When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  Ekin finally broke her silence. The sun was setting and Saleem had just finished planting a bag of seeds that Polat had given him. It was time for winter crops and Polat wanted to grow sugar beets. Saleem had put the tools back into the barn, piled them into a corner, and stretched his back. He heard hay crackle and turned around to see Ekin’s thin frame by the barn door. She did not approach him.

  “You are finished?” she said softly. She looked away, one foot tucked behind the other in a bashful pose. Saleem could sense her discomfort and felt a wave of pity.

  “Yes,” he replied. He stayed where he was. The distance between them was protective.

  “You don’t like working here.” It was a statement, not a question. Whatever she was about to say, Ekin had rehearsed. He could almost imagine her, watching from a distance and thinking of what she would say to him.

  “I thought maybe you would . . . I did not mean to make you angry or sad. I did not know. I want you to take this and do not come back here. It is better if you do not come back here.” She held in her outstretched hand something folded up in a piece of notebook paper.

  “What is it?”

  “Just take this. And go. Please . . . please just go.” Her voice sounded strained, like a child on the verge of a tantrum. She took a few steps toward him but kept a distance. Saleem was a fire that would burn her if she got too close.

  The packet was within reach. Saleem took it. Ekin was unpredictable, but her demeanor was changed. Saleem could sense she was not toying with him and that whatever she was offering had not been an easy decision for her to make.

  His fingers closed in on the paper. Ekin whipped around and ran out of the barn. Saleem watched her go before undoing the folded paper carefully. Packed within, he found a thick wad of bills. His eyes widened. There was more money than he could estimate, bills of all different denominations.

  Saleem panicked, folded up the bills, and stuffed them into his pocket. He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps and heard nothing. Where could Ekin have gotten this from? When he saw no one nearing the barn, he slipped out of view again and took the money out of his pocket. As he fingered through the bills, his heart quickened and he broke out in a sweat. He was left with one question.

  Should I take this?

  After months of laboring for every lira, selling off Madar-jan’s last pieces of jewelry for a few euros, and stealing bread to feed his family, Saleem could see no other possibility. He needed this money and believed he deserved it. He stuffed the wad into his pocket and smoothed his shirt over the lump. With a deep breath, he stepped out of the barn and walked across the yard toward the small road. He did not turn around or stop to see if the Armenian woman was behind him.

  He sat in the back of the vehicle and pushed his pocket against the side of the truck. He kept his head low and did not meet anyone’s eyes as they traveled the dusty road back to town.

  In his pocket was a bundle of hope. He could afford to pay a smuggler to get him across the waters and back into Greece. In the last week, Saleem had come to the quiet realization that the passport he was waiting on was not coming. Every day he stayed in Intikal was a day lost. By now he could have been reunited with his family. The money in his pocket was nudging him to make the decision he knew he had to make.

  He also knew that the money Ekin had given him had been stolen from her father. There was no way he could return to the Polat farm.

  I need this. I put up with Mr. Polat’s orders to do this or that, and then do it over again because it was not good enough. I could not argue when he refused to pay me. This money can get me out of here and back to my family. What does it matter why she did it?

  He’d made his decision by the time he walked through the side door. He could hear Hayal in the kitchen. He would not tell them about the money. There was no way to explain it. He needed to leave for the port right away and make his way to a boat for Athens. This was the only way.

  Once he was certain Hakan and Hayal had retired to bed, Saleem counted and recounted the money until he was convinced it was real and that it was enough to get him back on course. It was far more than what the pawnshop had paid for his mother’s bangles.

  Saleem had never seen his mother without those gold bracelets. He knew only that they had been his grandmother’s, a gift to the daughter she never met. He felt for his father’s watch on his wrist.

  Madar-jan must have felt the same about her bangles. They were her only link to her mother.

  Though he had no idea where she was, Saleem could now see and hear his mother more clearly than in all those months that they’d traveled side by side, jostling against each other on buses and ferries, sleeping in the same room, and doting over Samira and Aziz. The fog lifted and his mother crystallized before him as a real person. Saleem shut his eyes in the dark and wrapped himself in his mother’s forgiving embrace. He prayed for another chance.

  CHAPTER 37

  Saleem

  IT WAS HARDER TO SAY GOOD-BYE TO HAKAN AND HAYAL THIS time. While Saleem had money and heart on his side, he also had no documents to facilitate his travel across borders.

  His kind hosts were surprised by his sudden decision but did not try to dissuade him from leaving. Hayal busied herself getting together food, two pairs of wool socks, three shirts, and a windbreaker for Saleem. He rolled the clothing up and stuffed it into a small backpack that he slung over his shoulder. A brisk wind heralded the arrival of a colder season, and the extra layers could save him.

  The wad of bills stayed close in his pocket where he could feel its reassuring bulk press against his hip. If he were caught, the money would be found, but he could not bring himself to hide it anywhere else.

  Saleem retraced his steps and took the bus back to the coast. His skin prickled as the bus drew closer to the police station in Izmir where he’d been sent off with a rough farewell.

  Saleem’s palms grew sweaty. In his solitude there was not much he could do to steel himself. He fell back to the words he’d heard his parents whisper in unsteady moments, in moments of hope and moments when they wanted to feel comfort.

  Bismillah al Rahman al Raheem . . .

  In the name of Allah, the most Gracious, most Compassionate . . .

  Saleem had considered the two ways he knew of to get to Greece. He knew he could look for a smuggler to get him across the waters. That would cost a lot of money, especially if he smelled the desperation on Saleem. If it used up all his funds, he would have nothing left to get him from Greece to Italy.

  The boys in Attiki had talked about people crossing over on cargo ferries leaving from Turkey and going to Athens. Trucks were loaded onto ships for transport. Jamal had filled him in on what some people had done. He hadn’t painted a pretty picture.

  First, you sneak onto the undercarriage of a truck when no one is looking. The ports are busy so you have to do it when the truck driver and the guards are distracted. Then you have to stay there, not moving, until the truck is loaded onto the ship. When it is on the ship, you have to be completely still and quiet, however long the ride is. The tricky part is then at the final port where you have to get off the boat without anyone noticing.

  Somewhere between Intikal and the port city, Saleem had decided he would try to make his own way across. Smugglers were too risky, and he couldn’t afford to lose all his money when he still had so much farther to go.

  Saleem got off the bus and quickly ducked into a small side street to get his bearings. He discreetly scanned his surroundings for any signs of uniforms. He needed to get to the port. It was already afternoon and unlikely that he could sneak onto a truck today, but it would be best if he could find a secure place nearby to spend the night.

  He asked a shop owner for directions to the port, and he was directed to yet another bus. The local bus, much smaller, took him to where the town met the ocean. He saw the same massive ships docked and smaller ones floating by piers with groups of people walking on and off. With guards, crews, and passenger
s milling about, making a mad dash for the ramp was not a feasible plan.

  Be smart. Be very careful.

  The port was bustling. Saleem stood opposite a major road that ran like a divider between the town and the docks. Beyond the gates, he could see a huge lot of containers, large rectangular freight boxes of different colors with writing on the sides. He watched a couple being loaded onto a ship.

  But how would you know when the container was set to be shipped or where it was going?

  He spent the evening watching the ships, studying their procedures and their patterns, and making note of the piers. He needed to find the gaps, the places where he had a good chance of getting by without being noticed.

  Farther along, there was a dock where people moved in and out of passenger ferries. The Waziri family had boarded here to get to Athens. How different that boat ride was! They’d been petrified of being caught but they’d been together. They’d rejoiced in the sight and sound of the sea.

  We had no idea how easy we had it then. If only it could be that simple again.

  Saleem kept walking until he reached a secluded grassy area on the port side of the highway. It was just behind a construction site, and he could see the workers were packing up their tools and heading toward the road. He had a good view of the docks. He used his backpack as a pillow, leaned it against a tree and studied the scene. It was later now and harder to make out what was happening in the distance but he paid close attention anyway, straining to see what he could. Within an hour, a magnificent sunset glazed the sky in oranges and purples. Moments later, it was dark and Saleem was completely alone.

  He picked up his backpack and walked cautiously to the small building nearby. It was still under construction. He peered into its dusty windows and saw no one within. There were exposed pipes, bricks, and tools everywhere. The doors were locked. He snuck around to the back of the building and tried the windows. He was lucky. He crawled through an unlocked window and landed, with a thump, inside a skeleton of a room with only its framework and no walls. Every creak and howl made his skin jump. He put on an extra shirt and zipped his jacket up and stretched his legs on a folded gray tarp.

  SALEEM WOKE TO THE SOUND OF MEN’S VOICES IN THE DISTANCE. His eyes opened slowly.

  The construction workers! It was morning and they’d returned to start a new day. Saleem grabbed his bag and climbed back out of the window before they could make it into the back room. He heard voices shouting behind him but did not stop or turn around. He ran, darting between cars to cross the highway, and dodged behind an apartment building. He was panting, his tongue thick and dry as if it were coated with the white dust he’d brushed off his clothes and hair. Confident no one was chasing after him, he walked toward a corner store to buy a bottle of juice and then got back to work.

  Cargo vessels were loaded onto trucks and, from there, onto ships. Saleem got a bit closer to the shipping yard, but the containers were all locked and impenetrable as far as he could tell. They would not be easy to break into. There were freight trucks, eighteen-wheelers backing into the ship slowly while passengers walked single file up the ramp and onto the deck level. Saleem’s plan was beginning to take shape.

  Saleem went to the ticket booth and asked for a ferry schedule. The woman at the desk gave him a pamphlet, which he took back to the outer limits of the dock to read.

  By midmorning, Saleem had watched three ships dock and take off again with fresh loads of passengers and freight. He was starting to get hungry when something caught his eye. A dark-skinned man, who looked to be a few years older than Saleem, strolled casually by the fence surrounding the cargo container lot. As inconspicuous as he was trying to be, he was nearly six feet tall and his head turned left and right every few moments. Saleem recognized the nervous walk right away.

  Saleem watched the man make a quick, agile climb over the metal fence and into the yard. Saleem craned his neck for a better look. The African man wound his way past the cargo vessels and stood at the edge of the lot where trucks backed onto the ships. Crouched behind a red container, he waited a few moments before making a break for a truck waiting to be loaded onto the ship. He dashed toward the gap between the cab and the trailer, trying to find a space to crawl under. Saleem held his breath.

  Two men ran over in his direction. He had been spotted.

  Saleem moved a few steps closer, anxious to see what would happen. The man heard yelling and scrambled onto his feet. He charged into the maze of containers, weaving his way in and out of vessels.

  Saleem bit his tongue.

  That could be me. That easily could be me.

  The man made a nimble climb back over the fence and ran across the highway, just a few meters from where Saleem stood. As he neared, Saleem could see a streak of blood from his hand. He did not appear to notice his own injury.

  “Hey!” Saleem called out. “Hello!” The man looked over as he slowed down to catch his breath. He looked at Saleem with suspicion.

  “Your hand!” The man was about twenty feet away now. His forehead glistened. The man looked startled but quickly recognized Saleem for what he was too.

  “Your hand!” Saleem repeated, pointing to his own left palm.

  The man looked down, unfazed. He nodded at Saleem and walked down the street, careful to keep his hand out of view.

  Saleem’s trepidation increased. It was one thing to hear stories from the boys in Attiki but quite another to stand at the port and watch people being chased. He could imagine what might have happened if the African man had been caught.

  TWO NIGHTS MORE, SALEEM SLEPT IN THE NEARBY CONSTRUCTION site and left before the work crews returned in the morning. He used as little money as he could for food, just enough to keep his energy up. He spent his days studying the port. Once, he’d even seen the African man return to survey the possibilities, his hand wrapped in a cloth bandage and held close to his body. He made no daring attempts and did not seem interested in talking to Saleem.

  By the third day, Saleem decided to make his way onto the docks. A ferry for Athens was coming in at noon. Thirty minutes before the ship’s arrival time, three trucks pulled in and backed up toward the ramp in preparation. The drivers got out, chatted with others, and got some food.

  Saleem began his dangerous flirtation. He tossed his backpack over his shoulder and walked casually toward the trucks. Passengers were just starting to file in, wheeling compact suitcases behind them or carrying duffel bags over their shoulders. Saleem hoped he was blending in.

  Saleem broke away from the group and wandered over to the side where the trucks idled, thick plumes of smoke rising from their exhaust pipes. He moved in closer when he saw no one paying attention. Two drivers had their backs turned to him, standing just in front of a truck. Saleem was about thirty feet away. If he could get to the back of the cab, there was a chance he could slip into that gap and then get under the carriage of the truck. But he would have to be quick about it.

  One driver pointed at something off in the distance. Saleem acted before he could give it a second thought. He made a dash for the truck, trying to keep his footsteps as light as possible. The drivers were on the opposite side, still engaged in conversation. Saleem looked for something to grab onto behind the cab. There were pipes and coiled wires but no place for him to slip under and clutch. He crouched down and grabbed at something so hot that his hand jerked back reflexively.

  He found a rod that ran from behind the front wheels down the length of the chassis. It was thin but it might support him. Saleem had flipped his backpack so that it rested on his belly. As he grabbed at the rod, part of it dislodged and clanged against the ground. The drivers, alerted by the sound of metal on pavement, came around to the back of the truck just as Saleem was scrambling to his feet.

  Run. Just run.

  They were behind him, hollering and cursing.

  Run.

  The boys back home would have bet on Saleem. They would have bet that he could outrun the truck drivers and make
it away without them ever getting close to laying a hand on him. He’d been that fast on the soccer field, so quick on his feet that he would have time to turn his head back and smile at the boy chasing behind him, panting and reaching with an outstretched hand.

  But that was a different Saleem. That was a boy who had a mother and father to go home to. That was a boy whose belly was full of his mother’s cooking and new sneakers on his feet. That boy wasn’t here.

  The boy who ran from the truckers was hungry and alone and had only the strength required to hunch over tomato vines or rake animal shit with someone standing over his shoulder.

  This Saleem was much easier to catch.

  They grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. His feet, still trying to propel forward, flew into the air as he was thrown to the ground. His face hit blacktop, and searing pain ripped through his jaw.

  The rest Saleem would remember only in bits and pieces, in souvenirs left on his body by those men who were tired of being used by refugees and tired of having their trucks checked and rechecked by customs agents. Brown boots and angry words.

  He had tried to get back on his feet. He staggered.

  One burst of adrenaline.

  Run.

  They yelled behind him.

  Their voices faded as Saleem managed to put some distance between them.

  His backpack slapped against his chest violently. He leaned against a brick building, out of sight. The adrenaline gone, he began to feel again. His ribs throbbed, and his legs felt as if they might buckle. His shirt was torn and pants covered in dirt. His pulse pounded in his ears, not loud enough to drown the sound of their shouts.

  His lip was bleeding. Saleem wandered in and out of narrow side streets, staying away from pedestrians. He wanted to be invisible.

  Saleem stumbled into a vacant warehouse and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He crouched against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the hurt.