When the Moon Is Low (34 page)
In the last year, as I’ve tried to give my children a safe life, I’ve felt more like a criminal than anything else. Even righteousness is an ambiguous thing.
From Greece to Italy, from Italy to France. It is now the last leg of our journey, from Paris to London on a silver-and-yellow train that looks like a rocket blazing through an underground path. It is on this last voyage that I leave Aziz in Samira’s care and gather our Belgian passports. I slip them into my black leather handbag and take them with me to the restroom in our car, a narrow square of stainless steel. One by one, I rip each page of the passports into tiny shreds and let them fall into the toilet like the snowflakes that will meet us in London. I tear them apart and undo our false identities. I am again Fereiba. My children are again Samira and Aziz.
I’ve been cautioned by the people who had gotten me this far.
They must not see your passports. Do not tell them how you got there. Tell them only that you want asylum. Tell them why you had to run. Tell them how they came for Mahmood—what happened to him might be the only thing that saves you.
The customs check in London will go very differently than all the others. This time we will be honest and put ourselves in our most vulnerable position yet. Thus far, we’ve cowered and ducked and lied every time we passed an official. In less than an hour, that will change.
My hands shake as I stand over the toilet and watch to be sure every last flake vanishes into the swirl of water. I lean against the wall and steady myself with a hand on the steel sink. It is refreshingly cool to the touch.
Metal. It is everywhere. The trains, the rails, the stations. Each train stop is a beast of permanence. Soundly constructed with the glint of modernity. This sink, the tracks, the roof over the station—they are the difference between the Afghan world and this world. This world stands strong and shiny and capable. From our homes to our
families, Afghanistan is made of clay and dust, so impermanent it can be sneezed away. And it has been, over and over again.
I want a life that won’t crumble between my fingers. I’ll be returned to dust one day, but until then let me and my children endure.
I think of my father, alone in his browned orchard, sleeping in a grove of organic rubble. I don’t know if he is alive or dead. It’s been so long since I last heard his voice. I know why he refused to leave. He learned to love the transience of everything, an acceptance that can only come when we near the end of the road. Whether the end comes today or tomorrow does not matter to him. He is ready to be returned to the earth. In and out, he will breathe the dust of the crumbling orchard walls and the soil of the gardens every day until, like an hourglass, his lungs fill. Time will stop then.
It is easier to love my father from a distance. From here, I do not see his weaknesses or his failures. From here, I see only those glimmering moments when he looked at me as his best and most precious child, those moments when he talked about my mother and made me feel whole. The rest of my childhood . . . well, maybe it’s best if it crumbles to nothing.
I meet my reflection in the mirror. I look much older than I remember. I touch the skin of my face. It feels rough. I’m almost glad. I never was a very delicate creature. Every day, my skin thickens and I find myself doing things I never imagined doing, not even with the help of my husband. The stronger I am, the better our chances of survival.
I’ve left them too long. I need these moments though, moments when I can step away, collect the pieces of myself and return to them as a mother.
But the seconds tick on and I must return to my two children. The moment we’ve been preparing for is almost here.
A HALF WEEK LATER, ROKSANA RETURNED. SALEEM SCRAMBLED
for what he would say to her. He hadn’t felt good about the way their last conversation ended. He hoped she hadn’t detected the ugly twinge in him. She did the usual distributions with her colleagues before making her way over to Saleem.
“Can you meet me in the playground where you stayed with your mother? Later tonight—around eight o’clock?” Saleem agreed, ready to apologize, but she moved on quickly. Before he could attempt any further conversation, she and the other volunteers had left.
Saleem did not want to miss his meeting with her. He spent the afternoon listening to Abdullah and Hassan tell the same tired mullah jokes they’d told a thousand times before. The one about the mullah and the pumpkin. The one about the mullah and the one-eyed donkey. Afghans loved to poke fun at their clergymen.
“The guy walking along the riverbank sees the mullah on the other side and calls out to him: ‘Hey, how do I get across?’ and the mullah says: ‘Are you a fool? You are across!’”
Hassan chuckled. To laugh at a joke he’d laughed at as a boy in Afghanistan was to call to mind better times. There was a sweet nostalgia to these droll vignettes. Had Saleem been less anxious about the hour, he might have appreciated them more.
He spun his watch around his wrist. Judging by the sky, it was probably nearing seven o’clock.
“My friends,” Saleem yawned. He rose to his feet slowly, hands on his knees for support. He arched his back and let out a soft grunt for good measure. “My back is so stiff . . . I think I need to walk around a bit.”
“You sure you want to walk? If you’d like, I can have my chauffeur take you for a drive.”
Saleem forced a smile.
“Maybe next time.”
AT THE PARK, THREE YOUNG GIRLS PROPELLED THEMSELVES
upward on the swings, pushing their legs out and bringing them back in as they swooped back down. Two school-age boys climbed a wooden ladder and crossed a play bridge. Their parents watched on, stealing sidelong glances at Saleem.
He made them uneasy. It might have interested them to know that they terrified him.
He consciously stayed back, sitting on one of the farthest benches and keeping his gaze off into the distance. He considered walking away and coming back when they had taken their children home. But he did not want to risk missing Roksana. She made him feel human again, and he was not willing to pass that up. There was a newspaper on a nearby bench. Saleem picked it up and returned to his seat, pretending the Greek characters on the page made sense to him.
Roksana finally came, standing behind him without saying a word. The children had gone by then, led away by their parents who shot one final look over in Saleem’s direction. She was probably late. Maybe she knew Saleem would have waited all night for her.
“Saleem.”
He spun around at the sound of her voice. Why did it feel wrong for them to meet like this? Why did he feel so awkward about it? There was something clandestine about the hour and the setting.
“Here, try this,” she said, handing him something wrapped in a folded sheet of wax paper. She took a seat next to him on the bench.
“What is this?” he asked, undoing the paper.
“Kebab. My mother makes great kebab. Thought you should try some yourself.” She slid onto the bench, moving the newspaper and taking a seat beside him. The kebab was still warm—the ground meat and spices made Saleem’s mouth water. “So you’ve learned how to read Greek, eh?”
Saleem grinned even as he bit into the meat. The first morsel melted under his teeth and tasted better than anything he could remember.
“You like it?”
“Mmm, it tastes like . . . it tastes like home.” Saleem licked his lips and closed his eyes. “Thank you!”
Roksana laughed.
“You are welcome. Thought you would enjoy that,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you and see if you have any ideas. To get to your family, you know?”
Saleem sighed.
“I don’t know.” Parts of him still felt battered and bruised from his trip over from Izmir.
“I asked the people I know, but no one knows anything about getting documents made. I think it’s because they’re afraid to tell me. I’m so sorry, Saleem. I wish I could help more.”
Saleem was disappointed, but it was a feeling he was getting used to.
“I know you try. It’s okay. I must find another way.”
The farm work, the street life, the hunger, and the beatings had taken their toll. His body was not maturing so much as it was aging
under the stress. He was certain that was what Roksana saw when she looked at him.
“
Ela,
I had an idea. I was thinking about your aunt and uncle. When you get to England, where are you going to go? It is a big country and you’ll be lost without an address. If you give me their names, maybe I can help you to find them? I can search on the Internet. I cannot promise anything, but it would be good to check at least.”
“You will try?” Saleem used the wax paper to wipe the grease from his lips. “My aunt is in London. They live in apartment.”
Roksana took a pen and scrap of paper out of her shoulder bag.
“Write down their names for me. Your aunt, her husband, your cousins. Write it all down, and I will see what I can find.”
“My aunt, her name is Najiba. She is my mother’s sister. Her husband is Hameed Waziri. He is my father’s cousin. These are the names I saw on the letters they sent to us in Afghanistan.”
“Good,” Roksana said, stuffing the scrap of paper back into her small bag. “And another thing, Saleem.”
Anything,
he thought.
Just sit here with me and keep talking
.
Saleem was content to listen to her, to watch her lips move, to watch the way she pushed her bangs away, and the way her lashes fluttered.
“I know it is not easy to be in Attiki.” Attiki was a nice way of saying homeless. “And I thought . . . I just wanted to say that if you want, you can come to my house this weekend for a proper bath. I thought it might make you feel better.”
Saleem’s face lit up. He turned to look at her directly. Under the glow of the streetlamp, Saleem could see Roksana’s face blush.
“My mother and father will be away from home for some time this weekend. If you want, you can come for an hour.”
He wondered if he should accept her offer. Her parents would not know of his visit. What if they came home unexpectedly? Was this worth the risk? He looked at Roksana again. That perfect curve of her lips, the quiet rebellion in her eyes. Yes, it was definitely worth it.
“That is very nice. Please, yes.”
Roksana nodded and pointed to a building down the street. She told him to make note of the green awning out front. He was to come by on Saturday afternoon. She wrote the apartment number down on another piece of paper and gave it to Saleem. She got up to leave.
“It is late.” She turned around again, as an afterthought. “Saleem, you won’t say anything to the others in Attiki, will you? We are not . . . I mean the people from the organization . . . we’re not supposed to have contact with . . . our work is supposed to stay only in Attiki. You understand?”
Saleem nodded. He had no intention of sharing any of this with the guys in the park. The evil eye always lurked in shallow waters, and this was just the thing to draw it to the surface.
He watched her adjust the strap of her messenger bag and walk away. He could not turn his gaze from the synchronized sway of her hair and hips, a gentle femininity.
SATURDAY WAS THREE DAYS AWAY. SALEEM RESTED HIS HEAD
that night, picturing himself walking into Roksana’s home. He closed his eyes and dreamed.
In his dream, he was in their bathroom. Warm water cascaded down his head and shoulders. His skin felt light. He caught a palmful of water in his cupped hands and brought it to his lips. Swathed in a towel, he stepped into a large, vacuous room, dark enough that he could not make out the walls. Roksana approached him in jeans that celebrated every adolescent curve. She smiled, touched his wet shoulders, and wiped beads of water from his chest. She pulled him closer.
Saleem woke up abruptly. He bolted upright. It was pitch-dark.
He remembered he was in the square, on the steps of an old building with Abdullah snoring a few feet away. He’d been dreaming. He felt the familiar but still uncomfortable feeling of being aroused and leaned his head back, waiting for it to disappear.
But then he sensed something else.
As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the bulky shape of a man crouched over his feet. Saleem recognized the silhouette. It was Saboor.
“What do you want?” Saleem blurted.
“You must have been having a good dream,” Saboor whispered. Saleem could hear the smirk in his voice.
Saleem positioned himself. His hand flew to his side to confirm his monies were untouched. He’d wrapped his bills in a rag and pinned the bundle to his underpants, the most secure place he could think to keep it. He felt the lump nudge against his groin.
“What do you want?” Saleem asked again.
Abdullah’s snoring went on uninterrupted.
Saboor smelled of stale sweat. Saleem could feel his meaty hand on his shin, then sliding up to his knee. His touch made Saleem jump. They were standing, staring eye to eye.
“Just wanted to make sure you are sleeping well, my dear boy.” He chuckled. “Now you can go back to your dreams and I will go back to mine.” Saleem watched his figure slip away quietly in the darkness, through a maze of bodies, as he made his way back to his own makeshift tent.
It was impossible to sleep after that. Saleem stared into the dark and listened for the sound of footsteps. He cursed Abdullah for sleeping through the whole thing. But how long had Saboor been there? Had he put his hands on Saleem as he slept?
The last thought made Saleem wild with fright. He had heard from the others about Saboor pilfering from others but nothing more than that. It was so freakish he almost believed he’d imagined the whole thing. But even under the cloak of night, it was real, fresh, and made his skin crawl.
AT DAWN, SALEEM’S EYELIDS GREW HEAVY. EVEN IN THE RELATIVE
safety of daylight, it was hard to resist closing them.
Abdullah woke up and found Saleem blinking slowly.
“Eh, you are awake already? Good morning, my friend! Welcome to another day in Attiki. Wish I could offer you a proper breakfast, but if I could, then you would not get the true Attiki experience,” he quipped.