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240 pages, Hardcover
First published April 2, 2020
“People can see you, but they don’t want to see who you are.”
“He is a walking set of choices and consequences: love thy neighbour, the greater good, take your pick. This image of him—of them—filters and echoes through her memory, there are a thousand iterations or more. She can never be certain of its imprint or impact. She tells herself the story as it unfolds from this moment. She does it to understand him, and so to believe in his cure.”
“They all know, everyone knows, that he did it partly for them, partly for himself, there is no way to disentangle the motivation and purify it.”
“So, the question would be—is it better to tell all of the truth, one hundred per cent, and get deported, or is it better to tell mostly the truth, with a few untruths, and become legal?”
“The glass was spotting with rain again and there was something sublime in how the red and yellow lights outside were permeating each individual bubble of water with colour.”
“They have come from the government, the logo is all over them, they think they are invincible, that is how these people see themselves. Someone has told them that they are the good guys, like those superhero films, where the audience is instructed to cheer for each every violence act committed in the name of freedom.”
“Already she was looking back at life and saying to herself, I was young then, as thought that idea of youth was over.”
“There had always been this relationship with fiction, she imagined it could offer her blueprints for living, loving, dying—that it could save her, let her know how things should be.”
“But then you would never intervene in anything,’ he said, not in an arguing way, just with this odd, eerie hush in his voice. ‘Let me ask you something. What about the basic idea of just being there? Just taking part, responding to need, not walking on by. To be present rather than absent, to forgo being a bystander?”
“‘It’s like that. Let’s say that being legal is better than being illegal. So far so good, lah? Telling the truth is better than lying. Again, who is going to disagree? But if you want to apply to become legal, then by doing the application and alerting people to yourself, you are running a very large risk of being deported from the country. So, the question would be – is it better to tell all of the truth, one hundred per cent, and get deported, or is it better to tell mostly the truth, with a few untruths, and become legal?’”
“‘Look,’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand – someone like Shan or Guna or anyone else – they are going to do this anyway. You know that. You know that the situation is dire in Sri Lanka, that people are risking their lives on a daily basis, come on, Nia. What do you think? That my being involved has any effect other than this: making sure that I can point them towards the most reliable, careful way of doing it?’”
You’re right, he thinks, I have taken something from you by living here, and simultaneous, in dream, like hands closing round a neck in threat, pressing as if they might close off the cord of breath, shut things down so fast, he thinks . . . but I can live too. If I live, does it really mean you will die, lady? If my boy comes here, my small tiger cub, my baby son, does it mean that your sweet boy will die? What if my boy had died there, lady, in my country? What then?
‘The things you people throw away!’ he said, getting out of the car,
He talked her through the routine. This was a good time generally to pick up discarded items in good condition; after a few hours you would have the problem of dew. You wanted to be looking for furniture rather than utensils or electrics: tables, chairs, drawers, that kind of thing.
“She began to formulate an appropriately withering reply (come on, they may be white, but these are more your people than mine, you’re the one who is the big guy restaurateur in this bloody bourgeois area, the skips I know in Newport are not like this, and so on,”
“By ‘doing the skips’, Mira meant she was doing what they had done whenever things got to their worst and their mother was out of action – gone to the skips of the local supermarkets after dark and rifled through the packages for unused food. The safest parts were from the bakery – bread rolls, Danish pastries, bagels, all baked that morning and thrown that night. They didn’t ever take the fish or meat, even if they were in three layers of clingfilm, not just because you might get sick, but because by that point, if you were rifling through rubbish, you weren’t about to start cooking when you got back.”
“She had her mother’s curves and hair, but a new voice by now, shorn of the Welsh wool. That was one of the first things she did at Oxford, along with getting rid of her home bleached locks. She remembered wearing those new vowels like furs, feeling that showy and ridiculous. It wasn’t just the accent, it was the timbre of those new vowels like furs, feeling that showy and ridiculous. It wasn’t just the accent, it was the timbre of her voice. She’d worked on lowering it from the baby girl pitch to which it sometimes leaned.”
‘I am looking for Mr Tuli,’ she said in one of those generic Eng lish voices: class less, accent less and as well constructed as her outfit. It takes one to know one, thought Nia, and she could tell straight away that the woman had done a good ironing job on whatever her original creasing would have been.