Spiral Road (16 page)

Ma hugs me, saying how much she likes the Tangail and Bangalori silk saris I’ve bought for her. She showers me with blessings. Prosperity and happiness. Healthy children. I wince, but refrain from responding.

Within minutes, Ma’s on the phone to one of her close friends. She tells her what a caring and generous son I am. Hyperbole about my filial virtues. Loudly then, Ma begins to talk about her dissatisfaction with Taufiq Rasool. Once he was highly regarded among women with daughters of marriageable age. His success rate has been astounding, but recently she has heard complaints against him. Of course she has been demanding, Ma says proudly, lowering her voice.
She has a gem of a son—rich, single and an overseas resident.

Taufiq Rasool is one of the marriage brokers in the city. I didn’t know that they were still in business.

I retreat to my room.

I
WAIT FOR
an hour before going downstairs again. There, Ma is trying to explain to Abba that he’ll be dining out with us. Abba finally understands that there is food involved, but he’s confused when I carelessly use the word ‘restaurant’. I keep forgetting that the verbalisation of an idea does not necessarily convey a clear message. Ma knows how crucial a visual stimulus is. She calms him down by taking out two of his old suits from the wooden
almirah
in the room. She holds one in each hand without offering an explanation.

Abba reaches out and touches the lapel of a jacket. ‘Out?’ he finally asks.

‘Yes!’ I say triumphantly. ‘You are going out!’

‘Dressed in a suit,’ Ma adds.

‘Dressed in a suit. In a…’ He leans forward and begins to breathe heavily. The veins in his neck and temple swell. He strains to remember the word.

‘Car,’ I hazard a guess.

‘Car?’ He turns to Ma for confirmation.

Ma nods. She then brings out a blue and gold tie and places it on the table in front of his rocking chair.

‘Rope?’ he frowns.

‘Tie,’ I say tentatively, making a circular motion around my neck.

He looks grim. ‘Bad? Hang me?’

‘No!’ I protest vehemently. ‘You haven’t been bad!’

‘It’s a tie,’ Ma says slowly, enunciating each word with care. ‘Tie. You will wear it with your suit.’

Abba watches intently as I tie a knot.

‘You liked wearing ties,’ Ma reminds him.

‘With suits?’ He smiles. ‘In car?’

‘Yes!’

He claps his hands gleefully.

I’
M TIRED AFTER
the sleepless night of dreaming and thinking and phone calls. But my annoyance with Steven Mills has subsided. He’s trying to do a job, surreptitious as it may be. It would be wise to call him back. It also occurs to me that he could answer a few questions that I have.

I’ve found several regional maps of Bangladesh in Zia’s study. One of Chittagong Division includes the border areas of Myanmar and India. I’ve been to Chittagong and Kaptai, and years ago I went on a holiday to the seaside town of Cox’s Bazaar. Omar mentioned that his factory was somewhere near Chittagong. I’m intrigued by the vagueness of
somewhere.

I study the map, finding the towns that can be reached by sealed roads. There are vast tracts of wilderness beyond Bandarban and Rangamati. The road system is barely adequate in the remote regions of south-east Bangladesh,
which must limit traffic to a minimum. Virgin forests! The maps lift my spirits.

I call Mills back on his mobile. We agree to meet for coffee later at the city’s poshest hotel. I think carefully about what I might say to him. I want to string Mills along and extract whatever information I can. He’s a pro, but he won’t be able to tease much out of me—I know so little about Zia’s dealings with his Pakistani associates.

Next I pack my backpack several times, cramming it with what I consider to be basic necessities. But then there’s no room for the last two bottles of drinking water brought from Melbourne. I empty the bag and dump the medical supply on the bed. I’m flabbergasted by the quantity and variety of medicine I’ve brought with me. There are paracetamol and antihistamine tablets, throat lozenges and nasal decongestant, multivitamin pills, prescribed antibiotics, loperamide for diarrhoea, rehydration mixture, antifungal cream, lip balm, sunscreen lotion, insect repellent, eye drops, antiseptic ointment, sting relief spray, Band-Aids and water purification tablets.

I’m still more dismayed to realise that I don’t intend to leave any of the stuff behind. I discard a T-shirt, a pair of shorts and cotton socks to make room for the bulging medicine bag. Sanitised and over-equipped, I shall venture forth as the intrepid traveller with borrowed eyes to explore my own land. All that’s missing is the safari uniform and the pith helmet. And attitude.

A
T FIRST WE
chat. Steven Mills is a practising Catholic. He’s married with two young children, a boy and a girl. His wife, Ann, works as a receptionist for one of Melbourne’s leading orthopaedic surgeons. The children go to a private school. He tells the common story of overwork, stress, the struggle to pay a hefty mortgage, educational expenses and not enough time with the family. From his wallet he takes a photograph and looks at it longingly before passing it to me.

Beaming parents and smiling children. White sand and foamy waves in the background. A summer’s fortnight in a coastal town. Swimming, maybe surfing, pizza dinners, fish and chips and DVDs. An average Australian family on a beach holiday. Except, there’s nothing ordinary about the way he makes a living.

I don’t have much to say about myself.

‘Which mosque do you go to in Melbourne?’ he asks.

‘I don’t.’

‘But you’re a Muslim.’

‘Does every Christian go to church? My current status wavers between atheism and agnosticism.’

‘Isn’t that unusual for someone born a Muslim?’

‘I don’t know. I guess the lapsed Muslims also tend to be the quiet ones. It isn’t prudent to wave a banner promoting the virtues of atheism.’

He frowns. He’s struggling to place me in my indigenous context. I don’t quite fit the framed image he has of me. ‘I reckon you’ve been in Australia too long.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Girlfriend?’ Mills inquires. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

I hesitate. ‘Yes. But don’t pretend you don’t know about her.’

‘But you don’t live with her.’

‘Right.’

‘You come from an affluent family. Why did you go to Australia, mate?’

‘Various reasons,’ I reply cautiously. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with seeking a prosperous life.’

‘You fought with distinction in the Bangladesh War. A decorated fighter.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know about me or my family?’

‘I’d like to know a lot more,’ he says bluntly.

‘Does the Bangladeshi government really know why you’re here?’

He throws up his hands in mock horror. ‘Hey! Would I deceive? It’s all kosher, mate. I’m here with the knowledge and cooperation of those who govern.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘To find out things. I could be taking a risk,’ he says slowly, ‘but I think you’re okay.’

‘Thanks,’ I say sarcastically. ‘How long have I been under surveillance in Melbourne?’

It’s his turn to be silent.

We order another coffee.

‘Look at our region—’ Mills moves the empty ashtray close to him. He then shifts the small ceramic vase, a box of
matches and a teaspoon, to form a cluster. ‘Here’s Australia,’ he says pointing to the ashtray. ‘There’s Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand and the Philippines.’ He takes off his watch and pushes it towards me. ‘And that’s Pakistan and Afghanistan.’

‘So, what’s the point?’

‘We’re concerned that we’re in a region with terrorist bases and their sympathisers. Groups of Islamic fundamentalists who use Western technology for insurgent activities.’

‘Gunpowder was invented in China.’

He ignores this. ‘Now, where’s the missing link in this chain?’

I don’t know what he means.

‘Bangladesh, of course!’ he claims triumphantly. ‘The unknown factor. The majority of the population follows Islam. Isn’t it conceivable that there could be terrorist centres here?’

A few days ago I would’ve scoffed at the suggestion. Now I’m reluctant to explore it. I hover between resentment and curiosity.

‘We’ve had sketchy information about training camps and terrorist cells in different parts of the country. Nothing that’s been substantiated yet. That’s what I’m here to find out.’

‘And what have you found?’

‘Bits and pieces.’ He eyes me broodingly. ‘But not much to go on. I was hoping that Shabir Jamal could give us a clearer profile. The CIA had recruited him.’

‘You mean they bought him.’

‘He was attracted to Western ideology and, yes, a hefty pay packet. We think he had information that could’ve been useful to us. But then he became careless.’ Mills shrugs his shoulders, a little callously I think, as if to suggest that Shabir Jamal’s life was no more than the price to pay for his imprudence.

My consternation must show.

‘It’s a brutal game,’ he says coldly. ‘Much more insidious than you might think. Nothing romantic about it and little room for stuff-ups.’

‘And your American friend? Here for the same purpose?’

‘Of course. If there’s anything definite, the Americans will put pressure on the Bangladeshi government to act decisively. Otherwise, all sorts of aid programs will be at risk. And Bangladesh can ill-afford to miss out on American assistance.’

‘Have the Americans and, for that matter, the Australian politicians thought seriously about the reasons for terrorism to have spread so alarmingly?’ I ask.

Mills shakes an admonishing finger at me, as if my fundamental premise is incorrect. ‘Most politicians have too many vested interests to think about any one issue with clarity. The bureaucrats do that for them. When there’s a conservative government in Australia, the pollies want to lead the country with the perceived glories of a past that can’t be revived. Labor jumps too far and too quickly into the future. We, the public servants, take care of the present. I’m not saying we don’t make mistakes or
always think cleverly.’ Someone behind me catches his

attention. He waves. ‘So, what else can you tell me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Liar,’ he laughs.

I finish the rest of my coffee. ‘You seem to know everything that I do. More.’

‘Tell me…’ He leans forward and pinches the skin under his chin with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. ‘Where does your loyalty lie?’

I’ve never directly confronted this question. My loyalty is certainly not with any religion or race of people. I don’t believe in making a virtue out of patriotism. Or the stereotypes of national identity. Maybe I’m among the Muslim men of the twenty-first century living without permanent ties to the West, emotionally and spiritually uprooted. Someone to be viewed with reservation and even dread.

‘That’s a hard one,’ I reply in confusion.

He sighs as though to indicate sympathy with my lack of clarity about a vital issue. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever asked myself the question. I’ve travelled extensively, but I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.’

‘The model of stability.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘It’s probably less confusing. I’m not disloyal, but I can never be an Australian the way you are.’

‘Why not?’

‘My ties are much weaker than yours. For you, patriotism comes naturally. Mine has had to be artificially
developed. For instance, I don’t feel as strongly about certain iconic events as you might.’

‘Like what?’

‘Anzac Day, for instance. I comprehend its significance in the country’s history, but without any depth of personal feeling.’

‘I see.’ He looks disappointed.

Clearly we don’t understand each other. There isn’t much trust between us either. Splinters of loyalty are scattered across my life, but I don’t have the skill to reconstruct them into a unified whole and place it permanently in any one country. It’s not necessarily a satisfactory state of being, but then neither is an insular view of the world based on limited experiences.

‘I’m not trying to dodge what you’re asking,’ I say truthfully. If only Mills knew about cultural divides and the lives of those who are compelled to defy them. ‘As for loyalty, I guess the family has priority.’

‘And your country and what it represents? The land that has given you so much?’

‘I’m neither a traitor nor a blind patriot.’

‘A safe occupation of the middle ground is so common to migrants. Hey! That’s just an observation, not a label.’

‘But you’d much rather I broke out regularly into a heartfelt rendition of “Advance Australia Fair”.’

‘“Waltzing Matilda”, if I had my way.’

‘How long are you here?’

‘As long as it takes to know what I came to find out. Ever been to Sundarbans jungles?’

‘Once. Why?’ I know what he’s thinking. I try not to betray my sense of relief that he hasn’t mentioned anything about the south-eastern part of the country, where I’m headed.

‘It’s not a populated area. From what I’ve been told, it’s dense with mangrove trees and teeming with animals. A wildlife sanctuary.’ He scratches his chin. ‘What else, I wonder?’

‘Is ASIO spending the taxpayer’s money spying on tigers?’

‘You do have a sense of the ridiculous!’ He laughs. ‘I like that. There’s too much grimness in my line of work. You’d be surprised at what goes on in remote parts of the world.’

‘What about Sundarbans?’

‘Shabir Jamal mentioned it during our last phone conversation.’ Mills looks dubious. ‘Has this always been a country of maybes and shadows?’

‘What did he say?’ Perhaps the labyrinth of suspicion I have created in my mind is unfounded. I begin to hope.

‘Unfortunately, nothing that was concrete. He was wary about talking on the phone. That’s why he insisted on another meeting. I think he learned something after I saw him at the Club. You leave in, ah, how long?’

‘In ten days.’

‘And then?

I tell him about my travel plans.

He whistles. ‘Dangerous countries! Can’t say you lack courage. You wouldn’t like to take a trip with me to
Sundarbans for a few days? I could use a dependable interpreter.’