When the Moon Is Low (42 page)
Burim lunged in her direction with a growl. Saleem realized what was happening, and the pipe slipped from his fingers, clanging loudly to the ground.
“Mimi!” he shouted.
There was a pop. Burim stopped in his tracks and spun around so that he was looking directly into Saleem’s bewildered eyes.
Saleem jumped back. He looked from Burim to Mimi.
She was shaking. She dropped the gun and covered her mouth with her hands. She looked at Saleem.
The street was empty. The nearest cars were two blocks away. Two or three lights had turned on in the building windows. Those who slept lightly were beginning to stir. Mimi recovered first. She kneeled over Burim and dug into his pockets, grabbed his wallet, and snapped the gold chain off his thick neck. He moaned softly but offered no resistance.
She stole a glance over her shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
They took off, weaving around buildings and turning into dark streets to put distance between them and Burim.
They were silent as they fled. Panting. Looking over their shoulders.
“Wait,” Mimi finally said. She put her hands on her knees and leaned forward to catch her breath. “I need to stop.”
She looked ghastly pale, even under the yellow glow of a lantern. Saleem knew he must look the same. Things had gone terribly wrong. Burim was not supposed to have seen his attacker. Mimi was supposed to look surprised and helpless at the attack. But Burim had seen their faces, had realized they had duped him, conspired against him.
“Mimi, we need to hide.”
They went to her apartment. She quickly tossed a stack of folded clothes from the chair into a duffel bag.
She’d had no intention of staying here after tonight, Saleem realized.
SALEEM AND MIMI WAITED UNTIL AFTERNOON TO GO TO THE
apartment building she had pointed out.
“I wait here for you,” she said and pointed to a bench half a block away. She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and blew on them. The sun did little to warm her.
Saleem entered the old building. It was an uninviting warren of decay—cigarette butts scattered through the hallways, broken handrails on the stairs, and a flickering wall lamp. Radios and televisions buzzed behind closed doors, but there was not a person in sight.
He checked the apartment number, took a deep breath, and knocked. He took a nervous step back and waited. There was a click, and the eyehole cover slid open. After a moment, the door opened slightly, and a man stood before Saleem with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He wore an unbuttoned black shirt over jeans, his silver belt buckle a proud emblem on his waist. Somewhere in his late thirties, he looked the teenage Saleem over and concluded that he was unimpressed.
Saleem swallowed before speaking.
“I look for work, please.”
“Who are you?”
“I want to go to France. I can work.”
The man sucked on the cigarette he held with two fingers, then tossed it into the hallway. He squinted at Saleem as he exhaled.
“Who send you?”
“Mimi,” Saleem said quietly. She’d told him to use her name, afraid he would not get far without it.
“Mimi, eh?”
“Yes.” Saleem heeded her advice and kept his answers brief. The door opened a little wider and, with a nod, Saleem was invited in.
The apartment was larger than Mimi’s but much filthier. There were clothes everywhere, crumpled food wrappers, and a coffee table topped with plates of food and several mobile phones. The television blared. Saleem reminded himself not to stare. The door closed behind them.
“Where are you from?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan?” he said, thick eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why you want work?”
“My family is in London. I want to go there.”
Saleem had second thoughts, his pulse racing. He had just caught a glimpse of a handgun tucked in between the cushions of the sofa. He stayed focused on the man before him.
“You have papers?”
“No papers.”
“You know Mimi?”
“Yes.”
“Every man knows Mimi.” He chuckled, his mood lightening. He pinched Saleem’s bicep between his thumb and forefinger and mumbled something to himself. His hands slid down, patting Saleem’s
trunk and then around his waist. He paused when he felt the hard sheath of the knife. He looked at Saleem.
“It is a knife,” Saleem explained. He dared not move. He kept his arms extended. The man untwisted the sheath from the rope around Saleem’s waist. He hadn’t noticed the small pouch that bulged from Saleem’s underwear. The pouch was safe for now.
The man pulled the blade from the casing and whistled, impressed.
“Very nice. A gift for me, yes?”
Saleem opened his mouth to protest but caught himself.
“Yes,” he said.
The man smirked. He tossed the blade onto the sofa.
“This is problem,” he said coolly. “You want to go to London and you have no papers. You have money?”
Saleem shook his head.
“No money.” He grinned snidely. “And Mimi tell you come here.”
“Yes. I want to help you.”
“Oh, you want to help me?” he said facetiously, bowing his head in mock gratitude. Saleem shrank before him.
“You not
help
me. You
work
for me.”
Saleem nodded.
A second man emerged from the next room, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his inked forearms. He looked at Saleem curiously and said something to his roommate before taking a seat on the sofa.
“So you want to work for me, Mister
Af-ghan-i-stan
?” he asked, drawing out the syllables dramatically.
“Yes.”
“What do you think, Visar?” He turned to the man on the couch.
Visar shrugged his bulky shoulders. He noticed the knife on the sofa, picked it up, and turned it over, admiring the casing just as Saleem had when he first found it.
“You like, Visar? Gift from the boy.”
He motioned for Saleem to sit at the kitchen table. Saleem did so and waited. The man reached into a cabinet and tossed a square box onto the table.
“Open.”
Saleem peeled off the tape and opened the box. Inside was a large stuffed bear, a children’s toy about the size of a newborn. He turned it over, confused.
“You take this to France. I give you papers and train ticket from Rome to Paris. You talk to no one until you leave. In Paris, a man wait for you. You give him this. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Now look here.” He pointed to a small round lens sitting on the table and reached over for his laptop computer. Saleem stared at the ball, not sure what he was looking for or at. The man pressed a few buttons, grunted, and turned the lens away from Saleem.
“Train leave eight o’clock tonight from Termini. Change train in Milan and then go Paris. You have bags?”
Saleem shook his head. He had nothing.
The man stood and went into a hallway closet, dug out an empty backpack, and threw in three shirts, a pair of pants, and a magazine from the mess strewn about the apartment.
“Take. You must carry bag like tourist. Put inside,” he instructed, taking the bear from Saleem and stuffing it in. “You leave here now. Come back two hours for papers and the bag. Do not be late.”
Saleem took the bag.
“I said go now.”
Saleem obeyed. He made note of the time so he would know when to return—not wanting to be late or early. He walked outside and into the bright but chilly afternoon. Mimi was not on the bench as she’d promised. He walked around the block, peering down alleys and into the small Laundromat on the corner. She was gone.
Had she planned it? Saleem had to wonder. So much had happened between them in the last two days. She’d been distant since last
night, silent about what had transpired. She seemed neither shocked nor distraught, a melancholy calm to her voice.
At least she has the money,
he thought. When they had finally stopped running, Mimi had pulled the bills and gold chain from her bag. She counted out four hundred twenty euros. She looked at Saleem.
Take it,
he had said.
He took enough from you.
She looked him straight in the eye, as if to gauge his sincerity. When Saleem did not waver, she stuffed the money into the pocket of her bag and kept a protective hand over it. There was no family waiting on her return. There was no one to smile as she walked into a room. Where would she go? Saleem shook his head knowing, by now, that freedom and four hundred euros wouldn’t save her.
AS PROMISED, HE WENT BACK TO THE APARTMENT AT SEVEN
thirty. Visar didn’t bother to invite him in. He handed Saleem a manila envelope and the backpack.
“Hey, boy! Your train leaves in thirty minutes. Do not be late.”
“Okay,” Saleem promised.
Visar was about to close the door when he grabbed Saleem by the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into Saleem’s flesh.
“If you not in Paris when the man wait for you, he find you and he kill you. You understand this?” His tone was icy.
Saleem swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded.
He was released.
Saleem made it two blocks down the street before realizing he was walking in the wrong direction. He checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to get on that train. He opened the envelope and pulled out an authentic-looking Greek passport with his picture and a false name. Saleem stuffed it back into the envelope quickly and looked to make sure no one was watching. Inside the envelope was also a train ticket. Saleem was on the move again, with no time to waste.
SALEEM ENTERED THE STATION WITH A NEW DREAD. TAKING INVENTORY
, he had some valid-appearing papers to show any inquiring officer, a handful of clothes, and a toy stuffed with undoubtedly illegal contents. If he were stopped and searched, the bear would surely draw suspicion.
Five minutes.
Saleem struggled to match the ticket in his hand with the gates listed on the announcement boards.
A tap on his shoulder. Saleem whipped around to find a police officer looking down at him with a frown. His stomach dropped. Before he could bolt, the officer spoke.
“Where are you going?”
“I have a ticket,” Saleem blurted.
“Show me.” He took the ticket from Saleem’s trembling hand and looked up at the board. He pointed to the left. “Gate seven. Quickly.”
Saleem mumbled an awkward thanks and did his best to walk, not run, to the gate. He fully expected to hear a voice call out for him to halt. He dared not look over his shoulder.
Keep moving. Keep walking. Look for gate seven.
He found the gate and turned back around quickly. No one had followed him.
One minute.
Saleem got on board and found the seat number assigned on the ticket. Just in time.
He took the stuffed bear from the bag. A woman sitting across the aisle looked over and smiled warmly. How odd he must have appeared—a boy-man traveling with a beloved stuffed animal. He gave the bear a squeeze. There was something firm within the stuffing, squarish in shape. Saleem pushed the bear back into the bag and warned himself against being too curious.
The conductor signaled the train to set off. Out the window, the adjacent train looked as if it were moving ahead. Then there were trees
and tunnels. Green and gray. Alive and dead. Saleem was as safe as he was unsafe.
He handed the conductor his ticket and waited for an accusing look or at least a question. But Saleem, with his backpack, looked very much like one of the many students aboard this car of the train. The others sat in the seats behind him, laughing loudly and swapping magazines. The conductor moved to the next car, and the students, one by one, tucked headphones into their ears or fell asleep against a neighbor’s shoulder, leaving nothing but the hum of the train.
Saleem thought of his childhood friends from Afghanistan. Had they been allowed to grow up together without rocket-rain, surely they would have been just as jovial and rowdy. But war had a taming effect. Kabul’s children were not children for long.
Roksana was not like this group. She seemed to have absorbed some of the solemnity of her fellow Afghans without ever having stepped foot in the country. Her father’s aloofness had sparked in her an obligation to delve into the struggles of her own people. He admired her for it, doubtful he would have had the same inclination.
Saleem wasn’t sure what he would have been had he had a life like Roksana’s. Two parents, school, a peaceful country. He would not have been this Saleem. This Saleem was the sum of a series of dreadful moments.
He turned the watch on his wrist. A few more scratches on the glass, probably from the night before.
Look what’s happened to us, Padar-
jan.
Had Saleem and his family left Kabul earlier, they could have had a better chance. They could have had a peaceful life in London, maybe near Khala Najiba’s family. Saleem and Samira would be in school now, attending classes and struggling with homework assignments, learning a new language. It was an image so perfect, so imaginary that it played like a cartoon in Saleem’s mind.
But Padar-
jan
had instead chosen to keep his family in Kabul and
hope for better days—despite the growing unrest, the killings, the droughts.
Why did you choose this for us? What good came from us being there so long after everyone else left?
SALEEM AWOKE WITH A JOLT. THE TRAIN HAD STOPPED. HE
looked around and saw new passengers boarding; others had already disembarked. A man was loading his bag into the overhead area.
“Excuse me—Milan?” Saleem pointed out the window.
“
Si,
” he answered with a nod.
Saleem grabbed the backpack and bolted out the train door, nearly knocking over an elderly couple. He threw his hands up in a quick gesture of apology. He had only thirty minutes, he had been told, to find the connecting train that would take him to Paris. He hoped the train hadn’t been stopped long. He dug the tickets out of the envelope and again tried to match it up with the information screens that flashed overhead.
