When the Moon Is Low (27 page)
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.
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.
THE RIDE TO THE PRISON SEEMED AN ETERNITY. SALEEM COULD
feel the sweat trickle down his back. His window was open about an inch—just enough to make him wish he could roll it down more.
“Please, sir, I must go. I will leave Greece tomorrow. I will not be a problem. I do not need help.”
“You will leave tomorrow? Very easy, yes?”
Sarcasm was never lost in translation.
They reached the outskirts where tourists dared not venture, and Saleem’s cheeks were hot with tears. They passed by the narrow road that led to the Yellow Hotel, an unimaginatively named lemon-colored building. He fixed his eyes on the street but saw no one. In an hour the sun would start to set and Madar-
jan
would begin to worry.
At the prison, Saleem was led past desks and officers, most barely looking up as he passed. He was taken toward the austere back of the building where two African men and one Greek man sat in a cell. Saleem felt the urge to run for the nearest exit, but with every passing
minute, his chances at valiance grew slimmer. The older officer motioned to another policeman to open the cell for Saleem.
“Get in.”
Think,
Saleem told himself.
Think of something to say that will make them pity you. Something that will make them let you go.
“Please, I will go home. Please let me go, sir,” Saleem said, making one more ineloquent plea for mercy.
“You will go. You will go here.”
With a quick shove to his back, Saleem stumbled into the cell. His shoulders hunched in defeat. The other prisoners glanced over with the kind of vague interest that idleness breeds. The men had no desire to make eye contact, much less conversation. Saleem shuffled to the back corner of the cell, about twelve feet by twelve feet in size, and sulked like a caged animal. He leaned his back against the cold wall and slowly slid to the ground, his knees bent against his chest.
Madar-
jan
would leave Samira to look after Aziz while she searched for him, Saleem knew. She might try to find the pawnshop. Perhaps the store owner would tell her that the police had stopped Saleem. Maybe she would faint or become hysterical right there. Saleem reviewed the afternoon’s events and kicked himself for being so careless. The man of the family sitting, useless, in a jail cell. His adolescent muscles burned at the thought of his mother and siblings left on their own, the money from his mother’s gold bangles tucked into his left sock where it did them absolutely no good.
SALEEM SPENT THE NIGHT IN PRISON
.
In the solitude of the crowded cell, he had time to reflect. Saleem had spent months looking over his shoulder and worrying about this very scene, winding up in a cell. He no longer had to worry about it. The sense of dread was gone, though replaced with new fears.
As his mind settled, he took stock of the men around him. Two
African men sat side by side, mumbling to each other without the effort of eye contact. The Greek man would look at the others and grunt, his face twisted in annoyance. His cell-mates ignored him mostly. Saleem’s mind wandered.
Life would be different if my father were alive.
It wasn’t a new thought, but it felt especially loud and true as he wondered what would become of his family. When he needed to break his train of thought, he stood and walked the length of the cell, keeping close to the wall, but it was of little use. His mind was just as much a prisoner as he was.
Saleem nodded off intermittently over the course of the night, waking up with his neck stiff and pins and needles in his legs. He changed position frequently and grew to hate the smell of the concrete floor.
Should I tell them the truth? Wouldn’t they pity me? If they knew what happened, they couldn’t possibly send me back to Afghanistan. But what if they did?
IN THE MORNING, HIS STOMACH GRUMBLING, SALEEM WAS TAKEN
into yet another room for questioning. He was seated across a bare table from a new officer, who had introduced himself with a name that sounded like it started with the letter G. It was too foreign and cumbersome for Saleem’s tongue. The officer blew a dense cloud of cigarette smoke across the table. Saleem held his breath and exhaled slowly, hating to let this man’s smoke waft through his lungs as if it had every right to.
This officer was very different from the two who had brought him here yesterday evening. He was older, middle aged, and smaller framed. He wore a gray shirt, but paired with the same navy blue slacks and burdened belt of the two who had arrested him. His breast pocket bulged with a pack of cigarettes. Salt-and-pepper hair framed his weathered face, cut so short it stood on end. His eyebrows and mustache curved downward in a way that made his entire face droop.
Officer G spoke English well and did not seem to be in any kind of rush. He looked thoughtful before he started to pose his questions to Saleem. Saleem wondered, briefly, if this man might have pity on him and allow him to go free.
“How old are you?” G’s eyes squinted as he sucked on the filtered end of his cigarette, his teeth yellowed with years of nicotine and coffee.
“Fifteen,” Saleem answered, determined to stay consistent with the answers he had given yesterday.
“Fifteen. Hmm. Fifteen.” There was a pause. “And where do you come from?”
Saleem had spent a good deal of the night preparing for this question. Yesterday, he had told the officers he was from Turkey. But if he told them where he was really from, they might send him back there. He didn’t think he would survive if he was sent back to Afghanistan alone.
“Turkey.” Saleem braced himself.
“Turkey?”
Saleem nodded.
“You are Turkish. Hmm. Why have you come here?”
“I want to study,” he said honestly.
“Study? You cannot study in Turkey?”
Saleem did not respond.
Officer G pulled a sheet of paper from under his notebook. He slid it across the table. “Read this.”
Saleem looked at the paper. He recognized the writing as Turkish. The characters were the same as the English alphabet but with dots and curved accents that reminded him of Dari. He had learned conversational phrases but knew he would stumble horribly if he tried to read. He was cornered. He wet his lips and reminded himself that this officer was not Turkish. He probably couldn’t read the text either.
“Please, mister, water?”
The officer cocked his head to the side and stood. “Water? Of
course.” He exited the room and returned with a small paper cup that held no more than one sip, barely enough to wet his mouth. Saleem accepted it and felt his hopes for mercy wane. He looked back down at the page before him and started to sound out the words with as much confidence as he could muster. He looked up at the officer.
“Translate, please,” Officer G said casually, taking the cigarette pack out of his pocket. He used his last cigarette to light a new one.
Saleem’s whole body tensed. Was he being toyed with? His breathing quickened, and he felt his throat tighten. He wanted to be back on the cold, gray ground of the cell. The officer waited for his response.
“You are not from Turkey,” he declared simply when he saw Saleem squirm in his chair. “I ask you again. Where are you from?” His words were carefully enunciated so that there would be no mistaking the question or its importance.
