The Ink Bridge (36 page)

When we are lying still beside each other I say, ‘You know the bridge my mum jumped from?'

Arezu props herself on her elbow. ‘Where did that come from?'

‘That bridge had killed before.'

‘But she jumped, Hec.'

‘I looked it up after the fisho told me.'

‘Hec, what is a fisho? What are you talking about?'

‘It was in 1970 when they were building the bridge. Two bits didn't join up properly so they bent one side with concrete blocks. It didn't work out as they hoped. The bridge buckled and fell. It killed thirty-five men.' I suck in a quick breath of air. ‘I remember reading how the survivors couldn't believe their eyes. What they thought of as solid steel didn't behave as it should; it turned blue and fluid. Some of the guys rode it forty-five metres to the water. I've stood beneath that bridge and it's a long way to drop.

‘Have you ever felt like that, Arezu?'

‘Like what?'

‘That sometimes the things you thought were concrete and steel suddenly change?'

‘I get that a lot.'

‘What is your secret, Arezu?'

‘Pardon?'

‘The day we met. You said everybody here has a secret. What is yours?'

‘I don't have one, Hec. I told you, I am an open book.'

I laugh, but it is then that I know Arezu is, and will always be, a mystery.

‘Do you think this bridge we've built to each other is strong enough?' I ask.

‘You writers always have to be so cryptic.'

‘Stop avoiding the question.'

‘I don't know, Hec. Really, I don't.' She rolls onto her back so that her silhouette is etched by moonlight. ‘There's a place in north-east India that is the wettest on earth,' she says. ‘Villagers plant strangler figs on riverbanks. They care for them for years, training the tendrils across strips of bark until they reach the far side. Generation after generation keep it going, helping the tendrils back and forward, placing earth and stone as a walkway. Eventually they have a bridge that cannot be washed away by floods. It is a living part of the land.'

‘Is that what we've done? Have we started this bridge?'

‘Maybe. I think it might just take time and patience.'

‘Come to Australia,' I say impatiently.

‘You know I can't leave, Hec,' she says.

I list the reasons why she can and why she should and every one of them sounds hollow.

‘Hec, how can life in Melbourne or in Wichita compete with Afghanistan?' says Arezu. Her head is now on my chest and I can feel the words inside me. ‘For all the bad stuff that has gone on here, it is a place at the start of something new, that might just be very good. I want to be a part of that.'

We don't sleep that night and in the morning we have our simple breakfast of
naan
and
chay sabz
. We kiss goodbye in our room, but not in the bazaar when we
say
goodbye. These two moments serve different purposes. In the bazaar we present our public face that cannot touch or kiss. Behind walls, she and I can be us. These are the rules. I wonder how long Arezu can play by them and what will happen if she does not.

The
Tunis
is packed and I am shoved in the back between a fresh-faced student wanting to practise English and a hard-bitten ex-mujaheddin. I push my earbuds deep and switch on my iPod. I scan the crowd outside for Arezu, but she is gone.

As we cross the Shibar Pass, the song in my head is REM's
Leaving New York
– another of Mum's favourites. I know Arezu is from Wichita and I am leaving her in Bamiyan, but that song could be about leaving anywhere or anyone. It's that sort of song. There is such sadness and longing in every line. But sometimes, it's not easier to leave than to be left behind.

Dad and I are under the West Gate again. But this time
is different. The past is no longer a burden. I have placed
the final stone; I have mortared it with words. The arch is
complete.

The bird is not frightened as I bring it from its cage. I tie
the fish-jewel carefully around its leg with a strand of red cotton.
Its heartbeat quickens. It can taste the sky. The feathers
on its wings quiver with the excitement of it. I touch its head
with my lips and close my eyes, remembering when Arezu
did this on the dusty Pul-e Khishti above the Kabul River.

Then I toss the dove up. It rolls on its back, falling for a
moment before turning and opening its wings. And it beats
them, and with each beat it stirs the breeze. And it rises. Up
by the pylons. Up to the snaky underbelly of the bridge. It
is a flash of brilliant white in everything that is dull and
industrial about this place.

When the sky is the colour of newsprint it will slice it apart
with its wings. When there is lightning it will take it in its
beak. It will not return to captivity. It will move forward
forever.

‘What's the story with the pigeon?' asks the old fisho.

‘It's a dove. It's a story about wishes and hope,' I say. ‘Arezu
and Omed.'

‘Aye, yer a funny lad,' he says, shaking his head and rebaiting
his hook.

‘Come on,' says Dad. ‘We need to get to the airport.'

We traipse up through the she-oaks to the car.

‘Fancy grabbing something to eat on the way?' Dad asks.

‘Sure.'

‘Your shout?'

‘My shout,' I say.

Hector Morrow
Melbourne

AUTHOR'S NOTE

If this novel contains in some small part the dust and light of Afghanistan, it is because I was lucky enough to travel there in July–August of 2009. Like Omed, I discovered that dragon tears fizz on the tongue, how heavenly bread, fresh from a wood-fired
tandoor
, can taste and just how achingly blue the waters of Band-e Amir truly are. Like Hec, I sat dumbstruck in a
chaikhana
on my first day in Kart-e Parwan, watched the sunset from the City of Screams and took the grit and fumes of Kabul into my lungs. There was so much of my journey that could not make it to these pages, so many incredible people and experiences. But I hope I have managed to convey part of the spirit of Afghanistan, so that when you pass an Afghan on the street or read about them in your newspaper, you will know them as a people with huge hearts, modest dreams and great courage.

Tashakor
(thank you) to the Australia Council for the Arts without whose generous support I would not have been able to make this trip or write this novel.

For those who wish to read more about my journey, please visit the archive of my Afghan blog (Blogistan 2009) at
www.neilgrant.com.au

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book has been a journey in itself. Along the way many people have helped in its creation and I would like to acknowledge and thank them.

AUSTRALIA

My family and my friends – who told me I was crazy but supported me anyway.

Eva Mills, Erica Wagner, Jodie Webster (Allen & Unwin) – who didn't give up on me.

Sonja Torode and Nicci Grant – for their keen eyes and kind words.

Jane Keogh (refugee advocate).

Jenny Bourne (Rural Australians for Refugees, Port Augusta).

Jacki Whitwell (Refugee Council of Australia) – for introducing me to the world of the refugee and to the plight of the Hazara people.

Sardar Shinwari – who spent three and a half pivotal years in Baxter Detention Centre.

The Asylum Seeker Resource Centre – where I have taught and learnt.

The Dunmoochin Foundation – who gave me a creative space in which to dream and write.

Bill Cassidy (Nortan Olympia Waxes) – my candle guru. James Springer and Dawn Erickson – for teaching me how to drive in Kabul and steering me on the right path in every other way.

Marnie Gustavson (PARSA Afghanistan) – for her kindness in driving me to Bamiyan and showing me the good that can be done by motivated people.

Tahir and Zohra and their beautiful children – who live in the shadow of the Buddha caves in Bamiyan and cared for me while I was there. Especially Tahir, who interpreted as I was dressed-down by the Chief-of-Police in Bamiyan.

Yasin Farid (PARSA Afghanistan) – a brave Afghan working for the betterment of his country.

Atollah – who drove us for ten tortuous hours to Bamiyan then rescued my mobile phone from a muddy stream.

Hamidullah and his plucky little Toyota – who drove me to Band-e Amir and the Valley of the Dragon and discovered the hidden Buddha faces with me in Deh-i-Ahangaran.

Samir – who chaperoned me in a
Tunis
from Bamiyan to Kabul.

If you read this book and feel that you would like to help refugees or Afghans in their homeland here are two organisations that I have had personal dealings with, and I have seen the tremendous difference they make to people's lives.

PARSA AFGHANISTAN

Who do on-the-ground projects with widows, orphans and other disadvantaged groups within Afghanistan.

www.afghanistan-parsa.org

ASYLUM SEEKER RESOURCE CENTRE

Australia's leading asylum seeker organisation. A multi-award winning, independent and non-federal government-funded human rights organisation who work at the coalface assisting some of the most disadvantaged people in the community.

www.asrc.org.au

NEIL GRANT was born in Scotland in the Year of the Fire Horse. He learnt to speak Australian at the age of thirteen when he migrated to Melbourne to ride kangaroos. He finished high school at the International School of Kuala Lumpur then spent years blundering through Indonesia, Israel, Yugoslavia, India, Nepal, Thailand, Greece, Italy, the UK and Tasmania. To research
The Ink Bridge,
he travelled (quietly) through Afghanistan.

Sometimes he escapes to write and dream in a mudbrick cottage he built himself on the Far South Coast of NSW.

Neil has three children and lives in Cottles Bridge, Victoria.