International

“We weren’t supposed to be here.” Kwame’s strong voice rings out among the ocean. We’re crammed into a small fishing boat, barely large enough for all of us, and the sails are at the will of the winds.

“Even if we weren’t,” I respond calmly, “we’re here now.”

“Stop trying to be the bigger man, Antonio,” Leon hisses from his corner of the boat, “nobody cares about how civil you can be. Just shut the fuck up and paddle.” Everybody quiets down after that. I did my hand into the cool water, and pull. Something brushes up against my fingers, and I yank my hand back out again. Two babies in the frail hands of Ms Pavlov start to wail and whine, and she rocks them gently, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’ll take them, Ms Pavlov.” I offer, but she shakes her head.

“Very sweet boy,” she smiles weakly, “but am okay.” The boat sways slightly.

“This is the dingiest fishing boat I’ve ever been in,” Louis complains, “and I’ve been in a lot.”

“Shut up, Louis,” Alaia yawns and shakes her head, “just…shut up.” Louis looks down at his feet and sniffs.

“You’re not the only one on the boat, you know,” Louis’s voice wobbles, “you’re not the only one who’s tired.”

“Excuse me?” Alaia snaps. “You think I don’t know that? You’re lucky you always have a place to back to if the going gets tough. I…I don’t. The most of us…don’t.” Louis keeps his mouth tightly shut after that. Junior nibbles quietly on a small chunk of bread. The chitter of the teeth is the only sound in the wide sea. The sky is murky grey, like someone draped a worn out plastic bag over the world, and poked holes in it to make stars. I drift my fingers in the water. Cold. Still. Indifferent.

“I wish I still had my Momma and Poppa.” Junior cries suddenly. His wail echoes through the lonely ocean. “Auntie’s so mean. I had to get away. I had to.” Alaia wraps her arm around Junior’s shoulders and lets him sob into her ruined shawl. Leon shivers and leans into Otto, and we all huddle together for warmth. The boat shakes vigorously at the sudden shift in weight. The night is cold. Still. Indifferent.

“Where are we going again?” Juan, Alaia’s husband, gets out through chattered teeth.

“England,” I say quietly, and to my shock, they lean in to listen, “we’re going to England. A place where…where Aunties’ aren’t mean,” Junior nods his head, “and…and fishes are still around,” Louis grins, “a place where there’s a house,” Alaia’s eyes glisten, “and family that’ll stay.” Kwame gives a small smile. “Where there’s no bombs,” Ms Pavlov beams through a teary face, “and children are safe.” The babies in Ms Pavlov’s arms giggle and reach towards me. “And there’s no mean Mamas and Papas. Not at all.” Leon and Otto hold each others’ hands. “And no one has to go hungry. Never.” My own stomach growls.

“But where are we?” Junior cries once again.

“If only we had a map.” Leon sighs.

“Where’d our boat driver go?” Kwame rubs his eyes.

“Never showed up.” Alaia reminds him. I look out to the sea. The ocean is cold. Still. Indifferent. But nothing can stay as it is supposed to.

“Guys,” Alaia’s panicked voice resonates in the air, “the boat. There’s a hole.”

“Shit,” I run my hand through my hair. “What do we do?” The boat bobs ever so slightly. We take it as an ever-present omen. The water is coming in short gushes now, with Alaia and Juan shuffling away from the hole where liquid drips out. The boat leans, groaning and creaking, under the pressure of too much weight. Junior and Louis, fright etched on their faces, scramble over to my side, and the boat evens out again. The water is up to our feet now, and Ms Pavlov is sobbing, babbling and praying to the empty night sky that the water will not be the end of us. Kwame crouches to stay above the water, but he can’t keep his balance, and falls backwards. Into the side of the boat.

You know those stories? Those cautionary tales of sorts? The funny thing about those is you never think it’s going to happen to you. For a while, it feels like it won’t. But nothing will stay as it should, as it is. Nothing is quite like it’s supposed to be.

The boat gives up under Kwame’s fall, dunking him, Leon, and Otto underwater, and the rest of us are left screaming on the cracking side of the boat. I see Otto grab his brother’s hand and tries to keep them both above the surface. But he can’t. Leon slips out of his grasp.

“Leon!” Otto cries. And it is not a sensitive cry. Not a cry to be taken lightly. Otto cries of desperation, of sincerity. Despair bleeds into the tone of his voice. He tries to dive into the water to rescue him, but Leon is gone. Kwame fights to keep his head above water. But I can see it in him. He is tired. So, so tired. He was tired when he got on the boat, tired when he fell out, and tired now. He is too tired. He was too tired when he got on the boat, too tired when he fell out, and too tired now. I see his legs stop moving. Then his arms. And even if he doesn’t sink like Leon, Kwame is already gone. Alaia and Juan are trying to lug Otto back onto the boat, but Otto stays in the water.

“Otto,” I plead, but Alaia looks at me. She tells me everything with her eyes. He has to be there. “You have to live, Otto.” I snivel. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

“You have to,” Otto croaks, “life is a losing game. The point is to make deal with the cards you were given.” Even though he’s still there, still here, Otto too is gone. The boat is no longer a boat. It is a few planks of wood, floating randomly in the abyss. Alaia and Juan cling onto the same piece.

“Alaia,” Juan forces out, “promise m-me o-one thing.”

“Anything.”

“You,” he pauses to breathe, “will not let go.”

“I won’t.”

“No matter what.”

“No matter what.” Juan smiles a sad grin, and he breaks his own promise. Alaia shrieks, cries, sobs, babbles, and tries to get him back. But he is lost to the waves. Like everyone else. I find myself holding Anastasia and Ivanna, and look everywhere for Ms Pavlov. But she is nowhere. I spot her headscarf drifting lonelily in a small wave, and blink back tears I didn’t know I had. Alaia looks me dead in the eye.

“Antoni,” her voice wobbles, “what is the point?”

“What?”

“Antoni, what is the point?” She yells. “Junior and Louis are lost. Otto is frozen. Kwame has drowned, and so has Leon - Ms Pavlov sunk, and Juan…Juan…” Alaia breaks out into a wild sob. She howls, whines, wails. “I can’t do it,” she rambles, “Antonio, I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can,” I don’t bother holding back the tears, “yes you can.”

“No,” her fingers inch towards the edge of the piece, “I can’t.”

“Alaia!” But she is for the sea now. In a way, it brings me comfort the sea holds them together there, instead of where they were so unhappy before. It brings me peace in a way I know it shouldn’t.

I wake up from a slumber I didn’t know I was in. Anastasia and Ivanna are tucked into my neck. My head bobs, bobs, bumps against something firm, yet soft. Sand. I stand up slowly, turn around, and hold the girls close. Somewhere in the distance, I can make out a sculpture I think is the Eiffel Tower. France. I made it in a way I didn’t want to. But I still made it. And I can feel everyone smiling their way down on me as I crawl away from the shore.