Juan has been having trouble at school. It’s his name, and the way he speaks, copying the lilt of Natalia’s voice. He lets his syllables drag like she does—answers síííí during roll call.
‘They make fun of meeee,’ he says when I ask him why he isn’t dressed for school. He holds up his index finger. ‘They say my name is a number and not a name; they say “Juan, not two, not three, not four.”’ His small body shudders against my shoulder as he cries, and I could die.
*
At work, my inbox is flooded with emails marked URGENT [SEC=TOP SECRET]. Our branch administers the legislation around terrorism financing and three weeks ago, in Madrid, a seventeen-year-old mounted a twenty-tonne lorry onto the sidewalk, overwhelming nearby emergency rooms. After that, the EU called for reforms to their directives: increased search powers, the ability to pre-emptively freeze a terrorist-financing suspect’s welfare payments, the recovery of their real estate and vehicles. And now our contacts at the Australian Federal Police are licking their lips. ‘Us too!’ they cry. But it only costs three hundred and fifteen euros to rent a twenty-tonne lorry. That’s five hundred Aussie dollars. Two trips to an ATM. Three prepaid gift cards redeemable at an outlet of your choice.
Wedged between the emails is one that’s unclassified. The subject line reads, JUAN GONZALEZ-STEINBERG. It’s from his school: Juan’s teacher requesting that we meet tomorrow afternoon even though there’s a parent–teacher evening next month. Natalia’s Gmail has been cc’d as well. She must’ve known, decided not to mention it. She picks him up every day—how could she not?
Six years ago, in the south of England, I stood outside of the Bath Brew House, four pints of English ale deep, blinking the rain from my eyes as Natalia pummelled on my chest with the underside of her fists, shouting ‘You don’t get it—I fucking love you!’
Both of us had taken a year off work to travel overseas and study master’s degrees at the same university. We met at a trivia night for international students and were brought together by alcohol and a mutual desire to quell a budding sense of loneliness.
I tried to grab hold of her wrists, but my fingers were half-frozen and her skin was too slick.
‘No!’ She shook her wet, shoulder-length hair, stepped out of my reach and crossed her arms like an admonished child. There was a small bus shelter a few metres from us, bleach-blonde, crop-topped undergraduates huddled beneath it.
‘Fuckboy!’ Natalia spat.
‘What?’ I turned back to her, and once again found myself under fire from machine-gun Spanish.
‘¡Yo te lo dije, pero no me paraste bolas!’ She knew I couldn’t understand her, but continued anyway. ‘Fuckboy!’ she said again, punctuating it this time with a smack on my cheek.
I couldn’t feel anything for the cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But I don’t feel the same way.’
She tucked her lower lip into her upper. A look that I’d come to know well—tears weren’t far away. Hands raised, she stepped towards me again, but I got her wrists this time and she writhed in my grip, like a hooked fish. She was strong and I was losing purchase when she went limp, buried her head in my chest and howled ‘¡Ayyyy!’ before abruptly shoving me and walking away. Two weeks later, Natalia found out she was pregnant and I didn’t know what else to do—I gave her the details of my flight home to Canberra.
*
A meeting with our financial intelligence unit goes late, and it’s close to seven by the time I’m on the Tuggeranong Parkway, headed home. Lighting’s pretty good for the most part, but there are stretches of road without reflectors or streetlights so that in the peak of winter, when the sun’s dipping beneath the Brindabellas at five o’clock, high beams are your only means of cutting through the thick night, the only way you can see the road sign that reads SLOW DOWN HIGH ACCIDENT ZONE. Kangaroo corpses litter the emergency stopping lane, and the sight of one on a turn has me thinking about the kid they pulled from the lorry—a mass of clothes through the smashed windshield. A lump beneath body bag plastic.
Our house is silent but for the hum of Natalia singing a hushed song in Juan’s room upstairs.
Arrorró mi niño
Arrorró mi sol
Arrorró pedazo
De mi corazón.
The lullaby is one her dad sang to her as a child. Juan’s namesake, who died when she was young. She doesn’t have much memory of him beyond a raspy, deep voice and those words in her ears.
Hush-a-bye my baby
Hush-a-bye my sun
Hush-a-bye oh piece
of my heart.
I hear Natalia’s light footfalls on the stairs. When she reaches the kitchen, I notice how loose her arms seem to hang in their sockets, the way her hips sway to an invisible rhythm. I busy myself in the fridge. Bitterness comes to my nose first, her wet lips on my cheek second. She giggles.
‘Hola,’ she says and kisses me again, edging towards my mouth.
I shut the fridge and turn from her, livid. She knows I can’t stand her drinking before Juan is down. It’s Updike—that scene where the basketball player’s wife drops their baby in the bath and can’t quite get her out in time. The casual drunk confidence preceding the event, the almost helpless inevitability of it. I know it’s irrational—Juan’s not a baby anymore. He wouldn’t drown in a bath but for someone holding him down. Still, wait till he’s asleep—it’s all I ask.
‘You’ve gotta stop that shit.’
Natalia takes a step back, her smile fading. ‘What?’
‘The song—all of the fucking Spanish. That’s why they pick on him you know—because he’s different.’
She shakes her head. ‘Ay, dios mio.’ Her face scrunches up, and I know that lip is about to get tucked. She turns from me and leaves the kitchen. Her tread is heavy on the way upstairs. I listen for the sound of Juan waking. A door closes and I hold my breath, but nothing happens.
There’s a plate of leftover empanadas in the fridge. Stewed beef and seasoned potato wrapped in deep-fried cornmeal. We eat them with lime and ají—a hot sauce Natalia orders online. My mouth waters at the thought of the tender meat. But eating them would feel like a kind of concession, so I grab the milk from the fridge door and settle on the couch with a bowl of Corn Flakes.
Reality TV shows are on every channel—the kind of white noise I’d normally indulge in with Natalia and a couple of beers till the amateur chefs blend in with the jacked tradies, house flippers and island castaways. Natalia shouting ‘¡Ese cara de verga!’ at the TV, smacking my thigh. But tonight, the contrived rivalries and constant cutaways are grating, and I can’t bring myself to care about the climactic praline parfait reveal. I shut the TV off and take my bowl to the kitchen. The sink is full of dishes, soaking in murky water. Another parallel: wasn’t the wife in that Updike novel messy too? I roll up my sleeves and stick a hand beneath the plates and bowls, giving only the slightest thought to the possibility of an upturned knife’s edge, and pull the plug. We have a dishwasher, but I find handwashing cathartic. The hot water runs, not quite to scalding, on my skin, and my thoughts turn to Natalia. She’ll be lying on our bed recording a voice message to her sister, Marcela—a litany of my sins for her to wake up to on the other side of the world.
Natalia’s degree was in Textile Design. She was going to freelance once Juan started kindergarten, but never got beyond registering for a domain name. She did, however, insist that his bedroom have a theme. Space was her initial choice: blackboard walls filled with chalk spaceships and astronauts, solar-system bedding, glow-in-the-dark stars above his head at night. But Juan isn’t one to be pigeonholed—it wasn’t long until cowboys replaced those astronauts, and then it was dinosaurs and race cars. There was his brief obsession with supermarket clerks and the time he begged us to buy him a toy sewing machine. He’s not afraid to try new things and he’ll talk anyone’s ear off if they’ll let him—chatty and boisterous, open. How different we are. At Juan’s age, I only cared for the one toy: a teddy bear I’d had since I was born. His name was Teddy and when he was with me, I understood that my feet were firmly on the ground.
Carefully, I edge open his bedroom door. In the dim glow of his unicorn night light, Juan lies prostrate in bed. I wait in the doorway until I can see the gentle rise and fall of his breath and, at the sight, the grinding irritation I’ve been feeling all day dissipates. I step into Juan’s room and kiss him on the head.
The lights are off in our bedroom. Once my eyes adjust to the dark, Natalia’s curled-up silhouette is clear on her side of the bed. But I have a hunch she mightn’t be asleep—hazel eyes open to the wall as she mutters curses under her breath.
After brushing my teeth in our ensuite, I undress and slip beneath the covers. Natalia’s breathing is shallow and uneven, and it’s not a minute before her hand reaches for me. I roll towards her, cup her breasts and pull her to me. Natalia giggles and ducks beneath the covers. All is forgiven I suppose. Even after all this time, our rhythm is good, our want for each other’s bodies still strong, but when Natalia emerges, I force a lapse by reaching for the condoms in the bedside table. Neither of us likes using them, Natalia particularly. Estúpidos globos, she calls them. I think she sees my insistence on using them as a kind of rejection of Juan. A rejection of her.
After, still half-tethered to each other, I switch on my bedside lamp and turn to Natalia. ‘I’m sorry for snapping earlier.’
Natalia closes her eyes to the light. ‘Está bien.’
‘I just worry about him. I got the email from his teacher. Did you bring up the bullying with her?’
‘I was going to, but she asked to meet.’
‘What else could it be?’
‘You’re probably right.’ Natalia yawns and rolls away from me. ‘Buenas noches.’
‘Buenas noches.’ I turn out the light and I’m struck with the sense that when I close my eyes I’m going to have strange, violent dreams.
*
I’m half an hour late for the talk with Juan’s teacher. My part of the office is classified as ZONE 2: RESTRICTED—no personal communication devices of any kind. Mobiles are kept in plastic lockers outside of the security doors. I wasn’t able to check my phone until the late afternoon, following a catch-up with my manager.
—The babysitter is here. Do you want to meet in the car park?
—Dónde estás? I am at the class.
—?????
Shit.
I pause outside of Juan’s classroom door. Through the slit of glass, I can see Natalia on a short chair—hair straightened, dangly gold-leaf earrings, cheeks alight with a smile. I can’t see Juan’s teacher, but I imagine she’s smiling too, shoulder-rattling laughter. Natalia’s gifted with people: a natural, jaunty cheer, affection for days. Unlike me, she can slip into any conversation, mould herself into any context, whether it’s by my side at an international symposium on biometric security or rounding up a herd of sugar-peaking kids for birthday candles. She is a person of the world.
I open the classroom door and walk inside. Natalia turns to me, smile unfailing, but I can hear her voice in my head, ‘Llegas tarde.’
Juan’s teacher, Ms Tan, sits across from Natalia at a wooden desk. She’s younger than I remember—pale complexion, dark hair to her shoulders and shining brown eyes that are quick to take in my arrival and flit back to Natalia.
‘Sorry I’m late—got stuck at work.’
‘That’s all right, Mr Steinberg,’ Ms Tan says. ‘Please take a seat.’
The jog to the classroom has me sweating through my shirt. I unbutton my suit jacket and take it off. Behind us, four square tables sit in the middle of the room, lined on either side with multi-coloured plastic chairs. Crayon drawings are pegged to a line of string in the middle of the room. Houses and dogs and stick figures with big smiles labelled MY FAMILY. I haven’t been back here since Juan’s first day, months ago. Dressed in his favourite denim overalls, Juan couldn’t wait to start school: new friends to make and games to play. He would learn and grow. ‘I will know everything like you and Mami.’ My beautiful boy. That kind of unadulterated optimism, how easily he finds his way to joy—he’s like Natalia in so many ways. What then, did he get from me?
I hang my jacket on the back of the chair and sit down.
‘Now that we’re all here,’ Ms Tan says, ‘I’d like to talk about bullying—’
I nod, appreciative. She might be young, but Ms Tan’s obviously switched on—nipping the problem in the bud like this. Bet she has a plan of action: phone calls to the parents first; detailed education sessions on difference for the class—Bert is yellow, Ernie is orange. Maybe she’ll offer to mediate a play date with the kids involved?
‘—I’m sorry to say there was an incident and I had to discipline Juan.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘You had to—it was Juan?’
Ms Tan nods. ‘We had a new student join our class last week, Varisht. Sweet boy. A little shy at first, but he’s been opening up. Last Friday, during morning playtime, Juan was reading by himself in the book corner, as he often does, when all of a sudden he got up, walked over to Varisht, who was playing with a group of students, and pushed him to the ground. As you can imagine, I rushed over and took Juan aside. And when I asked him why he pushed Varisht, he said “He’s smelly.”’ Ms Tan’s gaze shifted from me to Natalia and back again. ‘Afterwards, I caught some of the other children copying Juan, saying Varisht is smelly. He was quite upset—his mother had to pick him up.’
I can’t picture it—not my boy. Not Juan. He wouldn’t do that, he’s a light. Beside me, Natalia’s eyes are wide, her lip buried in her mouth.
‘The school has a zero-tolerance policy towards bullying,’ Ms Tan says. ‘But obviously this is more complicated than just the pushing.’
I shake my head. ‘This doesn’t make any sense. Juan’s the one being bullied.’
‘Sorry?’ Ms Tan says.
‘It’s his name—haven’t you seen it? He tells us that the other kids tell him his name is a number and not a name—Juan.’ I hold up my index finger as Juan did. ‘One.’
I look to Natalia for support, but her lip has been swallowed and there are tears in the corner of her eyes.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve missed something,’ Ms Tan says. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for that kind of behaviour, but we do need to address the matter at hand. Has Juan… Is there an influence at home that could lead to—’
‘You think that… We wouldn’t… We’re not racists,’ I say.
Natalia wipes her eyes and shakes her head.
‘Could he have heard this kind of thing somewhere else? Sometimes older members of the family can be an unfortunate influence.’
‘No, Natalia’s family isn’t in the country, and my parents are in Melbourne. I don’t know where he could have—’ And then it comes to me. ‘It was the others,’ I say. ‘The other kids.’
Ms Tan shakes her head. ‘I understand this is hard to hear, Mr Steinberg, but I saw Juan push Varisht with my own eyes.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘You don’t get it. For once it wasn’t him being picked on. He heard the others and was trying to fit in.’
Ms Tan narrows her eyes. She doesn’t believe me.
‘It was just instinct,’ I say. ‘He didn’t want to be at the bottom anymore.’
Ms Tan folds her arms across her chest. ‘Mr Steinberg,’ Her voice is calm yet sharp. ‘I know that you’re upset, but please sit down and moderate your tone.’
I don’t remember standing. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to.’ I sit down. I’m sweating again.
Natalia opens her mouth as if to speak. A tear, caught on her upper lip, rolls in. She says nothing.
On the drive home, the surrounding mountains feel ominous. They’re a circle and once you step inside you’re spinning—round and round, round and round.
Twelve years old. A new school. Jewberg, they called me. I wasn’t too bothered by that. But come summer, swimming was a mandatory part of PE. Getting changed in the toilet stalls meant you were a pussy, same if you tried to cover yourself with a towel.
‘What the fuck is wrong with your dick, Jewberg?’ a boy said.
‘What?’
‘Looks like there’s a turtle sitting on your dick.’
I hadn’t dared look at any of theirs, worried they’d catch me, call me a faggot. But I did then. They were covered in skin that extended past the tip, like they were wearing a little stocking.
‘Oh—I’m circumcised.’
‘Looks fucking weird, Turtle Dick.’
Turtle Dick—that’s how easy it is to change a person. Penis drawings slipped into my locker: the head segmented into a shell, a kippah perched on the tip. Weekly dackings. ‘Let us see it, come on Turtle Dick, come out of your shell!’
I bought a belt and made extra holes with a knife. Boys pulled hard enough for the leather to cut into skin, to tear shorts my mum had to mend. I pretended to be sick every swimming lesson. Snuck out of bed in the middle of the night to shower at school camp.
‘I know it seems like the end of the world right now,’ the school counsellor said, ‘but it won’t last, nothing does. Remember, this too shall pass.’
Turtle Dick didn’t pass, but it did fade—by Year Twelve I was Turtle. It’s written below my name in the yearbook in italics. My stomach still clenches like a fist when I hear the word.
*
Every Friday evening, my division has drinks at Hotel Kurrajong—two storeys of four-and-a-half-star luxury, situated just off the Parliamentary Triangle. I don’t attend often, but it’s been a long week, and my mind feels like a rusty hinge in need of a little oil.
I stay close to the bar’s golden facade and bow-tied bartender and manage to avoid being roped into conversation for the length of two beers. But as I order a third, and the knot between my brow begins to loosen, Simon Meyer and Alex Ward from Corporate Communications and Strategy catch my eye, wave me over.
‘Maybe you can settle something for us,’ Alex says. Both he and Simon are wearing tailored suits and polished dress shoes. Each of them graduated from The University of Sydney’s prestigious business school, elite private schools before that—the department attracts a certain type. ‘You seen this?’ Alex hands me a pamphlet titled RECOGNISING THE SIGNS: RADICALISATION. On the cover are the smiling faces of five teenagers of varying ethnic backgrounds.
‘Alex reckons we recommend a blanket approach for distribution,’ Simons says. ‘But I’m thinking targeted—Punchbowl and Auburn in Sydney. Campbellfield and Cragieburn in Melbourne.’
On the first page of the pamphlet is a phone number along with the tagline: The smallest piece of information can save lives.
‘It’s not like they’re going to dob in their own,’ Alex says. ‘This needs to get in the hands of the voters who wanted to stop the boats.’
I flip to a page titled SIGNS OF RADICALISATION IN TEENS and read the headings:
LIMITED SOCIAL RELATIONS
INCREASED ANGER
PROTECTIVENESS WHEN USING THE INTERNET
Simon shakes his head at Alex. ‘The radicalised ones are giving them a bad name. Community members are our best bet.’
I turn to the next page and read:
Ideally, individuals will disengage from violent extremist behaviours before they break the law, but if an individual is committed to the performance of an act of violent extremism, they will be subject to the full force of Australia’s security legislation, including life imprisonment.
Life imprisonment. I mouth the words and they sit on my tongue like stone. What about the boys who miss the school bus on purpose? The ones whose hands tremble at their lockers every morning. Those who curse their parents for being different and making them the same. Wouldn’t you take the hand that’s proffered?
‘So, what do you think?’ Alex says.
I take a sip of my beer. ‘I—I’ve got to take a piss.’ I hand the pamphlet back to Alex, place my near-full glass on the bar, and head straight for the exit.
*
Natalia’s in the living room when I get home, glass of wine on the coffee table before her. She’s hardly said a word since the meeting with Ms Tan. I know what that means—she’s meditating on something and a resolution is coming.
‘Sit,’ she says. ‘I need to talk.’
‘Okay,’ I say, and take the seat on the couch next to her.
‘Once in Bogotá, I was with Marcie, walking home. This boy, this rufián, he punches Marcie on her nose—takes her bag. He tries to take mine, but I hold it and scream “Ayuda! Ayuda!” so loud. He tries to punch me, but I’m screaming, and people come out of their houses. He runs away, and I keep screaming, so he won’t stop.’ Natalia looks at me intently, refusing to break eye contact. ‘I know what you think—this is not Colombia. But it is in boys here too. I walk in Civic, they look at me—I know the look. I’m on Northbourne and they shout from their cars, call me puta. I’m not doing anything. I’m walking and they shout, slut!’
I know what she’s going to ask, but I wish she wouldn’t. I’ve been trying to turn my mind away from the thought since we spoke to Ms Tan.
‘Talk to Juan,’ Natalia places her hand on mine. ‘Por favor, mi amor. He’s up—I said you’d read his book when you got home.’
I want to stand up and walk out the door I just entered. I want to tell Natalia that I can’t, that I don’t know what to say, that I’m weak and small and a coward, but instead I say ‘Okay.’ Natalia kisses me on the cheek.
I take the stairs one at a time, hoping I’ll somehow find myself stuck in an optical illusion and never reach the top. Right now, before this talk, I’m a safe space, a saviour even. The bad guys—they’re at school. And every evening, I ride in from work on my white horse, surrounded by a golden aura, to save Juan from their malevolent clutches. What if, after this talk, Juan feels like I’ve sided with the bad guys? What if he turns away from me—turns inward? If home is no longer safe, if I’m not safe, where can he go?
Juan’s door is open. His bedside lamp is on and he’s sitting up in bed facing in the doorway. ‘Daddy!’ His smile is the aurora borealis.
‘Buddy!’ I lean over, wrap him in my arms, thinking only about the moment’s end, and then I hate myself. ‘Do you want me to read oso tonto?’
‘Sí!’ He’s a supernova.
Oso tonto, silly bear, is Juan’s name for Winnie the Pooh. We’ve been working through The Complete Tales by A.A. Milne. His favourite character is Piglet. Juan likes the way he is small and brave. ‘Like me,’ he says.
I sit down on Juan’s bed, take the book from his nightstand and place it on my lap. ‘Buddy,’ I say, ‘can we talk about something before I read?’
Juan’s eyes shift gradually from the book in my lap to meet mine. ‘Sí,’ he says, slowly.
‘The other day, Mami and me, we went to school and spoke to your teacher, Ms Tan.’
Juan looks away from me, shifts his gaze to the toys in the corner of his room.
‘Do you like her?’
Juan shrugs and sinks lower into his bed.
Something rattles inside me—a warning tremor. What I’d give to not have to keep going.
‘Ms Tan told us you pushed a boy. You called him smelly. Did you do that?’
Juan turns away from me and buries his face into his pillow.
Everything between the walls of my chest implodes. ‘Buddy—buddy?’ I sigh. ‘You need to understand that hurting people is not okay and that there’s nothing wrong with being different. No one deserves to be treated badly just because they’re different.’ I should stop, ask Juan to face me, make sure there’s contrition in his eyes, but I don’t. ‘We’re all just people, living our lives, all the same. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, buddy—buddy?’
Juan makes a sound. It could have been a ‘sí’ muffled by his pillow. I don’t have the guts to clarify.
‘Okay, buddy, should we read oso tonto?’
The back of his little head shakes from side to side.
‘Oh—okay. Do you want me to get Mami to sing to you?’
Juan shakes his head again.
‘Do you want me to sing to you?’
‘No,’ he says into his pillow.
I feel porous, as though my insides are leaking out.
*
It’s been a week since I had the talk with Juan. He was a little quiet and sulky the next morning, but by evening his natural brightness shone again. I’m thankful.
Alex and Simon walk out of Hideout Cafe, and I duck my face into my phone.
‘It’s hubris,’ Alex says, ‘the position goes to their head.’
‘First Bronwyn Bishop,’ Simon says, ‘and now this. What’s next, G5 to Vegas?’
They’re talking about the junior minister in our portfolio who resigned last week. A report of his parliamentary expenses included a car service to and from a high-end brothel. I’m laughing though—the federal police’s requested reforms have been put on the back burner. They’re concerned about more bad press, and suddenly I’m home in time to eat dinner with my family, to ask Juan about his day and have a real conversation with Natalia. She has an idea for an online store that sells eco-friendly and recycled fabrics.
There’s a student-free day at Juan’s school today, and Natalia suggested she bring him over for lunch. I’m sitting at a table fifty metres from my office, glancing up from my phone every few seconds to look for my family. I see them. Natalia’s wearing the mustard wrap-around dress I like. Juan has on a Peppa Pig T-shirt and an oversized bucket hat that flops down in front of his eyes. He hasn’t seen me yet—his eyes are on the ground and, as ever, his lips are moving. He looks up, pulls back his hat and his eyes widen. He lets go of Natalia’s hand and runs, limbs akimbo, arms outstretched. I’m up and quickening my strides—one, two, three and I’ve got him. I squeeze him against me.
‘Daddy!’ Juan squeals.
Natalia catches up to us. ‘Hola,’ she says and kisses me on the cheek.
After we place our orders, a woman wearing active wear sits down at the table behind us. A black lab on a lead is connected to her wrist. Beside me, Juan is transfixed.
‘I have news,’ Natalia says. ‘Marcie found a manufacturer in Bogotá—they use the skin of coffee beans—all sustainable.’
‘That’s great,’ I say.
Juan pushes himself up from his seat and walks over to the dog. He stops a step short and looks up at the woman. ‘What is his name?’ Juan asks.
‘Her name is Kiki,’ the woman says, smiling.
‘Kiiiikiiii,’ Juan repeats.
‘Do you want to pat her?’ the woman asks.
Juan nods and gently raises his hand to Kiki’s ears. At Juan’s touch, Kiki wags her tail, stretches her neck forward and licks Juan on the face. Juan giggles, and wipes his cheek. That smile—it could diffuse an international incident.
I grew up with dogs and always wanted one for Juan, but they made Natalia uneasy—she’d seen too many strays in Bogotá, too much hunger and disease.
‘What do you think?’ I say and nod at Juan behind her.
Natalia spins around and watches Juan for a quiet moment. She smiles. ‘Maybe.’
*
It happened again. Two men with knives in London. Four dead, six wounded. A police officer is in critical condition. They tied the knives to their wrists with straps of torn leather. You can’t drop a weapon that’s tied to you even if asked. Both attackers were shot dead. They were eighteen and twenty-one years old.
I’ve spent the day writing urgent briefings and Q&As for the Minister. The ball is rolling again and it’s all but certain the federal police will get their expanded powers applicable to anyone they ‘suspect or believe, on a reasonable basis, has access to terrorist-related funds or other assets that could be used to finance terrorist activity.’
Reasonable. Define a reasonable basis to upend a person’s life. A place of worship? The colour of their skin? A surname? The way they speak? The knives used in the attack were ceramic. Four pounds ninety-nine apiece, purchased at a self-service checkout.
It’s nearly eight by the time I pull onto the parkway. My stomach rumbles and I taste the bitter stink of my coffee breath. I haven’t eaten since the cable came in from Foreign Affairs and Trade this morning.
I pull up to a red light and unlock my phone—still nothing. A shapeless sense of doom has been itching at me all day. Each time I checked my phone, I expected to find an urgent voicemail from Natalia, her words choked out through tears. ‘Juan—our bebé. Call me, por favor. Call me.’
But when I texted her to say I was going to be late her reply was instantaneous, nonchalant:
—Todo bien xxox
I hear the TV when I open the door, but then it stops and there are footsteps from the living room. Natalia walks up to me and kisses me long and hard on the mouth. ‘Cómo estás, mi amor?’
‘All right,’ I say. ‘How’s he been today?’
Natalia shrugs. ‘Quiet, but he ate dinner, went to bed easy.’
I turn to the stairs, but Natalia grabs my hand. ‘Quédate,’ she says, ‘that cara de verga is going to be eliminated tonight. I can tell.’
‘Okay, just let me get changed first.’ I let go of her hand, give her a light kiss and make my way up the stairs.
Juan’s room is dark. Natalia must have forgotten to turn on his night light. I step in, bend down and switch it on. Juan is lying on his back, eyes closed.
‘You awake, buddy?’
Juan lies still in his bed. Too still. His chest rises and falls, but the rhythm is uneven. His eyes move beneath their lids, and I know he’s holding them shut, like the hatches of a ship in a storm.
‘Buddy?’
Juan doesn’t stir and my legs are suddenly weak. I sit on the edge of his bed and take a deep breath. My exhale is a ragged whimper. I wipe my eyes and wonder about his secret thoughts. Would he listen if I spoke? Natalia’s laugh echoes up the stairs. A gentle buzz emanates from the night light. Minutes pass, and I’m still sitting here, watching my son, afraid to look away.
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