Go home terorists!

Priya had been to the Canadian Forces Base at Esquimalt once before to visit the naval museum. She remembered her brother tugging her braids to annoy her but had no recollection of their parents being there with them. The memory was quite possibly a complete fabrication.

Gigovaz’s car was waved through the security checkpoint and they headed for the processing facility, a grey slab set on a finger of land, hemmed in by forest and ocean. The sun had risen fully and here the sky was completely cloudless, the ground dry.

There were news vans in the parking lot. Cameramen shouldered equipment while reporters flipped through their notes. A podium was set up across from the building and a young man fussed with a sign that hung in front of the lectern.

Who’s giving the news conference? Gigovaz asked.

Minister Blair, the man replied.

Public Safety, Gigovaz told Priya. Not Immigration. Interesting, don’t you think?

Tarps lined the walkway to the entrance. A half-dozen people stood in a row holding homemade signs that they lifted up and down while chanting in unison. A man in a CTV news jacket panned his camera from right to left. Gigovaz walked past, oblivious. Priya read the signs. Send the illegals back! Go home terorists! She wanted to point out the misspelling.

Inside, the processing facility was deserted. At the front desk, Gigovaz spoke to a woman in a bowler hat, her hair in a bun. She gave them lanyards and Priya put hers around her neck. It had a blue V on one side and when she flipped it over, she saw her name and face on the other. It was her office ID photo, the one that had been taken a month earlier as she sat on a stool in the mailroom while a guy with a mullet instructed her not to blink. She looked startled and prim in the picture.

Where is everyone? Priya asked.

After you, Gigovaz said, making an exaggerated motion with his left hand and pulling open a heavy door with his right.

Outside was a commotion of voices and movement as helicopters droned overhead and ambulances idled. They were behind the facility now, facing another large parking lot, this one covered in white tents. Beyond was the ocean and the harbour, yellow cranes and wooden docks. Priya scanned the vessels until she spotted the cargo ship. It was huge – two hundred feet maybe – with a long white hull and a blue cabin toward the stern. Streaks of bubbling rust cut vertical lines down its side.

The sheer number of refugees was overwhelming, the queues that stretched out from every tent and table, winding and intertwining so that it was impossible to discern where one line ended and another began. Men, women, children, people of all ages, bedraggled and malnourished, shivering under blankets even though it was summer. Priya spotted a woman with an eye patch, a child hobbling along with the help of a stick, but for the most part there seemed to be little injury, which surprised her until she realized that of course these were the survivors. Arrival of the fittest.

People brushed by in all directions. A uniformed officer motioned for Gigovaz and Priya to step aside as two women in hospital scrubs hurried past. Volunteers in red shirts carried boxes labelled H2O. Almost everyone wore masks over their mouths and noses. The bustle had an aura of chaos and bureaucracy. Priya deciphered the acronyms: Canadian Border Services Agency, Canadian Forces, Victoria General Hospital, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Gigovaz attacked his BlackBerry with both thumbs as he walked. Keep an eye out for Sam, he said.

Person, place, or thing? she wanted to ask.

They passed a tent with a red cross printed on its side. A handmade sign read Mask Required. The door flap was pinned back and Priya caught sight of brown limbs, blood pressure cuffs, and running shoes. A nurse ran out and bent over, her head down as if searching for a lost earring. She was covered from neck to shoes in translucent yellow plastic. A man in short-sleeved scrubs followed. He wore a surgical cap, latex gloves, and goggles. A stethoscope was draped over his shoulders. Deep breaths, he said, putting a hand on the nurse’s back.

In the cacophony of voices, Priya listened for the Tamil, trying to gather up a word here and there. But the accents were long steeped and she was used to her parents’ diluted version of the language.

A man in a wheelchair clutched a plastic bag in his lap. One of his legs ended in a stump. Behind him, a woman clasped hands with a pair of girls. One had two long braids. The other had a short, straggly cut, uneven, as if she had taken a knife to it. The pungent combination of chili powder, body odour, and urine that wafted ahead of them made Priya hold her breath. The shorn girl gazed over her shoulder unblinking as they passed by, and her stare was so accusatory it sent Priya stumbling back. Remembering Gigovaz and fearing she would reel into him, she spun around, but he was gone. Spotting him at the entrance to one of the larger tents, she hurried through the crowd, relieved for an excuse to move.

We can take five adults and linked minors, Gigovaz was saying to a dark-skinned man with a caterpillar moustache.

The moustached man had a clipboard and a fat yellow folder.

Sam Nadarajah, he said, introducing himself to Priya. I’m with the Tamil Alliance.

Gigovaz waved a hand in Priya’s direction. This is my articling student.

Priya Rajasekaran, she said quickly, before Gigovaz could butcher her name. She didn’t like the way he’d said my articling student.

An officer came out of the tent, herding a group of Sri Lankan men. Gigovaz, Sam, and Priya quickly stepped out of their way.

This can’t be only three hundred people, Gigovaz said.

Sam put his clipboard between his legs and tried to open his folder. His pen fell down. He said, There are more than we expected.

Priya picked up his pen and handed it to him.

Romba nandri, he said, thanking her in Tamil, and Priya heard how soft his accent was at the edges.

No problem, she said in English.

Right now, it seems closer to four hundred, he told Gigovaz. Maybe five. We knew the size of the boat and we thought three hundred maximum. No one was prepared for this many.

Have you chosen my clients? Gigovaz said. Has Immigration taken their statements?

Medical checks, processing, statements, it is all in progress. No way to know…might take some time. Sam glanced at Priya, then added: There are not enough translators and it’s holding everything up. Can you, maybe –

Gigovaz was already scrolling through his texts. That’s fine, he said. I’ll try to get a few things done in the meantime. Where do you need her?

The main medical tent, Sam said. There is only one nurse who speaks Tamil.

Priya opened her mouth.

It’ll be hours before we meet our clients, Gigovaz said, still focused on his phone. You may as well be useful.

Priya’s face felt hot. But I –

Come, Sam said. I’ll introduce you. It’ll be a huge relief for them.

Wait! Priya’s voice came out high and strangled. I can’t, she said. I don’t speak Tamil.

Gigovaz looked up. What?

I’m sorry.

I thought you were Tamil, Gigovaz said.

I know a few phrases here and there, Priya said. But I can’t translate. I can’t carry on a conversation.

Both men stared at her.

You never asked, she said, wincing at the whine in her voice.

Gigovaz let out a breath of frustration. How are we supposed to communicate with our clients?

I thought there would be an interpreter, Priya said. This is not my fault, she thought.

Sam said, Okay. No problem. We have some people from the Tamil Alliance on their way. I’ll assign one of them to you.

Someone called to Sam and he shook their hands quickly. I’ll text you, he told Gigovaz. Nice to meet you, Priya.

I’m glad we’re working together, she said in Tamil. She felt the unfamiliar sounds mangle up in her mouth and was embarrassed. She should have just said goodbye in English.

While her back was turned, Gigovaz had walked away and she had to race after him again.