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.
Saleem recognized defeat.
“Afghanistan.”
“Ahh, Afghanistan. How did you come here?”
“I came from Turkey.”
“Boat?”
Saleem shook his head. “Airplane.”
“Without passport?”
“I have passport but my friend . . . he take it.”
“How long are you here?”
“One week,” Saleem lied insecurely. As best as he could figure, the longer the time he had illegally been in Greece, the angrier this man would become.
“You want to stay in Greece?”
Saleem shook his head.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I want to go England.”
“England.” He chewed on Saleem’s answer before asking his next question.
; “How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Saleem said.
“Fifteen?” Officer G doubted this as much as his other answers.
“Yes.”
Thinking of the darkness they’d left behind in Kabul, Saleem convinced himself even the most stone-hearted officer would take pity on a lone adolescent. Officer G stepped out of the room and returned with a can of orange-flavored soda, the sort that universally appealed to children. He popped the tab and slid it across the table, then lit himself a cigarette.
“Your situation is bad,” he said simply. Saleem watched his face. There was no arguing that fact. “And if you do not tell us the truth, it will only get worse for you.”
Away from his family, Saleem had nothing to lose. Exhausted and desperate, Saleem heard a softening in the officer’s voice, the tone of a father chastising his son. He took a long sip from the orange can. The warm fizz tingled in his mouth and coated his throat with a reassuring sweetness. He felt his shoulders untense like the freshly popped soda can with its quiet hiss.
“I will tell you now,” Saleem said limply. “I will tell you my story.”
The officer leaned back in his chair, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and nodded as Saleem returned to the night that was blacker than sin.
CHAPTER 33
Saleem
“STAY HERE. DOCTOR COME NOW.” SALEEM WATCHED BLANKLY AS Officer G exited the room. A doctor? His mind felt fogged from his sleepless night. It was difficult to focus.
An hour later, a man in a collared shirt and slacks entered the room. He had a white doctor’s coat slung over his arm and a tawny leather bag in his hand. He was heavyset, the buttons of his shirt looking ready to give way. His face was round with jowls that sagged despondently. He looked like a Russian cartoon character Saleem had once seen on a black market video.
The doctor muttered something as he entered the room. He dropped his bag and white coat on the table. From the leather case, he pulled out a stethoscope, a small penlight, and a pair of latex gloves. He sat in the chair that Officer G had occupied and motioned for Saleem to come over to him. Saleem slowly rose and walked over.
The doctor gave him a general once-over and then stood to begin his inspection. He shined his light into Saleem’s bloodshot eyes and dry mouth. He motioned for Saleem to remove his shirt. Saleem could smell his own staleness as he lifted his arms. The doctor didn’t seem fazed. He brought his stethoscope to Saleem’s chest and listened while he stared blankly at the ground. He peered closely at Saleem’s underarms before slumping back into the chair. He tapped Saleem’s waistband.
“Take this off,” he said simply. Saleem felt blood rush to his face.
“No!” he blurted. He took a few steps back, putting the table between him and the doctor.
The doctor let out a tired sigh.
“Take off. I must check,” he said. He checked his watch and looked at Saleem expectantly. Saleem crossed his arms, his skin prickled with anger. The doctor waited a moment, his fingers tapping on the table. Quickly, his face grew serious and his eyes zeroed in on Saleem.
“Take . . . OFF.”
In his voice was the clear message that there would be no way out of this. Saleem felt incredibly alone and small. He took a few deep breaths before doing as instructed, his fingers fumbling nervously with the button and zipper before he slowly brought his pants down to his ankles. His briefs hung loosely on his hips. Saleem stared at the ceiling.
“Take off.” The doctor touched the waistband of his underwear as he snapped the gloves over his thick hands. Saleem felt a heat rush over him. What was this doctor looking for?
Saleem’s breath was a slow and bitter exhalation, an effort to expel his humiliation in a whistle of air. He pulled his briefs down to his knees. The doctor adjusted his lenses and peered interestedly at the area between Saleem’s legs. From his bag, he pulled out a paper tape measure and used it to assess whether Saleem’s body had a different answer to the age question.
Saleem hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a small child. Part of him wanted to drive his fist through the doctor’s curious glasses while another part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and wail. The exam concluded before Saleem could act.
“Okay, finished.” He motioned for Saleem to pull up his underpants and jeans, as he jotted something into a notepad that fit in his palm. “Any health problems?” he asked as Saleem hurried to pull up his briefs and jeans.
“No. No problems.”
“How old?” The question resurfaced. It dawned on Saleem this was the reason for the doctor’s visit, explaining his focus between Saleem’s thighs, the part of him that had changed most in the last few years.
“Fifteen,” Saleem answered meekly.
“Hmph.” The doctor paused briefly to look at Saleem’s face and scribbled a few more notes. He packed up his tools, retrieved his white coat, and exited the room without any further conversation.
Alone, Saleem began to pace the room, his anger fanned by exhaustion. He let out a short yell that bounced from wall to wall. He yelled again—longer and louder.
Saleem put his palms and forehead against the wall. It felt cold and real, realer than the rest of his situation. He brought his right palm against the wall a second time, harder.
Again and again, harder and harder, Saleem slapped his palm against the cold wall as the past twenty-four hours spun through his head: the policeman grabbing his elbow as he exited the pawnshop, the cigarette smoke blown in his face, the doctor examining his genitals with more attention than the customs officer had paid to their travel documents, his mother frantic in the hotel or searching the streets, Samira frightened and silent, his father watching and shaking his head in disappointment, Aziz’s tiny chest heaving with discomfort. They exploded above him like a shower of rockets, raining down on his head and shoulders when there was nowhere to run and nothing that could be done.
Saleem was pounding the wall with two hands now, enraged and crying. He didn’t notice the door open behind him.
“Hey! Hey!” Saleem felt a hand pull his shoulder. It was Officer G, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip. “You crazy?”
Saleem turned around and slumped to the floor, weakened by his outburst. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Almost as if the officer and Saleem realized this at the same time, he left the room and returned with a plate. There were a few pieces of chicken kebab and pita bread. He put the plate on the table unceremoniously.
“Eat something.”
Saleem’s breathing slowed. His palms stung, pulsing. He returned to the table in defeat. He took the food and chewed bite after bite, tasting nothing. He stared at the plate, letting his eyes gloss over and his muscles relax. The officer watched Saleem, a specimen in a jar. Captivating to his captors.
Saleem ate without looking up or saying a word. Maybe if his belly stopped growling, he could come up with a way to get out of this mess. Maybe he could figure a way to get back to his mother.
CHAPTER 34
Saleem
TWO TURKISH POLICE OFFICERS STARED DOWN AT SALEEM AND the other refugees. Herded onto a boat like cattle, Saleem and a dozen similarly thwarted migrants had been returned to Izmir. The Turkish officials were not pleased to have to reclaim these refugees but those were the rules. Refugees were to be returned to the first country they entered and the burden was on that country to deal with them. It was a cause of persistent resentment between the Turks and the Greeks. The handoff had been terse.
Saleem watched the Greek officers smirk as they handed over a stack of papers and unloaded their cargo onto Turkish soil. Few words were exchanged between the two sides but their sentiments were clear.
Not our problem anymore, the expressions on the Greek officers read.
Thanks for nothing, the sarcastic reply on the faces of their Turkish counterparts.
They took their frustration out on the refugees, grabbing people by the arm and shoving them into a van waiting at the
port. Thighs overlapping, shoulders pressed together. One small window in the back did little to ventilate a van full of refugees who had been languishing in a Greek detainment cell for days, weeks, months.
Every step of the way, Saleem had promised that if released, he would leave Greece immediately. His pleas drowned in the sea of similar pleas authorities had heard before from so many others facing deportation.
Saleem wanted to be the one, the exception to the rule. He wanted to be able to look back at the moment and recall how close he had come to being deported, how close he had come to being separated completely from his family. But everything—the seat beneath him, the smells around him, the people standing over him—told him he was not in the least bit different from any other ragtag passenger in the van.
There were Africans, a few eastern Europeans (Saleem guessed by their appearance and their unfamiliar language), and even a few Turks. There were no other Afghans, which made Saleem feel both more alone and relieved at the same time. He was not in the mood to talk when he felt it would not help.
Where does Madar-jan think I am? Could she have found the pawnshop? Maybe they’ve gone to the train station to wait for me there. Maybe they even got on the train, thinking I would show up. They could be anywhere now. Madar-jan, how frantic you must be! How will I find you again? What can I do by myself?
Saleem’s mind was a thunderstorm, moments of peace interrupted by electrical flashes of dread and a flood of remorse.
So much for roshanee.
His fingers toyed with his watch. It had been two days since his arrest.
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.
If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England, Madar-jan.
Saleem’s head hung down. A thousand times the conversation had replayed itself in his mind.
Why did I have to snap at her? Please, God, do not let that be the last time I talk to her.
He thought of his last night with Padar-jan. Memories of the things he regretted saying collected like beads on a tasbeh.
When the Moon Is Low Page 21