When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  He had to watch out for himself now, as Abdullah said.

  He would get a knife, just like Padar-jan. He would find something heavy and deadly, not a trinket.

  He could have slept, but he walked instead. He worked his way through the market shops, browsing from windows and wandering into a few stores that looked promising. He found a few kitchen knives, an antique dagger with a decorated metal sheath, and a pocketknife bearing the Greek flag. None of these would do.

  In a tiny shop set off in an alley, he found precisely what he was looking for. The shop window was a dense display of goods, heralding the mess inside: a sewing machine, a stool, a stack of books, kitchen utensils, children’s clothing, a pair of work boots, and an old globe. Saleem walked in, a door chime signaling his entrance. Somewhere in this pile of items had to be a reasonable blade. He was right. The shop owner was an older man with wire-framed glasses. He had a miniature screwdriver in his hand and was probing the insides of an antique clock whose pieces had been dissected out and spread on the glass countertop. A row of antique clocks sat behind him in various stages of disrepair. Saleem gave him a nod and began to weave his way through the three narrow aisles.

  Bowls on top of pillows, a thermos surrounded by old cassettes, used reading glasses next to a box of lightbulbs—there was no rhyme or reason to this store. Saleem’s eyes scanned until they landed on the bottom shelf. Buried beneath a stack of table runners was a bronze handle. Saleem pulled it out and saw that the handle inserted into a decorated, bronze sheath. He slid the nicked cover off and found a six-inch blade singed with rust. It was old but more beautiful than any knife Saleem had ever before seen.

  This was exactly what he wanted. Saleem touched the blade lightly. It felt bold and intimidating against his palm. The tip was still sharp enough to prick the pad of his finger when he pushed against it. He slid the knife back into the sheath and held it up to his waist. It would fit inside his jeans, heavy but he could secure it. Saleem walked it back up to the front, where the man was still fiddling with the clock’s gears.

  “I want to buy please. How much?”

  The old man looked up, his lenses nearly falling off the tip of his nose. He looked at the dagger and then at Saleem.

  “Twenty euro,” he said and returned to his tinkering. Saleem shifted his weight and considered how much he was willing to pay.

  “Mister, I give you ten euro. No problem.”

  “Twenty euro.”

  “Mister, please. Ten euro.” The man looked up again to get a better look at Saleem. He took his glasses off and laid them on the table.

  “Eighteen.”

  Saleem paused. He thought back to last night and the hand on his knee.

  “Fifteen euro, please,” he offered. The man nodded. He held out his palm as Saleem counted out bills. He tucked the handle into the waist of his pants. Just as he was walking out the door, he paused.

  “Mister, you fix the clocks?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The shop owner had already gone back to work and didn’t bother to look up.

  “You . . . you can check my watch?”

  At the mention of a watch, the old man’s head lifted. He held out his hand expectantly. Saleem quickly unfastened the band, then slipped the watch off his wrist and into the man’s open palm.

  The shop owner turned it over, shaking it gently while he held it up to his ear. He mumbled something and dug through a plastic bin until he found the right tool. He pried open the back of the watch and pulled out a set of fine tweezers. He touched the cogs gently and nudged and tapped. The parts were so small, Saleem could not see what he was doing. After a few moments, he snapped the back on again, turned it over, and wound the dial.

  He handed the ticking watch back to Saleem unceremoniously.

  “Is okay now. You fix the time.”

  Saleem took the watch, his heart leaping to see the small hand tick away the seconds. His father’s watch worked again!

  “Mister, thank you! Thank you very much! Thank you!” Saleem leaned across the counter and wrapped his arms around the startled shopkeeper.

  “Yes, yes.” The man slid out of his arms and waved him off. His spirits lifted, Saleem set out again and found a strip of fabric outside a clothing store. He looped the material around the knife’s handle and tied the band around his waist, knotting it by his belt buckle to keep it in place.

  Saleem looked to his left and saw a road that led to the hotel. He looked to his right and saw signs for the area of the food market where he’d stolen their first meals. He bit his lip in shame to think of all he’d taken. It was not something he would do again, he vowed. A man, he thought, would find a more noble way to feed his family. It became important to Saleem not to feel desperate and criminal.

  And there was one more thing Saleem would do to restore the Waziri family. Madar-jan would have warned him against being so rash, but Saleem decided, in one impulsive flash, to walk eastward. This was not something he would have discussed with her anyway. Maybe having survived this long with empty pockets gave Saleem the audacity to act impractically.

  A bold plan in his head and purpose in his step, Saleem listened to the reassuring tick of his watch and grinned.

  CHAPTER 41

  Saleem

  “HURRY.” ROKSANA TUGGED AT HIS ELBOW. “WE HAVE NOSY neighbors.”

  Saleem took a nervous step into Roksana’s home. He could not begin to imagine what might happen if her father came home to find an Afghan refugee sitting in his living room.

  “Maybe I should . . .” he mumbled.

  “It’s all right. Just come in.”

  She closed the door behind them, stealing one last peek into the hallway to be sure none of the other apartment doors were open. Satisfied, she led him from the foyer into the living room.

  Saleem’s eyes swept across the room, taking it all in. Neat beige sofas huddled around a low, espresso-stained coffee table atop which sat a few books. Old, sepia-toned photographs hung on the walls. Backlit linen shades gave the room a soothing feel. Their apartment was probably the same size as the Waziri home in Kabul but looked much more modern and spacious to Saleem.

  “My parents have just gone out for the afternoon so we should be quick. I just wanted you to get a proper bath to use.”

  Her voice was different. She was not her usual cool self. She fidgeted and averted her eyes. Saleem was not sure if Roksana was uncomfortable to be alone with him or worried that her parents might return earlier than expected.

  “Roksana, maybe I go . . .”

  “No,” she said, understanding how unwelcoming she’d sounded. She took a deep breath and started over. “Everything’s fine.” She smiled, her composure restored. Saleem was impressed and quietly envious. His anxieties had full rein over him, he thought.

  From the living room, Roksana led Saleem down a narrow hallway and pointed at a door. “This is the washroom and here’s a towel. Shampoo and soap are there. I’ll wait for you in the other room, okay?”

  It was more than okay. It was wonderful. The washroom was unlike any he had seen. Lemon yellow walls made the space bright and cheerful. The sink was a glass bowl anchored into the wall. A row of mint green miniature ceramic urns sat on a floating shelf, a wisp of baby’s breath propped in each. A frosted glass door slid open for the shower.

  Saleem felt awkward and out of place in the most beautiful washroom he’d ever seen. He fumbled with the faucet. He took off his clothes and folded his knife and money sack into his jeans. He stepped into the shower and let hot water run over him, a murky swirl disappearing down the drain. Saleem scrubbed his body until the water ran clear, washed his hair three times, and then reluctantly turned the water off. He stood for a moment, the room steamy and warm.

  Water, he thought with a new appreciation, is most certainly roshanee.

  Saleem towel-dried, re-dressed, and stepped into the hallway. To his left, half-open French doors led to an office. In the center of the room was a heavily carved wooden desk. Three
sides of the room were bookshelves made of the same cherry-colored wood. So many books! It reminded Saleem of the time his father had taken him to his office in the Ministry of Water and Electricity. They’d visited the ministry’s library and its stacks thick with texts, feathered pages, and dusty bindings. Saleem was keenly aware at the time that no other five-year-old would be allowed to wander through the rows, a fact that was more interesting than any of the books in the enormous room.

  For years after, Saleem’s father would chuckle and remind him of the most memorable part of that day.

  And then the chief engineer came in and asked if you would like to work in the same building one day and you said, “No, sir. My mother gets angry sometimes because she says Padar-jan gets lost in his books. I don’t want her angry with me too.”

  Saleem wondered how Padar-jan had never tired of repeating such a simple childish comment. At the same time, part of him had never tired of hearing it either. With a sigh, he returned to the present.

  This must be her father’s office, Saleem realized.

  Saleem took three steps into the office to get a closer look at the shelves with books perfectly arranged by the height of their spines. He touched the glossy book jackets. Many of the books were in English, some in Greek. There were books about medicine and philosophy, from what Saleem could gather. He turned to the shelf behind the desk. On the bottom row, something caught his eye—Farsi lettering along the spines of one entire row of books.

  Saleem hunched over to get a better look. Sure enough, the titles read, Afghanistan: A Nation’s History; Afghanistan: The Fallen Empire; and Collection of Afghan Poetry. Why would they have so many books on Afghanistan? Did Roksana’s father speak Dari?

  Saleem thought back to days in Attiki when the guys would make snide and often lewd comments about her, the cold glares she would shoot their way, almost as if she understood. Saleem looked around the office, confused. On another shelf across the room sat a small statue, no taller than five inches. It was an eagle carved out of a brilliant chunk of lapis lazuli, a blue stone as unmistakably Afghan as the similarly colored burqas.

  “You are finished?” Roksana was in the doorway.

  Saleem turned around abruptly, ashamed to have overstepped his welcome.

  “Sorry. I saw the books and I wanted to see . . . there are so many but . . . Roksana, your father, does he speak Dari?”

  “What?” She stiffened visibly.

  “There are many books on Afghanistan. And they are in Dari. And this bird, this stone is from Afghanistan. Why . . .” Saleem’s half-formed thoughts stumbled out as he tried to make sense of it all. “My mother. You talked to my mother? Do you speak Dari? Your father . . . did he work in Afghanistan?”

  Roksana shook her head, sighed, and smiled coyly.

  “Ela, Saleem, my father . . . my father did not work in Afghanistan.” She spoke in a hushed tease.

  “But then why—”

  “He lived there. He was born there. My father is Afghan.”

  Saleem’s jaw dropped. He looked at Roksana through narrowed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. If Roksana’s father was Afghan, then Roksana was . . .

  “Half Afghan and half Greek,” Roksana explained, with a hand on her chest. “My mother is Greek. My father came here as a young man to study medicine but ended up doing something different. He married my mother and has lived here ever since. I learned to speak some Dari from him. Not very much but enough that I can have a conversation.”

  Saleem clapped his hands and broke into a grin.

  “You are Afghan!” he cried in Dari, the words sliding effortlessly off his tongue. “I knew there was something about you! I just did not know what it was! Is that why you do what you do? But your father, he probably would not like to know that you are around Afghan boys, especially boys that . . . boys like . . .”

  Roksana rescued him from having to say it.

  “My father doesn’t know where I spend my time. He wouldn’t like it, but not exactly for the reasons that you think. It is more complicated than that. I don’t tell anyone because I know that it will cause problems. I want to help, but you can imagine how difficult it would be for me if those boys knew that my father is Afghan.”

  Saleem understood this perfectly. As long as Roksana was Greek, she would be held only to Greek standards. The men in Attiki would not judge her clothing or her behaviors by Afghan standards. But if they knew she was Afghan, they may not be so forgiving. Or they might pursue her. She would have men approaching her for all the wrong reasons. Just imagining it made Saleem want to keep her away from Attiki.

  “You are right. I will say nothing.”

  “Thank you. Let’s eat something and then we should leave.”

  Saleem followed her to the kitchen where she had warmed up a flaky spinach pie, roasted chicken, and something green and leafy. Saleem ate until he thought his belly might burst. Roksana laughed to see him lean back and groan in discomfort.

  “How was it? Looks like you enjoyed it.”

  “Oh yes, I like it very much! I had food for three days.” Saleem laughed, patting his flat stomach.

  “Good. Now let me clean up and we can go. You can wait in the other room if you want,” she offered.

  “No, I want to . . . I will stay with you. I can help,” he offered sheepishly. Roksana’s eyes brightened, and together they cleared away all evidence of their clandestine lunch. Roksana grabbed her sweater and they headed out the door.

  “Today we will go to the Acropolis. Have you ever been there?”

  “Acro—what did you say?”

  “Acropolis,” she said slowly. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

  For this one day, Saleem was a tourist, one infatuated with his personal guide. They wandered through the bustling streets of Athens and its differently flavored neighborhoods and landed at the foot of the steps that led to the Acropolis, ancient ruins atop a hill with a majestic view of Athens. Saleem had seen the structures from a distance but had never ventured close. Today, Roksana told him about the temple dedicated to Athena, how it had changed hands many times over the course of history and was controlled by the Ottomans at one point. She showed him the amphitheater and explained how this was once a center for the community.

  Saleem was fascinated. They sat down to rest along a low wall that formed a perimeter for the buildings. He kicked at a stone sullenly.

  “What are you thinking, Saleem?”

  “Hmm? Oh. I was thinking these buildings—they are so old, so many years. But they look better than the newest buildings in Kabul.”

  What he wanted to say was that two thousand years of peace could be undone in a month of war. Roksana understood.

  “Yes, well, people are very good at destroying things, good things.”

  “Things look really bad in Kabul. Everyone is leaving. Even in Kabul, Afghans are living like refugees.” He looked at Roksana quickly and then turned his eyes back to the ground. “That’s all people will see when they look at Afghans.”

  “Saleem,” she said gently. “I don’t see a refugee when I look at you. I see someone who should be in my class, sharing books and playing sports, sitting in cafés. I see you.”

  Her fingers touched his hand and squeezed briefly before letting go.

  “Does your father miss Afghanistan? He is away from home so long. I do not know. Maybe I go back one day. Sometimes I miss my home.”

  “No, my father doesn’t miss it. He loves his country, but he says Afghanistan is like a woman too beautiful for her own good. She will never be safe, even from her own people. He left the country when life was still normal, but he is different, I think. After the wars, he said it was not the same country. He listens to the news and talks to his family there, but it only makes him more upset.”

  “But to live for so long in a different country . . . no one here speaks Dari, the food is different, there is no masjid to go for praying—”

  “Masjid? My father is not a man of religion.
He believes that people have destroyed religion and religion has destroyed people. He says he believes in God, but he doesn’t believe in people.”

  Maybe he was right, but Saleem had never before heard an Afghan who did not consider himself a Muslim.

  Saleem asked her how she’d learned to speak Dari.

  “From my father. And my grandmother. She lived with us for a few years before she died. My father loves the language, the poetry. It’s the rest that breaks his heart. I think he is happy here in Greece but sometimes . . . sometimes I find him reading his books or looking at old photographs. I think there is a piece of Afghanistan still in his heart and it makes him sad.”

  She stood up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. She felt uncomfortable discussing her father’s thoughts with Saleem. “It is late,” she said, changing the subject. “I should go home.”

  Saleem had dreaded this, the moment when she would leave him.

  “Roksana, thank you . . . for everything. Today was a nice day.” He stood up and slung his knapsack over his shoulder.

  “You are welcome.” They headed back down the steps, trying not to lose each other amid the hordes of guided tours each speaking a different language. At the foot of the hill, Roksana turned quickly.

  “Oh, one more thing . . . I almost forgot! Good news for you,” she said as she reached into her bag for a scrap of paper. “I think I found your uncle’s address in London!”

  Saleem’s eyes widened.

  “I found his name on the Internet. I think this is the address. I could not find the telephone number, but at least when you get there, you will know where to go.”

  Saleem took the scrap of paper and stared incredulously at the numbers and street name scribbled on it. He felt infinitely closer to reuniting with his family. Roksana had given him a real destination.

  “Roksana, you helped me. You helped my mother. I really . . . thank you.”