Free An American Brat by Bapsi Sidhwa Page B

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.
    â€œAre you a student?” he asked.
    â€œWhat?” 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.
    â€œWhat’re you speaking — English? Do you want an interpreter?”
    â€œNo.” Feroza shook her head and, managing a somewhat louder pitch, breathlessly repeated, “I’m a tourist.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI desire to take your sworn statement regarding your application for entering the United States. Are you willing to answer my questions at this time?”
    â€œY-es,” Feroza stammered, her voice a doubtful quaver.
    Why was she being asked to give sworn statements? Was it normal procedure?
    â€œDo 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 God?”
    Feroza looked at the man, speechless, then numbly nodded. “Yes.”
    â€œIf 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?”
    â€œY-yes.” By now Feroza’s pulse was throbbing.
    â€œPlease speak up. What is your complete and correct name?”
    â€œFeroza Cyrus Ginwalla.”
    â€œAre you known by any other name?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat is your date of birth?”
    â€œNovember 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?
    â€œHow long do you wish to stay in the United States?”
    â€œTwo or three months.”
    â€œWhat’ll it be? Two months or three months? Don’t you know?”
    â€œProbably three months.”
    â€œProbably?”
    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.
    â€œWhere 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.
    â€œWith my uncle,” Feroza said.
    â€œWhere will you stay … What is the address?”
    The officer spoke with