When the Moon Is Low

by Nadia Hashimi

  Run. Just run.

  Sunlight stung his unaccustomed eyes. He ran toward the road. There was yelling behind him. He ran faster and turned left when he saw an opening between two buildings. It was a street corner. When he’d put enough distance behind him, he slumped down between two Dumpsters and waited.

  It was dusk before Saleem started to walk again. He walked with purpose but without direction, a bewilderment in his step that he’d made it this far. Saleem’s eyes drifted upward to buildings that stood stories high. He had stumbled into a metropolis, the likes of which he’d only seen in his father’s books.

  Here, Saleem thought with both trepidation and hope, I can be lost.

  Saleem wandered through the narrow streets as cars and taxis zipped past him. A family walked by. The mother pushed a baby carriage while the father carried a young boy on his shoulders. Saleem looked away. For all the miles and months between him and Kabul, the hurt stayed close, no farther than the pigment in his skin. Would he ever look at a father and son and not feel the poison pulse through his body? Until the night Padar-jan had been taken, he’d never noticed fathers and sons. His eyes were drawn to them now, a self-inflicted thrashing that he could not resist because each time he hoped, with that part of a boy that refuses to stay beaten down, that this time would be the time the vinegar would turn back to juice.

  Then there were mothers. And young girls of Samira’s age. And healthy toddlers. More and more, Saleem had to turn his eyes away when he looked at the world. He was even more alone than he thought.

  Saleem worked up the nerve to enter a small store. He traded a few euros for a sandwich and juice. The shop owner bagged his purchase and went back to his business.

  He found a dimly lit children’s park. He walked past the swings and the slide and the sandbox. He walked over to the carousel, a disk painted in primary colors. Saleem pushed the metal rail of the carousel and gave it a spin. It wobbled with a slow, hair-raising squeak. Night transformed playgrounds into ghost towns, empty of the redeeming sound of children laughing and giving chase.

  Saleem lived in those voids. He lived in the uninhabited spaces of night, the places where bright, cheerful faces would not be. He lived in the corners that went unnoticed, among the things people swept out the back door.

  With his knees tucked in, he slept the night behind the carousel and woke just as the sun came up. Horns were honking and the city was stirring to life again. Saleem made his way to the sidewalk. Today, he would plan.

  Women with grocery bags and small children walked by. The shops looked familiar. The language sounded foreign. Things were different but the same. Saleem stayed alert for uniforms. With England as his destination, he needed to find the best route to get there. He’d managed to get by on buses in Turkey and thought he could try for the same here. He worked up the nerve to approach an elderly woman, her back hunched with age. He asked in a mesh of Greek and English for the bus station. The woman looked annoyed and waved him off, tapping down the road with her cane. Saleem continued down the block, his hands in his pockets.

  He spotted a gray-haired man sitting alone outside a café. He had just folded his newspaper and was tucking it under his arm when Saleem approached and did his best to articulate his question again.

  The man nodded, his face mostly covered by the wide brim of his hat. His voice had a soft rasp, weathered by the years.

  “Dov’e’ la stazione? Si, si.”

  With a series of hand gestures, the man pointed to a main road and a turn to the left. He repeated himself, speaking slowly and patiently until he was certain Saleem had a general sense of the direction he was to take.

  Saleem put his hand over his chest and lowered his head in thanks, feeling much like Padar-jan in this gesture.

  Street signs were not helpful. Saleem came to an intersection and wondered if this was where he was supposed to turn to the left. He walked for a few more moments and saw a wide structure, its entire façade a series of arched entryways and ornate windows. Two buses turned in to the road that curled around the building. Seeing a police officer sipping coffee up ahead, Saleem made a subtle, panic-stricken shift and veered off a side street. Two blocks later, he returned to the main road and, with the police officer well behind him, headed straight for the station.

  Inside, the station was a bustling metropolis of its own. Saleem dodged travelers and meandered through until he found a wall of maps. There were four large posters of various scales on the wall. Saleem looked at the local bus routes and moved on. Next was a map of Italy.

  But where am I now?

  Somewhere close to water. Somewhere close to Greece. His eyes zeroed in on the red dot on Italy’s eastern shore.

  Okay, so I am here. How will I get to England?

  Saleem turned around to make sure he hadn’t attracted any attention. Back to the map. To get to England, passing France would be the most direct route. But how to do it?

  Saleem considered his journey thus far.

  One step at a time. Major cities are easier to hide in. Don’t get trapped in small towns.

  Roma. Northwest from where he stood, it was the city labeled in the largest letters, and it looked like a series of paths led there and out. From Roma, he would have to make his way north to cross France and then the English Channel.

  Saleem felt for the rope at his waist, his money pouch. Within it, he had tucked away the slip of paper with the address Roksana had found for him. A destination. That was all he had. No phone number, no map, no pictures. Just an address.

  Saleem cautiously walked over to the row of desks with clerks sitting behind plexiglass windows. He stepped in front of an older woman who barely looked up. Saleem didn’t understand a bit of what she said.

  “Please? Bus ticket for Roma?” he asked, praying the woman spoke English.

  “Roma?” she asked, looking up from her computer. She peered over the top of her lenses.

  He tried to read her and prepared to run.

  “Eh, for Roma, it is better you take train, no?” Saleem nodded. She sounded casual, unsuspicious.

  Saleem followed her directions to the train station, not too far away. There, he repeated his cautious surveys and waited until he was sure the scene was clear of police officers before approaching the ticket booth. He was able to purchase a ticket to Rome on a train that left two hours later and boarded it when he saw others embarking.

  It was nearly ten o’clock at night when the train pulled into the Rome station. Before he dared step out into the night, Saleem took a moment to steel his nerves. Though he had taken one step forward, Saleem knew very well how quickly he could fall two steps back.

  CHAPTER 47

  Saleem

  HE RESET HIS FATHER’S WATCH ACCORDING TO THE CLOCK ON the station wall. Saleem walked into the familiar night of the unfamiliar Rome to find a place to rest until morning. He was anxious to find the best route to France but cautioned himself against rushing.

  The air was chilly. Saleem stuffed his hands in his pockets, kept his head low and his eyes open.

  People squeezed through the bottlenecked station exits with rolling luggage. Saleem chose a well-lit street much less crowded than the one most people walked down.

  He had walked about ten or fifteen minutes when he saw them. Three women stood near the storefronts. They wore skirts that barely covered their backsides and tops that looked glued to their bodies. Two were dark skinned, African, one with hair that flared a bright orange under the light of the streetlamp. The third had skin lighter than Saleem’s and auburn hair. They shifted their weight from side to side and walked a few steps up and down the block with arms folded, doing their best to keep warm. Saleem slowed his steps and watched.

  Cars slowed as they passed. The girls would put one foot in front of the other and eye the driver with a head tilted to the side. Saleem watched the lighter girl. With the next car that approached, she glanced over her shoulder and ran her hand through her hair.

  Saleem detect
ed the all-too-familiar scent of desperation on them.

  A small hatchback pulled up. One of the African girls walked over to the passenger-side window and leaned in. She put a hand on her hip. She shook her head and the car took off, barely waiting for her to pull her head out of the vehicle. She yelled angrily as his rear lights faded away.

  The guys in the camps had talked about an area of Patras where men could pay women to be with them. Saleem smiled and laughed as they joked about it, but he had never seen such a place or such a woman. It was clear even to his naïve eyes that this was what they were talking about. But these were girls, young girls. Saleem wondered if he was wrong. He approached them, needing directions but also curious.

  The auburn-haired girl saw him nearing and took a few steps back, leaning against the building’s façade. The two other girls looked at him dismissively and chatted together a few feet away.

  He could not help but stare. His eyes started at her thick, four-inch pumps and roved upward, tracing her bare legs up her thighs to where her black dress ended or began, depending on the point of view. The dress skimmed her thin frame, and a web of spaghetti straps crisscrossed her chest and back.

  “Buona sera,” she said. The streetlamp illuminated her delicate features, casting playful shadows across her face. She had a slim nose, pale green eyes that shimmered even in the evening light, and lips painted a garish red. Despite her made-up face, she looked no more than seventeen years old.

  “Allo,” Saleem replied bashfully. He searched for words. She looked impatient.

  “Allo,” she prompted. She’d gotten a feeling he was not a promising prospect, and her coy looks disappeared.

  “I . . . I need help. How I can go to England?” It was as eloquent as he could be in this particular moment.

  She rolled her eyes and turned her back to him. Saleem persisted.

  “Please, I need go to England,” he pleaded. “Somewhere I can sleep for one night? Do you know?”

  “I cannot help you,” she said abruptly. She spoke English but with an accent thicker and heavier than Saleem’s. She took a few steps away as a car drove by, slowed, and then sped away. She looked back in his direction, annoyed.

  “Go,” she hissed. “Do not stand here!”

  “Please! I come from Afghanistan. Do you know if I find more Afghans here?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Where are you from?” he persisted.

  “Albania,” she said, her eyes wistful for a sliver of a second. “Now you go.”

  Saleem had never heard of Albania. He pressed on. They were so close in age. Maybe something about Roksana gave him hope that this girl would help guide him as well, though he knew there was nothing similar about them.

  She turned her back defiantly. Saleem finally relented. He circled the blocks looking for anyone else he could ask for help but it was nearly midnight and he was exhausted. He rounded the corner and found her on the same block. The two other girls eyed Saleem from afar and crossed the street, shaking their heads. The Albanian girl stole a glance in his direction and threw her head back with a huff.

  “I am sorry. I just want to ask you . . . please. I need to sleep, somewhere safe. No police.”

  “Please, you make problem for me. Go!” As if they had been beckoned by Saleem, blue lights twirled in the distance. The girls began to disperse.

  “Police?” Saleem asked, as the fair-skinned girl hurried down the street.

  “Yes,” she whispered without turning around. Saleem moved closer to the building and away from the curb. The lights stayed at a distance. He watched her go, her legs pale in the darkness. She was awkward in her heels, and in her hurry, her ankle suddenly twisted in, sending her arms flailing. She stumbled a step or two before falling to the ground. Saleem ran over to her. Her knees were badly scraped, and she held her ankle, her face in a grimace. She tried to get back on her feet, but as she put weight on her right foot, she gasped.

  Saleem held her elbow as she took off her shoe. The heel had broken off. She looked as if she might burst into tears. With her shoe in her hand, she began to hobble down the street. Saleem let her arm go but quickly caught up with her when he saw how she struggled to walk. “I will help you,” he offered and quietly extended his hand. She looked at him with resignation and nodded.

  “Here,” she said simply and led the way. They made a few turns down slate-colored alleys. She led him to a rusted sedan parked on a back lot. She took a key out of her purse, unlocked the door, and slid into the backseat.

  “Sit,” she offered, pointing to the seat beside her. He followed, careful not to get too close. She was less standoffish now, but being alone in a car with her suddenly made Saleem uncomfortable.

  “Your name?” she asked with mild interest.

  “Saleem. And you?”

  “Mimi.”

  There was a period of silence. Mimi fidgeted and rubbed her ankle. She looked at Saleem, her brow furrowed.

  “Why you come here?”

  “Here?”

  “Italy. Why you come to Italy?”

  “I want to go to England. My family is in England.”

  “Family?”

  “Mother, sister, brother.”

  Mimi stared out the car window. Drops of rain fell silently on the glass.

  “Where is your family?” Saleem asked. Mimi rubbed her arms and shifted in the seat.

  “No family,” she said abruptly.

  “Oh.”

  Her answer left Saleem with many more questions.

  “When you come to Italy?”

  “Two years,” she said. “Two years.”

  “You want to stay?”

  Her lips pulled together in an angry pout. “There is nothing here.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  Mimi looked up as if no one had ever asked her that question. Something about the darkness made their conversation even more pleasantly anonymous than it already was.

  “I do not know.” The rain started to come down heavier, pelting at the roof of the car with a tin, staccato rhythm. Lulled by the dark and the rain, Mimi began to tell Saleem her story in a fragmented English that did not do it justice.

  Mimi came from a poor family in Albania. She’d been the third daughter, and two more followed after her. When she was fifteen, her parents arranged for her to be married to a man nearly twice her age. She protested but it made no difference. She lived with her husband for nearly three months, picking up the empty bottles and suffering the rage of his alcoholic fits. After three months, she returned to her parents, but they refused to take her in again. Mimi went to live with her aunt.

  She fell in love with a local boy who asked her to move to Italy with him where they would marry and start a new life. He arranged for them to travel by speedboat from Albania to Italy’s coast. Mimi did not tell her aunt or anyone else about her decision to leave. When they got to Italy, they lived in a small apartment, and for a week or two, Mimi believed she was beginning the gilded life he’d promised her. But before long, the boy began to complain that they needed money. He could not find work, he’d said, and told his fiancée that her beauty could earn enough to support them both. He promised it would not be for long and that things would not change between them.

  Saleem did not interrupt.

  The boy took all the money Mimi brought home. He spent her earnings on drugs and went out with friends while she worked. One day, he took her to an apartment and unceremoniously traded her to another man. She’d pleaded with him, reminding him of the promises he’d made and all that she’d done for him, but he turned his back and never returned. The new man wanted her to work. When she refused, he beat her and locked her in a room with two other girls until they had no choice but to submit. That was seven months ago. He was not the kind of man to chance running from, she’d learned from some other girls.

  “I have nowhere to go. I have no papers. My family do not want me. And if I leave, he find me.”

  Saleem had n
o words of comfort or encouragement. He was thankful the darkness hid the expression on his face. She was a used girl, the kind of shame people could not speak of in polite company in Kabul.

  He had only one question, which Mimi answered without his having to ask.

  “I do not know why I tell you. You say you need help. But you are boy. You are free. You do not need help.”

  Her assumptions angered Saleem. He wanted to hate her. Part of him did. He hated her for telling him things so horrible that his own troubles paled. He hated her for making him feel sorry for someone other than himself. He hated her for making him feel all the more helpless—useless to himself and useless to others.

  Saleem took another sidelong glance at her. It was not hard to imagine that a family would turn her away. A girl who left her husband and then ran off with another boy, only to end up as a prostitute. In Afghanistan, she would have been put out of her misery long ago for the dishonor she had brought upon her family.

  Saleem looked out the window. Out of the many, he watched one raindrop, followed it as it ran down the glass and disappeared into the night. He could not hate her. Despite her brusque tone and lurid exterior, she was just a girl. The best he could do was to say nothing.

  “You do not have papers?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Hm.”

  Saleem toyed with his watch. He wondered if it was safe to be here with her, but it was raining harder now and he had no desire to seek other cover.

  “Your watch . . . it is nice.”

  Saleem stopped playing with the wristband and sat straight up in the seat. After a few moments, he heard his voice break the silence.

  “This was my father’s watch.”