“We need to get him to a doctor in England. The medicine is not doing what it used to. His color is not good, and again he is looking so tired.” Madar-jan looked defeated. Saleem wondered how his brother would fare on the journey ahead. “I’ll call your aunt tomorrow and tell her of our plans. Maybe things are better for them now.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Saleem-jan, we cannot depend on them. It’s important to remember that.”
“Why? She’s been telling us to come to London. Didn’t she promise to help once we got there?”
“It’s just that sometimes people want to help . . . but something gets in the way. I want us to be ready to rely on ourselves alone since it may come to that even once we get there.”
“Never mind with that, Madar-jan. We’ve got a room for tonight. The girl from the aid organization found it for us. Let’s go now before it gets late. All that rain last night, maybe it was roshanee, just like you always say.”
Madar-jan’s face twinkled like embers stoked by a breeze.
She quickly gathered their few belongings and they set off to find the Hotel Kitrino, the Yellow Hotel. The owners were a gray-haired couple, kind enough to touch Aziz’s cheek softly and to show them to a room. When Madar-jan tried to ask what they needed done so she could begin right away, they gestured for her to sleep the night and begin tomorrow.
ON THURSDAY, MADAR-JAN REMOVED THE GOLD BANGLES HER father had given her before her wedding and gave them to Saleem with a heavy heart. They had been placed on her mother’s wrists when her parents wed. Her father had hidden them away until it was Fereiba’s time to marry. It was all she had of her mother. She’d loved to hear them clink together softly every time she reached into a drawer, while she washed the dishes, and as she turned the page of a book. She would look at her wrist, coils of gold dancing with her every movement, five perfectly round embraces from the mother she’d never seen. Her father had undone the velvet drawstring pouch and put the bangles in the palm of her hand, closing his fingers over hers in a single, quiet moment. Had his eyes grown moist or had she imagined it? He was with his bride again, the woman who would never be replaced and whose absence had fractured their lives. Fereiba understood in that moment that while her father mourned his wife still, he’d never understood how his daughter mourned her mother. It was his loss and his alone. She did not hate him for this flaw, but she was able to see him more clearly. KokoGul had been right about him all along. Her father was content to contain himself in his orchard; his myopic love failed them all, not just Fereiba. No wonder KokoGul had picked up and moved on with her daughters.
And though it had been her father to put the bangles in her hand, it had felt as if her mother had drifted in while Fereiba slept, slipped them over her daughter’s fingers, and slid them onto her arm. It was the gentle touch of a mother, a touch Fereiba had never known until she’d held Saleem in her arms for the first time, pressed her lips to his forehead, and realized she had much to give him, much that she’d never received.
Saleem knew none of this when he took the bangles from his mother. He could see only that she looked uneasy.
“My mind is restless today. I wish you would leave the pawnshop for tomorrow. We can stop by on the way to the train station. We could all go together.”
“It’s not far and we don’t have much cash left, Madar-jan. Who knows what will happen in Patras. We’ll need money for food and the ferry or else we’ll be stranded.”
“But today . . .”
“I’m going, Madar-jan. If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England.”
Fereiba bit her tongue. She began to dress Aziz and asked Samira to wash some of their clothes. She was going to see to what needs the hotel owners had. She turned away as Saleem put the bangles into his pocket and buttoned it to make sure they would not fall out.
Fereiba did not see the hesitation on her son’s face—that second where he considered his mother’s warning and chose to ignore it because he wanted to be braver than her.
“I’m going to the pawnshop now and then I’ll be back in two hours,” Saleem promised.
It was a promise he would not keep.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 30
Saleem
AN ENTIRE LIFETIME CAN CHANGE IN ONE AFTERNOON. THE rest of the world can continue on, unaware of a quiet, solitary cataclysm occurring a few feet away. A police officer stood to Saleem’s left, twirling a set of keys on his finger. A second officer rested his outstretched palm on the concrete wall above Saleem’s right shoulder. He could feel the officer’s breath on his cheek.
“Where do you stay?” The smell of garlic on his breath made Saleem’s stomach turn. He dared not look away. He stared at the caricature of himself in the officer’s sunglasses—his eyes wide and fearful. His adolescent face hadn’t taken on the angles of manhood yet. A shadow lined his upper lip but nothing more.
“Again, please?” Saleem felt his voice quaver. In the few weeks he’d been in Greece, Saleem had picked up a few phrases but not enough to sound convincing. He tensed his shoulders, hoping to steady his words.
“Where do you sleep? Where is your home?”
The officers huffed and shook their heads at his blank stare. They were lighter in complexion than Saleem’s deep olive skin, his color deepened by the months he’d spent working under the sun. The officer with the keys gave in and spoke in English.
“Where do you stay here?” he said, angrily.
Saleem’s mind raced to come up with a plausible story. He couldn’t lead these officers back to his family.
“I not stay. I am visitor. I come for shops,” he explained meekly, pointing in the direction of the stores down the street. The officers both snickered.
“Shops? What did you buy?”
“Ehh, nothing. Today, nothing.” Saleem willed them to lose interest.
“Nothing? Okay. Where is your passport? Papers?”
Saleem’s stomach reeled. He tasted bile. “Passport? I do not have my passport.” The owner of the pawnshop opened the door, saw the two officers on either side of his last customer, and quickly retreated into his shop.
“No passport?” The officers exchanged a glance that Saleem could not interpret.
“My friend . . . he has my passport.”
“What is your name?”
“Saleem.”
“Where are you from?”
Saleem felt his heart pounding in his ears. Could he make a run for it? Unlikely. He was pinned against the wall in a busy market. Tourists walked in and out of shops, door chimes dancing in their wake. A dark-skinned street peddler kept his eyes averted as he packed his dancing stick figures into a sack. People walking by looked over with vague interest barely enough to slow their steps. Only the gray-haired man grilling corncobs seemed sympathetic. He wiped his hands on his half apron and nudged the fallen husks into a pile with the toe of his shoe.
It was hot enough to sweat even in the shade. Saleem was thirsty and hadn’t eaten since last night. If he ran, they would overtake him quickly. The officers wore blue uniforms, felt berets, and button-down shirts tucked crisply into navy slacks. He stared at their thick belts weighed down with radios, handcuffs . . . pistols. Running was not an option. Neither was refusing to answer their questions.
“I am . . . I am from Turkey.” Saleem had rehearsed this part with his mother at least a hundred times and even more on his own. Other refugees had warned him about the chain of questions. He hoped they’d advised him wisely.
“Turkey?” The officer seemed repulsed. He shot the key jangler a knowing glance. “And how did you come here?”
Saleem nodded. “Airplane.”
“Who came with you?”
Saleem shook his head. “I came alone.” He prayed nothing in his voice or his eyes gave him away. He kept his hands glued to his sides.
“Alone? You are how old?”
“I am fifteen.”
“Fifteen? And where is Mama? Pa
pa?”
Saleem shrugged his shoulders.
“They are not here?” The older officer was losing patience, his thumbs hooked on his ominous belt. Saleem shook his head. They exchanged a few words in Greek, their angry expressions needing no translation. Saleem knew international law entitled minors to asylum, but he’d also learned that on the streets, those laws offered as much protection as a broken umbrella in a hurricane.
The officers looked him over, head to toe. Saleem shifted his weight, feeling their eyes on his black polo shirt, the collar and shoulders outlined in a white stripe. His jeans were frayed and faded, washed repeatedly in a sink with cheap soap. His clothes had fit him snugly back home but now, months later, they hung on his frame. The thinned rubber soles and blackened laces of his sneakers attested to his brutal journey. The English-speaking officer looped his keys onto a ring on his belt and nudged Saleem’s shoulder to spin him around. He patted Saleem’s waist briefly before mumbling something to his partner.
“Turn around.” Saleem did as he was instructed, his eyes glued to the ground. “No passport? No papers?”
Saleem shook his head again. His three-hundred-dollar Belgian passport was in his rucksack, back at the hotel. He’d left it there, fearful he would lose it before the next leg of their journey.
“Come.” The instruction was simple. Saleem thought his chest might burst. He could not go with them! What about his mother? Saleem looked at the officers and stole a quick glance at the cobblestoned path busy with souvenir hunters and locals. Was there something he could say to dissuade them? Could he buy his way out? If he followed, he’d surely be whisked away to jail, probably even shipped back home.
He was fast. He had always been fast, but in the last few months he had probably become even faster. He was unmistakably lighter on his feet and felt stronger, having carried his siblings and their modest baggage. The more he thought about it, the more convinced Saleem became. He could do it. He should do it. If he went with the officers, there would be no one to take care of his mother, sister, and brother.
Saleem’s feet sprang to life, almost without his consent. He ducked under the officer’s arm and ran furiously. He raced past the pawnshop, past the corn seller, his shoulders bumping against startled tourists. He heard yelling behind him. Off the main pedestrian way was a hopeful maze of side streets. Saleem ran down an alley on his left with smaller shops and fewer people. Just a few meters and it ended. He could go right or left. With nothing promising in either direction, he went left. He needed to put distance between himself and the officers, but he couldn’t head back to his hotel.
Saleem turned another corner. A resting stray dog lifted his head curiously as Saleem panted and surveyed his options. Which way? This part of Athens was disorienting; there were no guiding landmarks but Saleem knew a main road was just a few blocks away. He rounded a corner and ran directly into a couple, their arms encircling each other’s waists. They stumbled, cursing as Saleem steadied himself and raised an apologetic hand. The alley opened into a plaza with an old church in the center, a relic surrounded by posh modern shops. His eyes scouted the intersection, looking for the next twist in this labyrinth. He felt conspicuous, wild eyed and exposed.
The metro, Saleem thought.
But where was it from here? Saleem pressed his back against a wall as he searched for a clue. The street sloped downward and, from what he remembered, the metro station was lower than the rest of the market. He hadn’t been on it since that first day, not wanting to squander their funds while his own feet carried him fine. He took a deep breath and set off running again, his eyes scanning the scene in search of blue uniforms. He didn’t see any. He kept his head low and wove through people, hoping for human cover. His mother’s voice echoed through his thoughts, just long enough to propel his shaking legs.
My mind is restless today. I wish you would leave the pawnshop for tomorrow. We can stop by on the way to the train station. We could all go together.
It’s not far and we don’t have much cash left, Madar-jan. Who knows what will happen in Patras. We’ll need money for food and the ferry or else we’ll be stranded.
But today . . .
I’m going, Madar-jan. If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England.
Saleem would later regret being short with her, but he could not think of that now. The metro sign loomed in the distance. His pace quickened. He stopped short at the arched entrance, a bridged staircase that led to the open tracks. His calves burning as he listened for the rumble of the approaching train. He could see nothing in the distance yet. Saleem did his best to appear calm, wishing he could better conceal himself, but he needed to stay close.
The vibrations passed through his thinned soles. He stole a nervous glance at the booth just inside the entrance and rehearsed his plan. Jump the turnstile just as the train pulled in, board it before anyone could stop him, and take it as far as he could possibly go. Even better, he’d switch at a connecting station and stay on the system until he was sure he had lost the officers. Saleem could not help but break into a smile as he saw the steel giant turn the corner. He would not tell his mother about the police officers.
Just as he lunged for the turnstile swearing he would listen to his mother’s intuition every time going forward, angry fingers clawed into his shoulder and pulled him back. He spiraled around. His arms flew outward, but there was nothing to catch.
The train was loud enough to muffle Saleem’s cries as it pulled in and out of the station.
CHAPTER 31
Fereiba
MAYBE THIS IS HOW IT IS MEANT TO BE. A WIFE WITHOUT A HUSBAND. Children without a father. Perhaps incomplete is the very definition of a normal family. Where did my lofty expectations come from anyway? Afghanistan is a land of widows and widowers, orphans and the missing. Missing a right leg, a left hand, a child, or a mother. Everyone was missing something, as if a black hole had opened in the center of the country, sucking in bits and pieces of everyone into its hard belly. Somewhere under our khaki earth is everything we’ve ever lost. I’ve heard the gray-haired Afghans living in foreign lands say, “Bury me in Afghanistan when I die. Return me to the land I came from.” They say it’s for love of country, but maybe it’s because they think they’ll be reunited with all they’ve lost there. Others stubbornly refuse to leave Afghanistan, no matter what is happening in our streets. Maybe because they think the earth will open up and return to them all that has been stolen.
I believe in no such thing.
What is gone is gone and will not come back. When the earth swallows, it swallows forever and we are left to stumble along feeling the absences. These are our burdens.
My son is hardened. He is becoming a man without the guidance of a father. I let him run with boys because he cannot be around women only. I can only teach him what I know. He needs to learn the ways of men and I pray that he will be safe while he does so and that I will be able to pull him back if he strays too far. He will resent me more if I do not give him this space. Already his words and accusing eyes are those of a man while his face and body remain that of a boy. He’s not the boy he was a year ago.
I miss the boy Saleem once was, mischievous and coy. I miss his laughter. I miss having his arms around my neck. All these were lost back home, in the land of the missing. Even if we reach England and settle into a new life, I know Saleem will never be that boy again. What is gone is gone.
My children inherited from me the misfortune of a missing childhood, as if the time they spent in my womb stained them with a naseeb of hardship.
Now I wait for Saleem to return from the pawnshop. My gold bangles, the only piece of my mother I had, are gone now and can be counted among the missing. I hated to part with them, but how could I keep them while my children are put to work or hungry? What Saleem brings back will be my mother’s gift to my children. It will not glitter or sing like wind chimes, but it will be her soft kiss on their cheeks.
KokoGul had
never known about the bracelets. Unlikely they ever would have graced my wrists if she had.
“So what else have you hidden from me, dear husband?” she’d asked in a half tease. “Maybe these walls are full of treasures gathering dust. Why did you not let me keep those bangles in a safe place?”
“What place could be safer than somewhere unknown to you?” my father had retorted.
“Well, let me see them at least before they leave this house for good.” KokoGul had beckoned me to her. I’d stuck out my wrist, not wanting to slip them off for even a second. “Hmph. From a distance they looked thicker. Actually, they are very thin and flimsy. More like gold plate.”
Every hallway creak brings a tightening in my chest. I hope Saleem returns soon. He had said two hours, but it has been much longer. I should not worry. When he returns, he’ll tell me he got caught up playing soccer with friends, that he lost track of time because he was with boys, the afternoon sun bright on his face. I will shake my head at him, but I will be happy for him, too. If only his father could see him now, our wayward boy, carrying his family on his back. My husband would put his arm around me and grin as he did when one-year-old Saleem took his first triumphant steps.
Things will be better once we get to England. Despite what her husband says, I know Najiba will help us. We will have them to lean on until we find our way, but it will not be long, God willing. If we have gotten this far, we can make a life for ourselves in any country. We need only a chance. Somewhere in the world, there must be a place where we will be welcomed as a long-lost sister, not stoned away like an unwanted snake in the garden.
Please hurry back, Saleem. The hour is late and my faith too shallow to reassure me much longer. Please come back soon.
CHAPTER 32
Saleem
When the Moon Is Low Page 20
