They splashed cool water on their faces in the bathroom so small Saleem could touch all four walls with outstretched arms. The last of the food Hayal had packed for them was spread out on a newspaper and divided.
Saleem took a shower and headed out to find food and ways to get to Italy. Athens was far more expensive than Intikal, and even this run-down hotel would exhaust their funds quickly. Saleem tucked his passport deep into the pocket of his jeans along with a few euros.
THE HOTEL CLERK, AS DISINTERESTED THIS MORNING AS THE previous night, advised Saleem to take the subway to Omonia if he wanted to find food. The silver snaking train roared into the station and then slithered back into the tunnel with new passengers aboard. Saleem watched what others did and followed, boarding the train in nervous exhilaration. He checked the scrap of paper in his pocket, matching the stop the clerk had written out for him against the map on the subway wall. He twirled the watchband around his wrist, feeling surprisingly unnoticed by the people around him. He, on the other hand, was absorbed with the hum of the train, the bitter smell of coffee, the snap of newspapers being opened.
Hakan had told Saleem he would see many immigrants in Greece. He wanted to find them and ask how best to travel to Italy or find cheap food. After getting off the train, he kept his eyes on the street map he’d picked up and buried himself in the crowd when he saw uniformed officers walking by. He wound through the city’s plazas, a maze of wide buildings and paved streets. The men dressed the same as they had in Turkey, but the women looked much different. Women walked about in tight shirts with necklines low enough to draw his adolescent eyes. Bare arms and legs moved around him, oblivious to his gawking. There were people of all shapes and colors wandering through the streets, many with cameras and small books, pausing occasionally to snap a photo.
Saleem carried his empty knapsack on his shoulder and hoped to fill it before returning to the hotel. He reached a roundabout, a much grander version of the one in Kabul with curbs, lights, and more cars. Extending out from the roundabout like an outstretched hand were smaller streets lined with shops.
Men with skin as black as night crouched on sidewalks with burlap sacks full of purses. Their eyes drifted left and right, scouting the scene. They mumbled to passersby, trying to hawk their wares. These men looked even more foreign than him, Saleem thought, and he grew nervous to approach them.
Farther into the market, he came upon two men peddling stick figures that danced to the sounds of the radio, sidewalk marvels. Saleem reminded himself of his purpose and looked at the men. Not as dark as the ones he’d seen a few meters back, they looked to be from India. A blond-haired woman pulled her toddler away from the toys, her hair reflecting the sun. The man reinforced the child’s resistance, making the figure dance toward his stocky legs. The woman shook her head, picked up her protesting child, and hurried down the street.
The street vendor sat cross-legged on the concrete, utterly bored. He barely looked at Saleem.
“Speak English?” Saleem asked cautiously.
The man gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. Saleem continued.
“Where are you from?”
The man paused, wondering the same thing about Saleem.
“Bangladesh,” he said finally, his eyebrows lifted and a finger pointed at Saleem.
“Me? Afghanistan.”
The man nodded as if to say he had guessed as much. He’d been in Greece for a year, he told Saleem. He tried to catch the attention of pedestrians, but none looked his way. Saleem pushed on.
“I am here with my family. We want to go to Italy . . .”
“Many, many Afghanistan people,” the vendor commented absently.
Saleem paused.
“Here? Afghan people are working?” Saleem’s interaction with Afghans in Turkey had left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was still comfort in finding people who came from the same corner of the earth.
“Where? I want to find Afghan people. Please help?”
“Afghani people . . .” the Bangladeshi man began, cocking his head to the side. With a flick of his left hand, he pointed into the distance. “Afghani people not here. Far. Eat, sleep together.”
“Where? Tell me please, mister?”
“Far, far,” the man shooed with both hands and a shake of his head for emphasis. “Metro. No walk.”
Attiki Square, the Bangladeshi man finally said. It was distant enough that Saleem could not find it on his metro map. With prices as steep as he’d seen, he was not surprised other Afghans had taken refuge outside the city center. The man raised an eyebrow and looked at Saleem expectantly. He pointed to his dancing stick figures, untouched, and waved Saleem away.
Saleem decided to look for food first. He fingered the bills and coins in his pocket. It wasn’t much. He walked by a kiosk selling newspapers and bottles of water. The sun had moved higher in the sky. Samira would be hungry soon, though she wouldn’t say so.
He touched the face of his watch nervously. From a large gray building to his right, people emerged carrying heavy plastic bags. He saw loaves of bread sticking out from some of the satchels. Saleem followed the crowd through the glass double doors.
The building was shaped like a hangar, deep enough that he could not see the end and had to tilt his head back to get a glimpse of the ceiling. Three long lines of stalls split the room into rows. Saleem’s nostrils flared. He smelled brine, fish, and onions. He turned to the left and walked ahead. The concentrated smell of sugar made his mouth pucker. Saleem dove in.
He walked up and down the rows. His eyes bulged to see the fruits, vegetables, cheeses, pastries, and olives. Stickers told him he had little hope of affording most of what he was seeing.
Saleem’s heart pounded as part of him began to plot.
No one is watching you. Just like Intikal. Choose carefully and quietly and look for an exit.
Saleem sauntered to a stand in the first row. The man behind the table laughed, explaining something passionately to two customers considering his dried fruits carefully. Saleem picked up two packets of dried apricots and turned them over slowly. He had dropped his knapsack from his shoulder to his elbow, where its unzippered mouth begged for loot. Saleem’s downcast eyes surreptitiously moved left and right.
No one is watching you.
Quietly he dropped one bag of apricots into the knapsack while he leaned over to place the other back on the stand. The owner looked over momentarily, saw Saleem replacing the apricots, and turned his attention back to the Greek couple.
Saleem walked away slowly and tensely, ready to bolt at any hint his actions had been noted. Nothing. He looked around some more. There were loaves of flatbreads, round breads, and cheese wedges on a corner stand, not ten yards from the door. Saleem’s stomach grumbled in encouragement, his mind calculating the shared portions. From where he stood, he could read the price on the toothpick flag sticking out of one of the cheese wedges. Far too many euros. Saleem moved in closer. The thick braid of dough was topped with a heavy sprinkle of sesame seeds.
Saleem took one more look at the distance between the stand and the door. Once outside those glass doors, he would make a quick left and head back in the direction of the hotel.
Six or seven people crowded around the bread table, but mostly on the adjacent side with the cakes and pastries. Saleem casually picked up one of the fat, braided loaves and considered it. Next, he picked up a large, round flatbread and peered at it, covering the braided loaf that hung directly over the open mouth of his knapsack. Holding the two loaves in his left hand, he reached over with his right and picked up a large cheese wedge.
Suddenly, the vendor’s voice boomed out over the crowd and customers pushed closer to the table. Saleem felt a rush in his cheeks. He looked up and saw that the man, an older gentleman with gray hair and a white apron, had sliced up one of his pastries, a long syrup-drenched doughnut. He offered the bite-size samples to the customers, none of whom had noticed Saleem’s sleight of hand.
“Ela, ela!” Saleem had just turned his back to the stand. He froze in place and debated whether to turn or simply run, his mouth as dry as sawdust.
The aproned man barked something in Greek as he pushed the metal tray of doughnut samples in Saleem’s direction.
Is this a test?
The baker gave an eager nod. Saleem positioned himself in front of his knapsack, afraid its bulkiness would give him away.
“Dokimase!” The baker winked. Saleem took a sticky piece of doughnut from the tray and the man nodded in approval, turning his attention to a middle-aged woman and her husband who had smudged the glass display case to point out their order. Saleem picked up the knapsack and walked as evenly as he could to the exit, his weighted bag bouncing against his back with every step.
A breeze chilled the perspiration on the nape of his neck.
Chew, he told himself. The syrup made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed without tasting anything. He moved absently through the winding streets, accusing eyes all around him. He made several turns to put the market and its customers behind him. Within minutes, he’d lost track of his lefts and rights. He was panting and lost.
With his back against a stucco wall, he looked across the street and saw a sign for the metro. The bread vendor’s eager smile toyed with his conscience.
I’m sorry, he thought. He truly was.
But he felt something else too—something he didn’t intend to feel. He lifted his bag and felt its bulk, pounds of success. He would feed his family for a couple days without costing them precious euros. Every bite they ate, everything they did was measured in days of tomato picking or housecleaning.
Something—fate, the universe, God—something owed the Waziri family a break, Saleem rationalized. Abdul Rahim’s hand was on one shoulder. Hakan before him. Padar-jan’s voice rang through his head.
Saleem-jan, my son, reap a noble harvest.
IN THE HOTEL ROOM, SALEEM SPREAD THE BOUNTY ON NEWSPAPERS.
“If your father were with us, he would be so proud,” Madar-jan said, sighing as she broke the bread and cheese into pieces. “God bless you for what you do to keep this family alive. So much food! How much did all this cost?”
Saleem replied with a number so unreasonable, it made him angry that his mother did not question it.
They ate in the silence that filled most of their days. It was easier not to say the things they were thinking. Samira chewed slowly, sesame seeds crunching between her teeth. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and looked at her brother. Saleem turned away quickly. She had spent enough nights sleeping within arm’s reach of her brother to know when he was hiding something.
“There’s a part of town where all the Afghans live,” he announced. “I’ll go there tomorrow morning and talk to people. Maybe they’ll have something useful to say.”
“A whole Afghan neighborhood so far from home! God bless them . . .”
While she prayed for others, Saleem doubted anyone prayed for them.
“I’ll try to find out how people travel out of Greece and into Europe. Maybe they can tell me how people earn some money here.” He told her about the Bangladeshi man selling dancing stick figures. He told her about the metro and how he’d paid for his ride. He described the market and the streets, the roundabout that reminded him of Kabul. Samira and Aziz listened in. He exaggerated his story, made the buildings taller, the train faster, and the people friendlier. He created a caricature of his day, mostly for Samira’s benefit. It was more interesting, he thought.
As their stomachs filled, their confidence grew. They could make plans for tomorrow and the days after.
“You will have to be persistent and determined. And I believe you will. Inshallah, bachem.” Madar-jan sighed again, chewing the stolen food gratefully. God willing.
CHAPTER 27
Saleem
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SALEEM HEADED OUT WITH A CONFIDENCE spurred by the previous day’s success. The hotel owner had agreed to let the family stay on through the week at a lower rate in exchange for Madar-jan helping out with cleaning and kitchen work. Samira stayed in the room and watched over Aziz while Madar-jan did chores downstairs.
Saleem had directions for Attiki Square, which was much closer than the Bangladeshi man had implied. He wound his way through streets and shops. Today was quieter than yesterday but it was early yet.
He approached a kiosk. The woman inside the booth was busy stocking shelves with packages of cigarettes. Saleem looked at the newspapers, thumbing the first pages as if any of it was decipherable.
Bottles of soda sat next to the rack of newspapers. With no one else on the cobblestoned street, Saleem slipped a bottle into his knapsack, his eyes on the woman’s back. When she turned, he picked up a package of chewing gum and placed it on the counter. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and she took what was due. He nodded in thanks, slung his bag over his shoulder, and continued on down the sidewalk.
Once he had made a few turns, he took the soda out and took a big gulp. The sweet syrup fizzed on his tongue. It did not taste as good as he thought it would, nor did he feel the thrill he’d felt the day before. He drank it as quickly as he could, eager to be rid of it.
Saleem walked under clear skies, admiring the tall buildings around him, scrollings and curls carved into their façades and a rainbow of rooftop colors. This city was vibrant and nothing like the monochromatic Mashhad or even Intikal. Bare-legged women laughed, flirted, and smiled in the streets. Some had painted eyelids or lips and looked like the women Saleem and the boys had ogled in the magazines of Intikal’s newsstands. Here they were, close enough to talk to. Young men and young women walked together unabashedly. Saleem found himself staring outright. Few people noticed. Some quickened their step to put distance between them. Most were too wrapped up in their own conversations.
Farther down the road, Saleem saw three men, probably in their early twenties, leaning against a sculpture and chatting amicably. They had dark eyes and thick brows with thin features. Refugees were much like their clothing—tired, frayed versions of their former selves. Saleem had learned to spot them from a distance.
“Hello,” Saleem called out hesitantly. He was certain they were Afghan.
The men looked over, brows raised in curiosity. They were equally trained in recognizing people on the run. They waited to hear from him.
“You’re Afghans, aren’t you?” he asked.
The three men broke into wide grins.
“What gave us away, huh? Our empty stomachs or our shamelessly handsome faces?” Belly laughs. Saleem felt himself relax. He had a good feeling about these guys.
“It is nice to be able to speak to a fellow countryman. I feel as if my tongue has been tied for months,” Saleem admitted.
“Really? Well, release the beast, my friend. Set your tongue free!”
“We have not seen you around,” said one of the men, the shortest of the group. “My name is Abdullah. Where have you come from?”
“From Turkey.”
“Oh, good for you! You survived those waters! We heard a few people weren’t so lucky last week. They drowned on their way here. God must have saved you,” Abdullah said.
“Lucky you, for sure. I nearly drowned when I came over,” his friend added. This man was taller, with a round face and scant mustache. “The one I came on . . .”
His friends groaned good-naturedly. They prepared themselves to hear his story again.
“The one I came on looked like cardboard boxes and plywood stitched together. There were supposed to be only eight of us on that boat but these bastards . . . you know how they are. And the waves were horrible that night. In the daylight those waters look beautiful. But in the night, those waters eat people alive.”
Saleem felt a wave of gratitude.
Thank you, God, for the passports that spared us such a nightmare.
“How long have you been here?” Abdullah asked. “And this is Jamal, by the way, and his
friend over here is Hassan. What is your name?”
“Saleem. I’ve been here only two days. A Bangladeshi man told me that the Afghans were in this area.”
“Oh, you’re new to town! Let’s welcome you to Greece, since no one else will.” His friends let out a chuckle.
“Yeah, you’re going to love it here as much as we do, right?” Hassan had a long, raised scar that snaked down his forearm. Saleem tried not to stare.
“How long have you been here?” he asked the trio.
“I’ve been here for two years,” Hassan answered first. “These boys came about six months after me. You’ve been here two days? Where are you sleeping?”
“By the port. We can’t stay here. I have an aunt and uncle in England and we’re trying to get there.”
“We? You’re not alone?” Jamal asked.
“Er, no,” Saleem hesitated. He reminded himself not to share everything. “I have my family with me.”
“Oh, you lucky boy! You made it through from Afghanistan with your family! How many are you?” Jamal’s eyes widened. He looked impressed.
“There are four of us,” he said simply. He didn’t want to attract the same unwanted attention his family had gotten in Turkey.
“Really lucky!” Abdullah agreed. “Most of the Afghans you will find here in Attiki Square are like us—here on their own. There are many boys your age here. Everyone is hoping to apply for asylum and be accepted, but this country does not accept any refugees. We’re all here but we aren’t supposed to be.”
“We’re harder to get rid of than the lice in Hassan’s hair!” Jamal jested. Hassan punched him in the arm playfully. Saleem was reminded of Kamal and the boys back in Intikal. But it felt good to understand every word that was spoken for a change. It was a conversation without the work. “But you say you want to see Afghans. We’ll show you where you can find the Afghans.” They led Saleem down the street a few blocks and then made a left behind a large graffiti-painted building. The area looked remarkably different from the neighborhoods Saleem had been exploring yesterday. There were no shops. There were no tourists.
When the Moon Is Low Page 17