Journey of a Thousand Storms Read online

  I go back inside and have another glass of wine. I try to ring Newsha but she doesn’t respond – she’s probably out with friends. Then I sit back on the couch and flick through the TV channels. There’s nothing interesting on, just a Japanese horror movie with tiny subtitles. I turn the TV off and pick up a book, read a few sentences and feel even more dejected. I put it down again, turn off the light and try to sleep.

  On my way home from work the following day I go to the liquor store and buy two cheap bottles of wine. After I’ve called my daughters I sit in front of the TV, but again I can’t focus. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My mother’s voice comes back to me: ‘happiness is right in front of you’. I look around and see unwashed dishes, dusty furniture, mould in the bathroom and a filthy carpet. But there is something else – in every room, in every corner. Misha. She’ll be gone in three days. This is my last chance. I check the time: eight o’clock. It’s certainly too late to show her around town.

  I decide not to be so careful. I grab my phone and text her: I have a bottle of wine and a couple of precious stories to share. Would you be interested? I press ‘send’ and feel like I’ve sent a nuclear missile launcher to North Korea.

  Time stops. I pace up and down. I start to become convinced she’s found my text offensive. Suddenly my mobile phone rings. I pick it up to check the caller’s name. Oh no! It’s Kaveh, an extremely irritating friend who rings me four times a year to tell me how amazing his married life is. Why does he have to call me right now? I want to sharpen a pencil and stab Kaveh in the left jugular vein. Instead, I don’t answer. When the phone chirps – the alert for a text – I think, This must be her! But it’s Kaveh again, leaving a voice message. And guess what: it’s about his married life.

  I’m about to delete the message when the phone chirps again. It’s a text from Misha. I almost drop the phone as if it’s red hot. I stand there, frozen with doubt. What if she says no? Or worse, what if I see her tonight and fall in love? I pull myself together and open the message: That would be lovely. I’m at 12 Bennet Street.

  I’m ecstatic. I put on aftershave and my best shoes, grab the wine and almost run to the car. I turn on the engine, close my eyes and whisper a prayer to my Adonai. When I reach the address, I see lights on the second floor of an apartment building and a woman’s silhouette on the balcony. My heart speeds up. When I knock on the door, Misha appears. Even if this is the only night we spend together, I’ll be so grateful.

  We go upstairs – she walks, I fly. I can hear mellow music, and her jasmine scent is intoxicating. She’s wearing a beautiful pink top and blue jeans, and her hair cascades to her shoulders like golden silk. We sit on the balcony and talk about work, and then about our personal lives. She’s so glamorous but at the same time so friendly I feel we’ve known each other for years. We keep talking past midnight and open the second bottle of wine, but neither of us feels fatigued.

  ‘And how did you end up here, in Tea Gardens?’ I ask her. She explains that after her marriage broke up she worked as a locum GP in far north Queensland and Western Australia, mainly in Aboriginal communities. Then she saw the position for here. ‘I had no idea what it’d be like but the name of the town attracted me, as I’ve loved tea all my life. When I realised it was a small coastal town, I thought I’d give it a go.’ A gentle breeze lifts her hair. ‘It was an absolutely random decision.’

  I gaze at her, delighted. That’s exactly how I chose Tea Gardens as well. My best childhood memories always involve cups of tea.

  Then she asks me about my life in Iran. I share my memories with her – some entertaining and funny, others gruesome or heart­breaking. More than anything, though, she wants to know about my life in Turkey as a refugee. She’s very supportive of multiculturalism and asylum seekers.

  ‘You’ve certainly had an interesting life, Kooshyar,’ she says. ‘You’re a survivor.’

  I look at the time: it’s three-thirty in the morning. ‘I’d better leave you alone now. We both have to work in a few hours. Thank you for having me. I’ve loved it – you have a kind heart.’

  ‘My pleasure. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every minute,’ she says.

  I go home but can’t sleep; I’m still thinking about Misha. When she leaves in three days I’ll be devastated.

  The next day I’m too swamped with patients to meet up with her at work, and when I go home I badly want to see her. But yet again I’m plagued by doubts and negative thoughts, and by nine o’clock I still haven’t contacted her. I’m afraid she’ll think I’m a pest. Plus, she must be exhausted from last night so she’s probably already in bed anyway. Eventually, though, I get the courage to pick up my phone and write a text: How is your night going in this quiet, beautiful town?

  Suddenly my phone makes a sound. I was waiting for you to contact me. Last night was the most amazing night in my entire life. I loved every piece of our conversation. It would be so lovely if you visited again.

  I read her words again and again. Then I run around like a madman, putting on the wrong shoes and spraying aftershave in my eyes. In less than twenty minutes I’m at her place. This is when I realise I’ve forgotten to bring wine.

  When Misha appears she opens her arms and gives me a warm hug, and all my anxiety falls away. We sit on the balcony again, listening to music and drinking and chatting. I enjoy every word she utters, every breath I take in her presence, every time she looks at me with those astonishing eyes.

  After she’s asked me more about my life in Iran, she throws me a difficult question: ‘Would you go back one day, if the government changed and you were safe there?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I can see my answer surprises her. ‘Australia is my home.’

  Then I ask how her family came to be in Tasmania. She takes a deep breath and looks up at the night sky. ‘It all started because of a crane,’ she says.

  Her English grandfather, Bill, joined the British Navy when the Second World War broke out and was sent to the Indian Ocean. After a few months there a huge crane on one of the ships broke down. Nobody had experience in this kind of work except Bill, and he was promised a reward if he could fix it. They sailed to Hong Kong and while his shipmates enjoyed the bars there, Bill worked on the crane and eventually succeeded in repairing it. Unbeknown to him, a man from a large Australian engineering company was watching. As Bill prepared to return to England this man approached him, saying that his company was building an enormous crane in Burnie, Tasmania, and needed a supervisor. They offered Bill a large salary and promised to organise a visa for his pregnant wife and bring her to Tasmania. The transfer took a very long time, and when the couple were reunited their young son, Andrew, was eighteen months old. When the crane was finally finished Misha’s grandfather had fallen in love with Tasmania and decided to stay there. Twenty-two years later Andrew married Linda, his first girlfriend, and they had two daughters, Sama and Misha.

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ says Misha with a smile. ‘You’ve come here from one side of the world and I’m from the other. Now we’re sitting together on this magical night, sharing our stories.’

  When I’m about to go, again at about three in the morning, Misha asks, ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’

  ‘Missing you,’ I whisper.

  ‘I can’t stay, Kooshyar. I have to go back to my family,’ she says with a small sigh.

  ‘I’m going to Afghanistan in eight weeks,’ I tell her. ‘A friend in Kabul has organised my trip.’

  She’s startled. ‘Afghanistan? No! Why? Haven’t you been through enough?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain . . . My life here is quite empty, Misha. I have to go.’

  She’s quiet for a moment, deep in thought. ‘No, this community needs you. If you leave, the whole medical centre will collapse.’

  ‘I know, Misha, but I really can’t bear this tedium anymore. I’m a pacifist, yes, but not a conformist.’

  She looks upset and, boldly, I step forward and hug her. I feel her a
rms on my back and her warm body soothes my heart.

  I whisper in her ear, ‘Thank you, Misha.’ I’m incredibly sad she’ll be gone soon, but at least I’ve found love.

  It’s been two weeks since Misha’s departure. Fourteen days of heartache. Fourteen nights of deep loneliness. But she’s changed something in me. I realise that though I loved Australia dearly before I met her, Misha has made me feel like I belong here. I consider the values and culture that shape Australia to be my own, and I don’t feel detached anymore. I’m a proud Australian now, even if I never see her again.

  On this evening I’m at home watching the news. It’s as depress­ing as usual: more devastation, more violence, more death in Afghanistan, Syria and Iraq. I fly to Kabul in six weeks but I still haven’t told anyone at work I’m leaving. I’m trying to minimise the number of people who know I’ll be in Kabul for security reasons: I’ll be an easy target there for the Iranian regime. If I do die, it will be sad for my children and my patients but I will embrace it. I almost want the bullets to pierce my chest, so my agony will disappear.

  I pour a glass of chilled white wine and start drinking it when there’s a knock on the door. I glance at the clock. It’s seven-thirty. Who would visit me now?

  The knocking resumes. As soon as I open the door I’m transfixed. It’s her. She’s come back.

  ‘I love you, Kooshyar,’ Misha says softly.

  I hold her tightly in my arms. ‘I love you, Misha jan.’

  ‘What does “jan” mean?’ she asks.

  ‘It means “dear” in Farsi. That’s the only Persian word you’ll ever need to know, and you are my Misha jan forever.’

  Misha has shown me love, something I’ve never experienced before. It’s like discovering a beautiful secret room in an old house.

  One night three months later, as we’re returning from a walk by the river, I stop under the fig tree in front of my place. The large ivory moon is covered with mist like a dusty antique coin, and the hint of moisture in the air touches my face like a butterfly’s soft wing. I kneel down and propose to Misha. I’ve never before asked a woman to marry me, and my heart is pounding in my trembling chest.

  Misha’s face brightens in the moonlight. She stands me up and holds me in her arms. ‘I’m yours, Kooshyar jan,’ she says.

  We get married, something I hadn’t dared dream of doing again. To me it’s much bigger than surviving prison in Iran, or even getting out of Turkey. I used to dream in Farsi but since living with Misha I dream in Australian. The rivers are my rivers; the mountains are my mountains. I am at home again.

  But a year later, on a summer’s night, I receive a phone call from Tehran. It is Parvin.

  ‘Kooshyar, your father is sick,’ she says, sobbing. ‘He wants to speak to you.’

  This is the moment I’ve always dreaded. I knew on the day I fled Iran that I would never see my father again. Misha notices how upset I am and comes over. I whisper to her what’s happening. She puts her hand on my shoulder and urges me to speak to him one last time.

  ‘Baba jan . . . I love you. I love you so much, Baba,’ I murmur. I say it again, louder and with pride.

  There’s silence on the other end of the line. I can hear him panting, and his struggle to breathe cuts through my heart.

  ‘I love you too, Kooshyar.’ My father knows my name! He loves me! I feel exhilarated. I miss him so much. I want to fly through the phone cable and hug him, one last time. I want to smell the diesel on his shirt, and touch his broad shoulders.

  I sit outside all night and cry till dawn. And my father goes. The next day Misha and I plant a tiny grapevine in a quiet corner of our backyard in his memory.

  As I write these words on my computer our first-born daughter, Anna, now twelve months old, is sitting on my lap. I glance over at my ancient typewriter, which acts as a reminder of my responsibility to bring the voices of suppressed men and women in the Middle East to the world. I look at Anna’s beautiful dark brown eyes that are so like her mother’s and I think about destiny, how strange it is, how it has led me so far from the slums of Tehran. I am rich in every possible way. I’m close to my daughters – Newsha sitting for her final exams in journalism, Niloofar preparing for her HSC – and have at last found happiness. Little Anna is playing with the Star of David around my neck, the symbol that has been central to my destiny, my anchor through my darkest days. I say softly to her, ‘One day you’ll be wearing this, Anna jan.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My deepest gratitude to Lynne Blundell, Robert Hillman and Jacqueline Kent for editing my manuscript. Very special thanks to Rebecca Bauert from Penguin, who polished the final script with her sharp eyes and incredible talent. Also to Meredith Rose at Penguin, whose skills are phenomenal and invaluable. Sincere appreciation to Ben Ball, my marvellous publisher at Penguin Random House. Ben, if this book brings about any changes for the better, I will owe you that. To my beautiful wife: you have given me the world. And to my gorgeous daughters: you are my heart, and I am joyfully proud of you.

  About the Author

  Kooshyar Karimi was born in Tehran and now lives in Sydney. He is the author of several books on Iranian, Chinese and Assyrian myths and history, one of which was banned from publication by the Iranian government. His memoir I Confess: Revelations in Exile was published in Australia in 2012, and his bestselling book Leila’s Secret was published by Penguin in 2015. He is also an award-winning translator of Gore Vidal, Kahlil Gibran and Adrian Berry, among others.

  ALSO BY KOOSHYAR KARIMI

  I Confess: Revelations in Exile

  Leila’s Secret

  VIKING

  UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia

  India | New Zealand | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies

  whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2016

  Text copyright © Kooshyar Karimi 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Cover and text design by Laura Thomas © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Cover photographs: author as an adult: Max Mason-Hubers/Fairfax Media;

  author as a child: supplied by the author; background: Shutterstock

  penguin.com.au

  ISBN: 978-1-76014-275-9

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