When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  Early morning light drifted through the gauzy, cotton curtains. The fog was lifting. Saleem had slept more than half a day and woke with a renewed clarity.

  He would wait for his passport. It could take two weeks for the passport to arrive. That would be two weeks without income. There was only one thing to do. Saleem got up and buttoned his shirt. He would go back to the farm.

  MR. POLAT SMIRKED AND SPAT, BUT HE NEEDED THE HELP. HE told Saleem to go into the field and begin his work. The Armenian woman chuckled to see him as if she’d known all along he’d be back. She shook her head and resumed her work, muttering something under her breath that he would not have understood even if she’d yelled it out to the skies.

  Saleem understood though.

  What use was it? You packed your bags and sat on a boat and prayed and for what? Nothing has changed because nothing will. You tried to cut free of these vines, but they will only grow tighter around you.

  Saleem said nothing to her but stood for a moment with his back to the sun, his shadow stocky and bold between the rows of tomato plants. She was wrong. Everything had changed since he’d last been on this farm. He was a true refugee now but one who had seen the ocean. He’d heard the sound of waves and smelled the salted ocean air. Every step of the journey had altered him, changed his very coding irreversibly. He had crossed the waters once and would cross them again—accompanied not by his family but by the tiny mutations in his being that gave him the strength to do it on his own.

  CHAPTER 35

  Fereiba

  I WISH FOR NO MOTHER TO FACE THE CHOICE I HAD TO MAKE. Nothing could be harder.

  I’m weighed by a guilt so heavy that it takes every ounce of strength I have to put one foot in front of the other and continue.

  How Saleem found his way back to Intikal, I will not know until I see my son again. I never should have let him leave that hotel room. I should have been his mother and raised my voice and stood my ground. My skin prickled that day when he talked of going to the market. Can a mother commit a greater sin than ignoring her intuitions? I pushed it aside because I wanted to give him the space he wanted, the space his father believed he needed to become a man.

  Mahmood was not always right. I can see that from here, clear as the brilliant blue sky. He made decisions with his mind. He stood for what he believed to be right and logical and good—all romantic notions that failed us. Kabul was no place for ideals. I knew that. I told him as much. Ideals and guardian angels are for children and times of peace. They have no place in this world. We should have left Kabul long ago, followed my siblings to safer places while we were still whole. I let him overturn my intuition, snubbing our noses at God’s warnings.

  To hate him, though, would be another shade of blasphemy.

  He is not here, and I cannot alter the path we decided on together. I cannot change the conversations we had. I stood by him because I loved him and trusted him and wanted to honor the choice we made. His goodness, the nectar he offered the world, attracted one, then two, then a swarm of bees. They circled him, humming, until that moment when they released their venom. Even after he was gone, I could still hear the sound of them, circling my family. But this was my own doing. I let Saleem, my firstborn, walk out the door and into an unforgiving world and now I cry that he has not returned. I am the mother I swore I would never be.

  I have reasons for my choice. Aziz looks terrible. He has not gained weight and I see the strain in his sallow face, the tiny blue vein running across his temple, the bones of his back looking like beads on a string. I need to get him to help if he’s to live to see his brother again. He is so light in my arms. He is my last child, the one I will carry for as long as I can, because he makes me a mother for that much longer. When he is awake, I watch his movements. I see Saleem in him too. He is very much like his older brother, headstrong and resilient. Each struggles in his own way but Saleem can stand on his feet. His voice, coming from the safety of Hakan and Hayal’s home, told me he could find his own way.

  I made a choice. We took the train from Athens. Could I have done things differently? I could have. But my intuition told me that Aziz could not. Forgive me, Saleem, but we could not wait for you. For your brother, the brother I know you resent and adore, I had to move on.

  There could be nothing worse than choosing between two children. Ask me to choose between my right arm and my left and I will give you one. But ask me to choose between two of my children and my heart shatters into a thousand pieces. Children are touched by heaven—their every breath, every laugh, every touch a sip of water to the desert wanderer. I could not have known this as a child, but I know it as a mother, a truth I learned as my own heart grew, bent, danced, and broke for each of my children.

  Samira watches me in silence. She is no longer a girl, her body assuming the delicate curves of a young woman. Thank God, she looks to be much wiser than I was at her age. I was naïve. I think of how I believed people—the boy in the orchard, KokoGul. I imagine my daughter holds her tongue because she knows words mean nothing, accomplish nothing. She’s shown the quiet strength of a woman since we left Kabul. She has done as much for her little brother as I have. She has rocked him through his sweaty fits, patiently fed him when he would push the food away, and shouldered our bags when I could not. All of this matters more than any words she could say, though I yearn to hear her voice again. More than anything, I want to hear her laughter.

  She misses Saleem. She’s incomplete without him and will not speak until he returns—until something is given back to her by a world that just keeps taking away. Her heart mirrors my own, and it is for her that I hold back my tears. I’ve had enough. I’m tired of being trapped. Each morning when I wake and find that nothing has changed, I think I am finished.

  Were it not for my children, I would be. For them, I cannot be finished yet.

  I may find Saleem again. I may put my arms around him and hear his voice and have him returned to his family. Even if I am so fortunate, I will not be the same. I will always be the mother who left a son behind. It is the hell I live in now and will live in forever.

  The train has pulled out of the station. We are on our way. People look at us but our tickets are not questioned, nor are our documents. Some would call that lucky but lucky is relative.

  Samira stares out the window; Aziz’s head rests against her side. She is thinking of her brother, no doubt, and wondering if her mother has made the right choice. I cannot explain it to her. It is a thing that cannot be packaged into words.

  CHAPTER 36

  Saleem

  SALEEM RUSHED HOME EVERY DAY TO SEE IF THE PASSPORT AND train ticket had made it to Intikal. A week after he’d returned, he had sheepishly approached Hakan and produced a few bills to compensate for his room and board. Hakan shook his head and told Saleem not to speak of money again. Saleem bit his lip and nodded, an ineloquent but understood gesture of thanks.

  Ten days went by and still no envelope from his mother. Saleem’s mood was further fouled by Ekin’s interest in his return. She stood behind the farmhouse pretending to read or tend to the herb garden Polat’s wife kept behind their kitchen. She made an effort to stay visible, watching Saleem from the corner of her eye. She said things Saleem did not want or need to hear.

  “Where did you go?” Ekin laughed. “My father cursed for two days when you didn’t come back. You’re lucky he let you work again.”

  Polat, from time to time, would shoo her back into the house, but he seemed oblivious to her fascination with Saleem. Their conversations were unbalanced. She talked and Saleem listened, afraid to say anything that could be taken the wrong way. He bit his tongue as she droned on about school and radio and things he could not possibly know.

  Sixteen days and still no passport in the mail. Saleem was having trouble sleeping. Hakan had tried calling the hotel again, but the owner said the family had left long ago. Saleem could only hope that meant that they’d boarded the train successfully and possibly with Roksana’s
help. Maybe they’d even made it to England by now, though he wasn’t sure Madar-jan had a plan for getting from Italy to England.

  The passport was a whole other matter. Saleem had no way of knowing if the documents had been mailed or if they’d made an error with the address. Maybe they’d been confiscated by the postal system. He would wait. That precious booklet with his grim-faced photograph and invented birthday was the only way he could avoid the death traps the Attiki boys spoke of. He remembered the dark figures who had transported them across the border into Iran. He’d heard the man push his mother for more money, and he’d heard worse stories from others. The underground world was one without laws or codes or safety nets. Some people were transported successfully. Others never made it. No one knew what really happened in the shadowy world of smuggling beyond the few stories that bubbled to the surface.

  ON A MONDAY AFTERNOON, EKIN SAUNTERED BEHIND THE HOUSE where Saleem was tilling the soil for a new crop and wondering what he would do if the passport didn’t arrive by the end of the week.

  “I bet the water runs black when you bathe,” she said with a grin.

  Saleem kept his head down and dug the hoe heavily into the dirt. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t laughed.

  “You do not speak much. I don’t know why you are so quiet. Did you work on a farm where you came from? I’ve lived on this farm all my life, but I bet you’ve picked more tomatoes in a day than I have in a lifetime.”

  Saleem, in a different state of mind, might have been able to realize that she meant some of what she said as flattery. To him, she was as soothing as sandpaper.

  Ekin was wearing a calf-length pleated skirt and a blouse. She leaned against the rail of the fence and began to play with the cuff of her socks, pulling one up to her knee and then the other. Saleem thought of Roksana. The two girls were so different.

  “Does your mother work too?”

  “No.”

  “What about your father?” She was bullish. Saleem’s fingers clutched at the handle of the hoe tightly enough that he made himself nervous. He shook his head.

  “I have work.” His words were stretched taut and ready to pounce. Ekin paid no attention.

  “I know. You are a good worker and that’s why Baba took you back. He said at least you’re not like the others.” Ekin pursed her lips. “I’ve heard some of the immigrants bring drugs with them. Baba says that’s what makes so many people lazy and slow.”

  “Ekin, leave me alone! I am working!” he thundered. He could not bear a single sentence more from her. Ekin’s jaw dropped.

  “You yell at me?” She sounded stunned.

  “You don’t know anything about my family or why I have to work here on this farm. I’m tired of listening to you!”

  “I know more than you do!” she cried defensively. “You don’t know how to talk to someone who’s trying to be nice to you. You only know about tomatoes and animal shit! At least I go to school and don’t stink everywhere I go! Maybe you should learn about a few things before you start screaming!”

  “You know so much? You know nothing! I went to school too, but schools close when rockets fire on our homes. We leave and come to this country and here I work for almost no money. I work to be with my family . . . to have food for my family. You know how it is to be alone? No one to help you?” Saleem’s voice faltered. He still had the hoe in his hand and was working it into the soil with a concentrated fury. He’d nearly forgotten Ekin was there, making her mostly unimportant.

  “I do not know where my family is,” Saleem said in a melancholy whisper. “Your baba thinks he gives too much money but I work many days for nothing. I work here again because I have no choice.”

  Ekin was quiet. Finally.

  Saleem channeled his anger and focused on the work he had to do. He didn’t bother to look up and see the expression on Ekin’s face. He did not see her eyes water or the way she bit her lip or slipped away trembling. Dig, pull, lift. Dig, pull, lift. He swung the hoe because it was all he could do.

  Saleem did not see Ekin for a week after that. His outburst had driven her away. He felt no remorse for it. Every day that passed he became testier. It was now nearly three weeks since he had spoken to his mother. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue holding out hope that the passport would arrive.

  And then Ekin came back. It was early in the morning, and Saleem headed into the barn after giving a quick nod to Polat, who was already on a plow and heading off into a distant field. Mr. Polat usually kept to himself, working long days but not in any proximity to Saleem or the Armenian woman.

  Saleem went into the barn to check on the troughs. He looked for a pail to bring in fresh water.

  “Saleem.” Her voice was a sheepish whisper.

  “Mm,” he grunted. He didn’t bother turning around and dug through a stack of equipment trying to find a pail.

  “I . . . I am sorry.” She was behind him now. Just inches away from his back. He felt her fingers touch his shoulder and he tensed. An apology? This, he had not anticipated.

  “I didn’t mean to say . . .”

  He nodded with his head bent, a quiet acknowledgment of her gesture. She sounded sincere, and he was too exhausted to be angry. Her words meant more than he thought they would. Her words made him feel just a bit more human than he’d felt in a long time. His mood softened.

  Ekin’s fingers moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, slowly and deliberately. Saleem was paralyzed, unsure what she was doing. He was afraid to move. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, much gentler than her words had ever been. She moved in closer. He could feel her warm breath on the nape of his neck.

  What is she doing? I should move away. I should . . .

  Her fingers tangled themselves in his inky hair, teased his scalp, and returned to his neck and shoulders. Her other hand touched his shoulder and lingered on his arm. She was tentative, but when he did not pull away, she leaned in and pressed her face into the space between his shoulders. Something in him stirred. Saleem’s eyes closed.

  Ekin pushed him gently into the barn’s recess and out of the sun’s light. Hay crinkled under their feet. Saleem’s feet moved at her guidance, but he did not turn to face her. He could not face her. The light was dim, darting through eyelet openings in the slat roof.

  Why is she doing this?

  “I only wanted to talk to you,” she whispered to Saleem so quietly that he was not sure if he had heard her or imagined it.

  He turned slowly, his curious body acting without thinking. They were face-to-face, but the darkness was forgiving. She touched his cheek. Saleem found it easy to disregard every terrible conversation they’d had. There was something tender and exciting and irresistible about the moment. His hands moved on their own accord, traveling to her narrow waist, tracing the outline of her hips and sliding upward. She brushed her lips against his cheek. He turned his face, and their mouths connected. Clumsy and wet. Saleem felt another part of him grow anxious. As long as his eyes stayed closed, he could ignore the world.

  Their feet shuffled in the straw.

  “Saleem . . .” she whispered. His eyes opened and he pulled back abruptly as if he’d touched a hot stove.

  A thousand thoughts rushed into his mind. What if Mr. Polat were to walk in? Why was he even touching her? He took a step back and hit a wall. Ekin recoiled, surprised by his sudden shift.

  “I should . . . you should go,” he said simply. She paused, and then she spun around and raced out of the barn. Saleem was left to wonder what aftermath to expect. If her father or mother found out . . . his heart pounded to even think of it.

  Saleem paced the barn and wondered if he should leave before Polat came chasing after him. He waited and strained his ears for the sound of Mr. Polat raging toward the barn. Nothing. Saleem inched toward the barn door and peered out apprehensively. Off in the distance, he could see Mr. Polat still riding his plow. Mrs. Polat was at the back of the house, hanging sheets on a clothesline. There was no sign
of Ekin.

  He cautiously resumed his work, but it was hours before his pulse slowed to normal. His eyes darted back and forth as he worked, careful not to be caught off guard. Sunset came and Saleem left, tired and sweaty from an extraordinarily exhausting day.

  SALEEM FOUND HIMSELF BACK ON THE TRUCK THE NEXT MORNING, wondering if he was walking into a trap. He approached the farm tensely and on guard but, just as the day before, Polat barely acknowledged his appearance. Saleem stayed on alert all day and was thankful Ekin stayed out of sight. He’d thought about those moments in the barn, puzzled by her actions and unable to decipher her motives.

  What girl touches a boy? How shameless.

  But he also wondered why she’d approached him. Her condescending tone and spiteful comments . . . had that all been a front?

  Saleem was even more puzzled by his reaction. He hadn’t pulled away.

  His body had responded to her with its own urges. He could still feel her skin under his fingertips, her half-ripe curves beneath his palms. Last night, he lay awake on the mattress and let his fingers move along the nape of his neck, the way Ekin’s had. The feeling gave him a thrill.

  He wondered if she kept away because she was angry or if it was because she was ashamed.

  From time to time, Saleem thought he caught glimpses of Ekin watching from the back window or slipping through the side door. She remained elusive. Saleem was grateful. He had no words for her.

  AS THE DAYS SLIPPED BY, SALEEM BECAME EVEN MORE RESTLESS AS he waited for the envelope his mother promised him. He had even checked in with the neighbors to see if the passport had been delivered to the wrong address. A month passed and there was still no sign. As optimistic as Hakan and Hayal tried to appear, Saleem could tell they too were beginning to think the envelope would never arrive.