. A drunk argued with a doorman, distinctive in his uniform of black shirt and trousers, his shoes filthy. A group of bikers had staked their claim to a patch of turf and were talking quietly, eyes flicking constantly back to their beloved machines. On the road itself the traffic was bumper to bumper. Karim, overawed by the atmosphere, paused to watch as car loads of young men cruised the street in vehicles whose exhaust noise competed with their thumping sound systems.

  ‘Come on in, sir,’ a swarthy-skinned man called to Karim.

  Behind him the entrance to the nightclub was a dark red passageway. Karim supposed that it was meant to look sexy and inviting. Instead it looked like a doorway to hell. Moving unsteadily along the passage was a woman, her gait obviously the result of more than just her high-heeled shoes. As she emerged into the street she looked at Karim, her tiny pupils advertising the vacancy within. ‘Yer wanna …’ she began, but then the chemicals hijacked her attention span and she staggered off down the footpath.

  ‘Plenty more girls inside. Guaranteed non-stop adult show,’ the man said. Karim ignored him and moved on.

  It was just before eight when he ventured down Roslyn Street. A few short steps and the atmosphere changed completely. Here there were few people on the street and none of them looked like tourists. The glare of the lights and the noise gave way to shadows and comparative quiet. Yet there was a tension … No, Karim thought, I’m tense.

  ‘Jesus isn’t coming,’ a low voice chuckled out of the darkness.

  Startled and unsure if he was being addressed, Karim spun round. It took him a couple of seconds to locate the man. He was sitting with his back against a low wall.

  ‘What?’ Karim peered down at the man, who was grinning inanely, a radio clutched to his stomach.

  ‘Not this year.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ Karim began.

  ‘Couldn’t afford to fly. In case he got blown up.’

  ‘Who?’ Karim took a step back.

  ‘Jesus. All bathed in the blood of the lamb. All ready to come. Now he’s gone again.’

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘I heard that.’ The man cleared his throat noisily and spat on the pavement. ‘I heard he cancelled his trip because of the bombs. Imagine poor baby Jesus, scared of the bombs. They wouldn’t have let him in anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ Karim turned away, but the man clambered to his feet and stood beside him. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I’m just going for coffee.’

  ‘Jesus said you should give to the poor.’ The man held the radio up. ‘I heard that on the radio. Then it ran out of batteries.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’ Karim looked across the street to where the door of the Piccolo Bar was open.

  ‘There’s a man waiting for you.’

  Karim glanced back at the madman. ‘And how do you know that? Did you hear it on the radio too?’ Immediately he regretted the remark. Even in the dim light he could see the expression of pain on the man’s face.

  ‘No. He told me he was waiting for someone he didn’t know.’ The man’s face broke into a grin. ‘And I reckon you’re the first person I’ve seen tonight that I don’t know. So it must be you.’

  Karim shrugged and crossed the road to the coffee shop. It was tiny. Two emaciated individuals were hunched over a table in one corner, and sitting with his back to the counter was a young man who, for all his western clothes and haircut, was obviously an Afghan.

  As Karim entered the two junkies shot him nervous glances and returned to their whispered conversation. The Afghan, not much older than a boy, stood and gestured that Karim should take a seat. On the table was an empty coffee cup and a half-drunk glass of water.

  ‘You’re early,’ the boy said.

  ‘You as well.’ Karim caught the eye of the man sitting on a stool in the entrance to the cramped kitchen. ‘Can I have a coffee? Black.’

  ‘Short?’

  Karim nodded and turned back to his companion. ‘I’m Rashid.’

  ‘Sayyid,’ the boy said. ‘Amir said I should meet you.’

  ‘I don’t know him, but I was told someone would help.’

  ‘So he said. But he knew about you. Said you were Hazara, like me.’

  ‘And how does Amir know this?’ Karim switched effortlessly to Hazaragi.

  The young man smiled at the sound of his native tongue and touched his hand to his heart. ‘Amir is not Afghan but is a good man. He knows people who know people.’

  ‘That’s the way it works,’ Karim said. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Two years. One of them in Woomera.’

  ‘Where is your family from?’

  The boy frowned. ‘They were all killed.’ He paused and sipped his water. ‘We came from Tani Bayid and fled to Ghazni. But the Talibs hunted us because my father had fought with Masood.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Karim looked at the young man. He could be no more than twenty and yet his eyes, set in a typically round Hazara face, were darkly lined and slitted; two frail dams holding back the emotion.

  ‘I escaped to Pakistan, then travelled from Quetta to Islamabad to get a visa. But the guards were keeping all Hazara away, even if you offered to pay them. I had money but …’ He trailed off with a shrug.

  It was a story Karim had heard many times in Peshawar: people failing to get recognised as refugees because they couldn’t afford the bribe needed to get past the guards at the UNHCR office. For the Hazara it was even harder — no bribe seemed big enough, and there had been incidents where they had been killed by Taliban supporters in Pakistan. ‘So you found a smuggler?’

  ‘He found me. I was about to kill myself, when he came. He was making up the numbers for a flight to Jakarta.’

  Karim sat back as his coffee arrived. He added a little sugar and stirred it slowly. ‘Then you came on a boat?’

  Sayyid nodded. ‘If you can call it such. I think the planks were held together by prayer.’

  There was something in the young man’s eyes that suggested to Karim that Sayyid’s prayers alone would have sustained the boat. Afghans were not renowned for their love of the sea. He switched his mind back to the task at hand. ‘You have information for me?’

  Sayyid nodded. ‘You were seeking Ahmed Mazari?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is in prison at Woomera. He was there while I was.’

  ‘Woomera?’

  ‘Yes. He is a kind man, a great comfort to the younger people. I never talked with him, but everyone held him in respect, except the guards. They hated him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They felt he was a ringleader whenever there was a protest. I don’t know about that, but he was a man whose advice was much sought.’ Sayyid paused then added, ‘From what Amir reported, it seems as though he isn’t going to be released in the near future.’

  ‘Was
he well?’

  The boy looked at him, his face screwed up. ‘Well? In what way?’

  ‘Was he healthy?’

  ‘As far as I could see …’ Then it dawned on the boy. ‘Is he a relative?’

  ‘He’s my father.’

  They sat in silence then, as Karim digested the information. Woomera. He had read so much about it. Only the day before there had been a single-paragraph report in the Australian — several hundred refugees were on a hunger strike, even women and children. And more than fifty men had now sewn their lips together. Karim shuddered at the thought that his father might be one of those. Yet he knew it was a possibility. His father, fiercely independent and strong-willed, would most probably be at the centre of such a protest.

  ‘Why?’ he said, more to himself than Sayyid. ‘Why do they do such things?’

  ‘What things?’ Sayyid asked.

  ‘Locking up our people in the desert. They are condemned around the world for it.’

  Sayyid shook his head slowly. ‘I think they are scared of us.’

  They lapsed into silence again. Karim drank his coffee and mulled. Over in the corner the junkies looked up as a short, rather tubby woman entered.

  ‘Usual, Claude,’ she called to the man in the kitchen, then pulled up a seat as the two men shifted to make room. They looked extremely relieved to see her.

  A couple of minutes later the door opened again and the man with the radio came in and went straight through to the kitchen. He emerged with a large iced coffee which he placed before the woman. He then retreated to the kitchen and started conversing with Claude, who listened for a moment then poked his head around the corner and addressed Karim.

  ‘Malcolm says you offered to buy him a coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’ Karim waved his hand dismissively. ‘Whatever he wants.’ He tried to concentrate on the image of his father, but his mind was racing too fast. Later, he told himself, later I will work out what to do. He turned his attention back to Sayyid.