Huda and Me Page 10

  We join the end of one of the lines and wait our turn. I pull my school beanie from my backpack and slip it on, over the cut on my forehead. Huda fiddles with the edges of her passport, and the queue moves forward slowly. Very slowly.

  ‘Hooda and Akeaw, what are you doing at the end of the line?’ we hear a familiar voice say.

  Me and my sister turn around and see Martin beaming at us. We can’t help but throw our arms around him. It’s so good to see him again.

  ‘I heard a whisper that you two were meant to be escorted through passport control. Do you mind if I do the honours?’

  ‘Oh, yes please!’ Huda squeals.

  ‘You’ll be waiting here all day otherwise. Follow me.’

  I just know Allah answered my prayers.

  We move out of the queue and follow Martin. When we reach the front, we get the chance to properly inspect the giant bearded passport officer sitting before us. His muscles are so big he looks like he could star in one of the latest superhero movies – except this man doesn’t look like he’d have much fun taking on baddies. He’s busy yelling in Arabic at some people in the next queue to stand behind a yellow line. Veins bulge from his forehead, and I see Huda notice she’s standing on, not behind, our yellow line and take a little hop backwards.

  ‘Wait here a tick,’ Martin says and steps forward.

  I think the passport officer is going to yell at Martin for overstepping the yellow line too – or maybe even have him arrested – but instead he smiles. His teeth are yellow.

  ‘Marteen!’ says the officer. He stands awkwardly at his little brown desk so he can throw an arm around Martin. Martin looks like a little kid next to him. ‘It been so long, my friend.’

  Martin leans in close and we catch bits and pieces of his words as he explains we’re unaccompanied minors. The officer glances our way and I gulp. His face scares me. His cheeks are covered in stubbly hair, which eventually turns into a thick beard. His dark eyebrows look like someone got a fat permanent marker and drew one line across his forehead.

  Martin beckons us over, speaking quickly. ‘Okay kids, it’s your turn to go through passport control. You’re getting VIP service today as unaccompanied minors. But of course Habib here needs to ask you a couple of questions.’

  I feel my stomach churn. I can’t move. What if he checks our bags? What if he sees all the money?

  Huda elbows me in the side. ‘Stop looking all pale and weird, like you have something to hide,’ she hisses. ‘Don’t come over till I signal by scratching my bum.’

  Huda winks at me and then skips ahead, singing out, ‘Sure thing, Martin,’ as she does so. I wondered why my sister can’t use a normal signal, like scratching her nose or tapping her shoulder.

  I try to breathe deeply while Huda is talking to Habib. He’s still standing up at his desk, and she’s probably the same height as his knee. I don’t know how she’ll get through this one. She barely even speaks Arabic.

  Huda’s waving her arms around, like she’s telling a story. At first Habibi glares at her, frowning. But then, out of nowhere, he throws back his head and laughs.

  Huda slides her bag off her back and offers it to him to check, but he waves it away. Instead, he looks at her passport and then pats her on the head. He asks her a couple of questions, and each time she speaks he laughs. Then he sits back down and takes a lolly out of his shirt pocket. Huda says something and points at me. He takes out another one and hands her both lollies.

  Huda scratches her bum.

  I don’t know what just happened, but I hope we are safe. I also hope I don’t spew on the floor in front of Habib. I approach him slowly.

  ‘Luk, come here boy!’ He smiles warmly. ‘Mafi ahla min ukhtak.’

  Huda leans in close. ‘He said there’s no one cuter than me, Akeal.’

  I want to tell her I understand Arabic and speak it better than her gibberish, but Habib is holding my eye.

  ‘Aaaahhhh, you no speak Arabic, boy? No good, no good. Your sister better than you.’

  I feel a pang of indignation.

  ‘You look after sister Huda. She good girl. You maybe not good boy.’ Then he turns to my sister. ‘You eat two lolly. Two! None for him. Okay, give me passport.’

  My sister grins as I pass him my passport. He flicks it open and holds it up to my face.

  ‘Why you come here?’

  ‘Just a holiday,’ I stutter.

  He passes the passport back and pats Huda on the head again.

  ‘Shukran, Uncle Habib,’ she says.

  ‘Yallah, enjoy holiday.’

  ‘Thanks, Habib,’ Martin echoes Huda. ‘See you on the way back.’ And we are through.

  The three of us march on through the airport, down a flight of escalators and around a corner. I pull my beanie off, and Martin frowns and stops walking. He unties the hanky from around his neck.

  ‘Let me take a look at you,’ he says, tilting my chin upwards. He gently dabs his hanky to the gash on my head. ‘Looks like it’s a graze and not too deep.’ He says this calmly, as he gently wipes around my cut. Then he passes me his hanky and points to a little green sign in front of two doors a few metres away. ‘Those are the toilets. Give your face a wash and take a breather. You too, Hooda. I’ll be waiting right here for you.’

  Me and Huda nod and walk over to the toilets. Huda goes into the women’s and I swing open the door to the men’s. It’s quiet and smells like stale air-freshener, but I’m glad it’s empty so I can have a few moments to myself.

  I walk over to the sink and look at myself in the mirror. Dark rings circle my eyes, and I seem to have lost the cheer in my face. Maybe it’s the blood smeared across my face. I look like a serial killer.

  I splash my face with water. The gash on my forehead stings, but Martin was right – it’s only a graze. I scrub my cheeks and kept flicking water onto my face until the tap turns itself off. Then I comb my hair with wet fingers and dab my face dry with a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, wiping off any bits of blood that the water missed. Almost as good as new, but not quite.

  I step into the toilet cubicle behind me … except there’s no toilet. Just a weird oval-shaped thing in the ground. There are two ridges along each side in the shape of feet, and I feel my stomach wobble. I don’t know how these things work, and I don’t have the guts to learn. Not today anyway. I convince myself I’m not that busting and walk back out to meet Martin.

  Huda’s already there. She isn’t talking, which is strange. I figure she’s just had her own situation with the hole in the floor. Martin doesn’t notice. He leads us down another escalator.

  Huda pokes me. ‘Did you see the dunnies in there?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeh, they were weird.’

  ‘Did you use one?’

  ‘Nah, didn’t know how to.’

  Huda gulps. ‘Me either. But I tried.’

  I can tell Huda wants to tell me more, but I don’t ask. I’m glad when we get to an area filled with luggage carousels. Hundreds of people are gathered around waiting for their suitcases.

  ‘What do your bags look like?’ Martin asks us as he rolls up his sleeves, ready to pull our non-existent bags off the conveyor belt.

  ‘We only came with our schoolbags,’ Huda says.

  Martin’s brow creases, but before he has a chance to say anything, my sister shrieks. Miss Rosetta and her security guard have caught up to us. She’s seized Huda by the shoulder, but my sister wriggles free and lunges onto the conveyor belt of the nearest carousel. I can’t believe my eyes.

  Huda scrambles across suitcases and luggage, knocking things over left, right and centre. Passengers gasp loudly, and one woman even screams. The security guard and Miss Rosetta dart after my sister, trying to grab her from the ground, but she’s too quick. She knocks a couple of suitcases clean off the conveyor belt as she clambers onto the unmoving metal centre of the carousel and stands there crouched, arms out, looking like a ninja.

  ‘Rosetta, what’s going on
here?’ Martin demands loudly.

  ‘Leave my sister alone! Don’t hurt her!’ I cry.

  Huda’s back on the conveyor belt, dodging suitcases, Miss Rosetta and the security guard still hot on her tail. The security guard tries to climb onto the carousel, but he fumbles and the top half of his body collapses onto it. His legs drag across the tiled floor as he struggles to find his grip, then eventually he slips off and flops onto the ground. Miss Rosetta glares down at him as he picks himself back up.

  ‘Hooda! Come on, hop down!’ Martin calls over all the gasps. He holds up his palm to stop Miss Rosetta and the security guard as they run past him. I’ve got this, he mouths to them.

  He turns back to my sister. ‘Okay, Hooda, come down so we can sort this out now.’

  Huda listens. But instead of just letting the conveyor belt bring her back around to Martin, she turns and starts struggling against it. I shake my head. It would be like trying to run backwards up a downwards-travelling escalator. An escalator covered in luggage. While hundreds of people watched. Huda almost loses her balance, but not quite.

  ‘My job is to make sure you and your brother are safe,’ Martin says reassuringly. ‘Now please carefully climb off so we can make sure you meet your parents safely.’

  Huda hurdles another suitcase and points at Miss Rosetta. ‘You won’t make me go with that mean one?’

  Miss Rosetta’s eyes look like they’re about to zap lightning bolts at my sister. ‘You will be coming straight with me, little girl, and I will be reporting you to the airline for being in breach of—’

  ‘In breach of what? No one’s broken any airline rules,’ Martin cut in.

  ‘Those children breached security by running through passport control!’ She jabs her pointy finger at each of us.

  ‘Actually, I escorted them through.’

  Miss Rosetta’s face goes the colour of her lipstick. Before she can say anything else, Martin speaks again.

  ‘That’s okay, Rosetta. I’ll take them straight to processing and stay with them until we’re able to contact their parents.’

  ‘Will you send us to kids’ jail?’ my sister calls out.

  Martin shakes his head. ‘I promise you I won’t.’

  Huda looks at me, and I nod. She breathes in and then slowly breathes out. And then she climbs down.

  The security guard considers this case closed and wanders away, but Miss Rosetta turns to Martin. ‘You had to be the nice one, didn’t you, Martin?’

  This is the first time I’ve seen him get upset. I can tell by the way his breathing changes, and how he holds his fingers up to his temples. ‘It doesn’t hurt to be nice, Rosetta.’

  Miss Rosetta steps closer to him, until she’s right up in his face. ‘Well, I can tell you now that I won’t be taking this disrespect lying down …’

  Huda nudges me and tilts her head towards the customs exits and, beyond those, the sliding glass doors leading outside.

  ‘We’ve gotta get out of here.’

  I know she’s right. There’s no way we’ll be able to leave the airport when they realise Mum and Dad aren’t here to pick us up.

  I only wish we could say goodbye to our friend. Me and Huda race away from the baggage area. We pick the Nothing to Declare exit, and just as we scurry through the glass doors beyond that, I peek back at Martin one last time. Miss Rosetta is shouting and jabbing her finger at him, but he glances over at us and smiles. I’ve still got his hanky in my pocket.

  On Our Way

  We stand on the kerb outside, watching the cars zoom by. Exhaust fumes fill the air, and people pack into minivans like sardines. Heads stick out of windows, suitcases stack onto the roofs of buses or anywhere they can fit, Lebanese music blasts from drivers’ radios. Everything moves so quickly. Men shout in Arabic, taxi drivers haggle for prices. Women everywhere wear colourful hijabs. I haven’t seen anything like this before, not even at the mosque on Eid.

  My heart races. This is it.

  The sun blares down and my eyes sting from how bright it is. My skin tingles and itches. It’s winter in Melbourne but the middle of summer here in Lebanon. I glance down at Huda. Her eyes are wide, soaking in all the sights and sounds in front of us. Her face is red and her skin looks wet and sticky.

  Huda rips off her dirty jumper. It’s has tears, snot and God knows what else on it.

  ‘These things are so Melbourne, man,’ she says as she peels it away from her small, chubby body.

  She walks over to a bursting bin a couple of metres away and shoves it in.

  I laugh and realise I’ve probably laughed too loud. But I’m excited. I can’t believe we’ve made it all this way to Beirut.

  ‘Okay, time to go see Mum and Dad,’ I say.

  Huda smiles and nods. She points to a car with a small pop-up sign on its top. ‘All those cars are taxis. See?’ she tells me.

  They’re all different types of cars, most of them ancient, but they all have red signs sticking off the top that say TAXI. And it looks like they are all driven by really, really old men.

  I stretch out my arm and shout, just like I’ve seen in the movies. ‘Taxi!’

  Three cars screech to a stop next to us and we run over to the cleanest, newest-looking car. The other two look like something P-platers hoon around in back home.

  The grandpa driver in the taxi leans over and speaks through the open window. ‘La wein?’ he asks in a dry voice and without a smile.

  ‘Dad’s note. Gimme the address,’ I tell my sister.

  Huda shoves the crumpled paper at me. I point to the Arabic words as I pass it over to him.

  His glasses sit on the tip of his nose and his lips move as he reads the address. The lines in his face look deep. I wonder if the skin lifts like a flap when he washes his face in the morning.

  ‘Bar Elias, Beqaa …’ he mumbles. Then he flicks his head quickly to the side to say get in.

  I look at my sister. ‘That was easy,’ she says as I open the back door and climb in.

  ‘Shukran shukran,’ I say, trying to sound as Lebanese as possible.

  Huda slides into the back seat after me and slams the taxi door shut. I stretch out my arm to grab the seatbelt. Except there isn’t one.

  Huda’s doing the same thing. ‘No seatbelts! What if we crash? We’ll go flying out the window!’ my sister scream-whispers to me.

  She’s right. But I can’t show her I want to freak out too. ‘Just put your backpack on your lap. If anything happens, it will act like an airbag,’ I tell her, very matter-of-fact. I know this isn’t true – we will definitely go flying through the window.

  The taxi driver turns the steering wheel ready to pull away from the airport, but before he takes off, he flicks on the radio. Full blast. A woman’s voice singing some fast belly-dancing song booms through the car as he speeds out onto the Beirut streets.

  At first, I can’t put my finger on what’s so strange about the streets. But then it hits me. All the cars are driving on the wrong side of the road. I blink my eyes a few times to get used to it. The early evening sun shining on my grimy, sweaty skin feels so good. Almost like a big warm hug. I smile to myself, thinking it must be Lebanon greeting me. Even though there are no seatbelts, and the taxi driver is weaving in and out of traffic like a maniac on the wrong side of the road, I actually feel safe.

  The streets are busy. There are people walking all over the place, and lots of little shops and delis with kids playing out the front. Massive billboards are everywhere, seeming like they should be in Australia except for the Arabic writing. I stick my head out of the speeding taxi’s window and take it all in. I could’ve never imagined Lebanon to be like this. So much of it is shiny and new: huge buildings and clock towers, cafés and shopping strips. Heaps of people look like they’re straight out of a fashion magazine, wearing coordinated outfits and carrying bright handbags.

  The driver turns into a side street and then into another little road. That’s when everything becomes less fancy and I notice the ru
ined buildings. They look like a huge meteor crashed into them and blew them to smithereens.

  Huda nudges me. She’s still holding on tightly to her backpack. ‘What the heck happened over there?’ She nods towards a set of apartments that has the roof and most of the side missing.

  I remember Mum and Dad talking about it in sad voices. And I remember reading about it ages ago. It’s why Mum and Dad have always said we’re lucky to be safe in our home in Australia.

  ‘War,’ is all I can say.

  The taxi driver seems to hear us over the music, or maybe he sees our faces in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Big bomb come from plane!’ He makes a big sound like an explosion going off, which makes Huda jump. Then he shakes his head in a sad way and shrugs his shoulders as if to say, What can we do?

  The more we drive, the more we see. More buildings with more holes taken out of them.

  We turn back onto a main street and traffic begins to slow. I glance ahead past the taxi driver’s head and see the cars all banked up. There are no road lines, but there are four lanes of cars. I notice most drivers don’t bother to indicate as they pull out in front of each other. And the beeping all around us begins to give me a headache. Everyone seems to be beeping, all the time, over nothing.

  ‘Why are all the drivers so angry here?’ I say to my sister.

  ‘They’re not angry. They’re just beeping so other drivers know that there’s a car close by.’

  It takes me a second but then I realise my sister is right. The drivers aren’t annoyed – they’re honking their horns in little tappy beeps to say, Hey buddy, beep, I’m here, beep. Let me through, please, beep. Thanks, beep.

  Huda seems to relax a little then, because she takes her backpack off her lap and places it on the seat between us. A note falls from its open front pocket. I pick it up off the floor. It’s folded neatly and it has Huda scrawled on it in fancy writing.

  Huda tries to grab the note out of my hands, and that makes me want to open it. Bad. Leaning away from her and towards the window, I unfold the paper.