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(excerpt)
Her wide-open eyes soaking in the new impressions as she pushed the cart, a strange awareness seeped into Feroza: She knew no one, and no one knew her! It was a heady feeling to be suddenly so free—for the moment, at least—of the thousand constraints that governed her life.
The two panels of a heavy exit door at the far end opened to allow a stack of crates to pass, and, suddenly, Feroza saw Manek leaning against the demarcation railing just outside the exit. One ankle comfortably crossed over the other, arms patiently folded, Manek had peered into the abruptly revealed interior also.
After an initial start, and without the slightest change in his laid-back posture, he at once contorted his features to display a gamut of scatty emotions—surprise, confusion, helplessness—to reflect Feroza’s presumed condition. At the same time, he raised a languid forearm from the elbow and waved his hand from side to side like a mechanical paw.
Feroza squealed and waved her whole arm and, with a huge grin on her face, steered the cart towards him. She was so excited, and also relieved, to see him. Even from the distance, his skin looked lighter, his face fuller. He had grown a mustache. Knowing him as she did, his deliberate insouciance and the regal wave of the mechanical paw filled her with delight. He hadn’t changed as much as her mother had imagined. He was the same old Manek, except he was really glad to see her. Three years of separation have a mellowing effect, make remembered ways dearer. Feroza’s heart filled with affection for her former tormentor. Having no brothers, she hadn’t realized how much she missed him.
A woman in a blue uniform, stationed at a counter to the left of Feroza’s path, checked her. “Hey! You can’t leave the terminal. Your passport, please.” She held out her hand.
The woman read the white slip inserted in the passport. She looked sternly at Feroza. “You must go for secondary inspection.” Again the cryptic instruction.
The woman said something to a man in a white shirt and navy pants standing by her. She showed him the slip and gave him Feroza’s passport.
Feroza noticed the “Immigration” badge pinned to the man’s shirt. He motioned to her.
As she followed him, Feroza quickly glanced back at the exit to see if Manek was still there, but the heavy metal panels were closed. An inset door in one of the panels opened just enough to let the passengers and their carts through, one at a time.
Feroza followed the immigration officer past the row of ribbonlike wooden counters. A few open suitcases lay on them at uneven distances. These were being searched by absorbed customs inspectors who acted as if they had all the time in the world at their disposal. The weary passengers standing before their disarrayed possessions looked subdued and, as happens when law-abiding citizens are accosted with unwarranted suspicion, unaccountably guilty.
The man led her to the very last counter and told her to place her bags on it.
Applying leverage with her legs, struggling with the stiff leather straps that bound the suitcases, Feroza hoisted the bags, one by one, to the counter.
“Are you a student?” he asked.
“What?” The officer leaned forward in response to Feroza’s nervous mumbling and cupped his ear. He had slightly bulging, watery blue eyes and a moist, pale face that called to Feroza’s mind images of soft-boiled eggs.
“What’re you speaking—English? Do you want an interpreter?”
“No.” Feroza shook her head and, managing a somewhat louder pitch, breathlessly repeated, “I’m a tourist.”
“I’m an officer of the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service, authorized by law to take testimony.”
The man spoke gravely, and it took Feroza a while to realize he was reciting something he must have parroted hundreds of times.
“I desire to take your sworn statement regarding your application for entering the United States. Are you willing to answer my questions at this time?”
“Y-es,” Feroza stammered, her voice a doubtful quaver.
Why was she being asked to give sworn statements? Was it normal procedure?
“Do you swear that all the statements you are about to make will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you ...?”
Feroza looked at the man, speechless, then numbly nodded. “Yes.”
“If you give false testimony in this proceeding, you may be prosecuted for perjury. If you are convicted of perjury, you can be fined two thousand dollars or imprisoned for not more than five years, or both. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.” By now Feroza’s pulse was throbbing.
“Please speak up. What is your complete and correct name?”
“Feroza Cyrus Ginwalla.”
“Are you known by any other name?”
“No.”
“What is your date of birth?”
“November 19,1961.”
He asked her where she was born, what her nationality was, her Pakistan address, her parents’ address. Had her parents ever applied for U. S. citizenship? Was she single or married? Did she have any relatives in the United States? Anyone else besides her uncle?
“How long do you wish to stay in the United States?”
“Two or three months.”
“What’ll it be? Two months or three months? Don’t you know?”
“Probably three months.”
“Probably?”
The officer had placed a trim, booted foot on the counter; her green passport was open on his knee. His soft-boiled, lashless eyes were looking at Feroza with such humiliating mistrust that Feroza’s posture instinctively assumed the stolid sheath of dignity that had served her so well since childhood.
“Where will you reside in the United States?” The officer appeared edgy, provoked by her haughty air.
An olive-skinned Hispanic customs inspector in a pale gray uniform sauntered up to them. He had rebellious, straight black hair that fell over his narrow, close-set eyes.
“With my uncle,” Feroza said.
“Where will you stay... What is the address?”
The officer spoke with exaggerated patience, as if asking the question for the tenth time of an idiot.
“I don’t know,” Feroza answered, her offended expression concealing how stupid she felt, how intimidated.
“You don’t know?” The man appeared to be suddenly in a rage. “You should know!”
But why was he so angry?
The Hispanic customs inspector with the unruly hair indicated a suitcase with a thrust of his chin. “Open it.” He sounded crude and discomfitingly foreign to Feroza.
Rummaging in her handbag, Feroza withdrew a tiny key and tried clumsily to fit it into the lock.
“What is your uncle’s occupation?” her interrogator asked. “Can he support you?”
“He’s a student. But he also works at two other jobs to make extra money.”
She had stepped into the trap. Didn’t she know it was a crime for foreign students to work, he asked. Her uncle would be hauled before an immigration judge and, most likely, deported. She would have to go back on the next available flight. He knew she was a liar. She had no uncle in America. Her so-called “uncle” was in fact her fiancé. He wished to point out that she was making false statements; would she now speak the truth?
Feroza could not credit what her ears heard. Her eyes were smarting. The fear that had lain dormant during the fight, manifesting itself only in an unnoticed flutter of her heart, now sprang into her consciousness like a wild beast and made her heart pound. “I’m telling you the truth,” she said shakily.
Sensing that some people were staring at them, Feroza cast her eyes down and took a small step, backing away from the luggage, wishing to disassociate herself from the intolerable scene the man was creating. The key dangled in the tiny lock.
“Open your bags,” the customs inspector said, intent on his duty. He sounded hostile.
Feroza fumbled with the lock again. She unbuckled the leather straps, pressed open the snaps, and lifted the lid. She opened the other suitcase.