At the Border
fiction by Quinn Tyler Jackson

Noushin stood at her mother's side, pulling at her arm, through the whole fight to get out. The guards went on and on in fast, frantic official speak about the paperwork, but paperwork didn't matter to a little girl.

"You need your husband's permission to take your daughter out of the country," the smoking man said.

"I did not think I would need my husband's permission to do any such thing," her mother said, pulling her daughter closer to her.

"When are we going home?" Noushin asked. "I want to go home."

And on and on it went. There were fat, skinny, tall, short men, some smoking, some carrying guns, some carrying papers, some wearing glasses, others wearing helmets. In all of it, the only two people in the room who didn't change, or move, or grow or shrink were Noushin and her mother. They were the light, the others were the moths, and around them they flew, with their questions, with their answers, with their rules and regulations. They didn't have tweed overcoats like Noushin's mother.

The talking went on for so long that the girl had to pee. She tugged at her mother's tweed coat, looked up at her, and let her plight be known. The moths would wait until the girl came back with her mother from the washroom.

"Why can't we go home?" the girl asked when they were in the washroom, washing her hands. The water was the only cool thing in the whole place. It was her only relief from the heat she had never known until her mother brought her on the jet to this different place, on the border.

"I don't have a letter from your father giving me permission to bring you out of the country," her mother said. "I wasn't thinking about things like that when we came. Too many years over there ... I forgot about such stupid things.

Noushin knew this much. She had been listening to all the words, and although many of them didn't mean anything to her at all, she knew this. This letter, this permission, this thing that hadn't been thought of, this forgotten step in the game they were playing with her mother. It told her nothing of why she was not flying home.

"I just want to go home," she said to her mother as they walked out of the washroom and back into the moth cage.

"As you have been told, Mrs. Nourzadeh," a tall one in a sweat soaked shirt began immediately upon their return to the well lit room, "you cannot leave with your daughter without your husband's permission."

"Can you accept his permission over the phone?"

"We have no official way of knowing that someone on the phone to whom we are speaking is your husband, the father of the girl," the tall one replied.

"I want out of this country," Noushin said, directly to the tall one.

At first, the tall one didn't seem to notice that Noushin had spoken. When she repeated herself, he at last looked at the girl and said:

"She speaks with an accent. Sounds ... funny."

"Funny? You think we're laughing?" her mother snapped. "You think this is funny?"

"Say something to me, little girl," the tall one said.

"I think everyone who has come into this room has taken too much sun, and you're all crazy," Noushin said.

Little Noushin's mother gave her a nudge, and Noushin knew that she had spoken out of place, but she added:

"That's probably why you won't let my mother take me home. Too much sun on the tops of your heads. Like moths around a fire."

"Noushin! What is your death? Don't be so rude!"

The tall one smiled.

"Now, now, Mrs. Nourzadeh, let the child speak. Why do you think we won't let you leave with your mother, girl? Be my guest and tell me your thoughts."

Her mother's face went red with anger. Noushin knew she should not speak - it would make her mother even more angry - but the tall one had a gun on his belt. Would the heat drive him crazy enough to shoot them if she didn't speak her thoughts?

"I came here with my mother to visit my grandmother and family," she said. "It's hot here and I want to come home. The sun has made you all crazy." (Maybe that was why her mother's face was so red?) "Crazy! You want to hear my father tell you that he wants to see me back home, where we live?"

"Where do you live?" the tall one asked.

"Now I know you're crazy!" she said. "How many times do you people have to read those papers you're holding to know that?"

The tall one laughed.

"How old are you?" he asked, looking at the paper.

"You know. It's on that paper in big letters. The heat. The heat has made you stupid. You people know everything but you're too stupid to know anything."

"Noushin! That's enough!" her mother screamed.

"Now, now, Mrs. Nourzadeh, I asked her to speak her mind, and she is speaking. You have a big mouth for a such a little girl," he said directly to Noushin.

"I want to go home, she said. This isn't my home. My father is at home. We want to be with him."

Her mother walked in circles as the girl spoke.

"How do I know that your father isn't here and that he doesn't want you to leave the country? How do I know, little girl?"

Noushin sat on the floor, crossed her arms in front of herself, and said:

"My mother is not a girl, and you won't listen to her. You can't even read. How do I know even if my mama had the letter you want, that you could read that? You people are stupid from heat."

The tall one started to laugh, and then left the mother and child in the room alone. Noushin's mother's face was contorted with anger at her daughter.

"I cannot believe this!" she screamed. "You talk to the officials so rudely! We'll never get out of here!"

Little Noushin did not answer. Instead, she sat on the floor, with her arms crossed, and started to rock back and forth. Ten minutes later, the tall one came into the room with another man. The fat man was holding a phone on a long cord and a small pad of paper. They brought the phone to the table.

"Come here," the tall one said to the girl.

Noushin stood, walked over to the table, and sat at a chair.

"Speak to this official," he said. "He is a very important government official. He can't be here, in the room, so I phoned him. He's a very important official. You tell him what you think."

He handed the receiver to her.

"Be polite!" her mother yelled.

"Hello there," Noushin said. "This tall man here says you're very important. Let us go home, if you're so important."

"Noushin?

"Baba! Please tell them that you want us home!"

"I will, Noushin, darling, I will. Let me speak to your mother."

"Baba wants to speak to you," Noushin said, holding the receiver out.

Her mother started for the phone but the tall one held out one hand and put his other on his holstered gun. When her mother saw this, she stopped.

"Baba, they won't let mama come to the phone. These people are crazy from the heat."

"Are you two okay?"

"We are fine," she said.

"Let me speak with one of them."

Noushin handed the phone to the tall one. He took the receiver and started speaking with her father.

"I apologize, Mr. Nourzadeh. Yes, they are fine. Yes, I repeat, they are fine. Surely, we just needed to absolutely know it was really you on the phone. Yes, they are fine. Yes, we will let them board the jet. Next time, be sure to write a letter permitting your child to be taken out of the country. Yes, I said, they will be allowed to leave. Immediately. Yes, they are fine. You have a fine daughter and wife, Mr. Nourzadeh. Fine girl. Yes, they are fine."

After hanging up the phone, the tall one said:

"You have a very smart daughter, Mrs. Nourzadeh. Ahmed, did you get all those notes down?"

The fat one nodded as he continued to write on the pad.

"Have an enjoyable flight home," the tall one said as he opened the door that led to the jet that would take them home.

Noushin sat in the jet beside her mother with her arms folded through the whole flight to get out. Her mother went on and on in fast, frantic parent speak about manners, but manners didn't matter to a little girl.

Copyright © 2002 Quinn Tyler Jackson
All rights reserved

About the Author

        Quinn Tyler Jackson has been writing since he was twelve. At various stages of his career, he has been an artist's apprentice, antiquarian bookseller's assistant, gas jockey, freelance editor, literary agent, stay-at-home father, and computer software and hardware consultant. Through it all, he has always written poetry and fiction and has usually, when presented with two paths, taken the one that holds the promise of enlightenment, however worn.

He is a member of Mysterium, Ultranet, the Poetic Genius Society, and he has been a member of the Editors' Association of Canada, the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers, and the Association for Computing Machinery. He lives in Western Canada with his wife and three children, where he continues to nurture his lifelong fascination with language. You can learn more about Mr. Jackson's writing and his latest novel at his website.