When the Moon Is Low

  “We left for many reasons.”

  Roksana looked at him patiently. After a long pause, Saleem started talking, his voice subdued.

  “It is true, there was no work and the war was terrible. People were waiting . . . for peace or to die.” Saleem looked off toward the street, the buildings. He had not talked to anyone about his life in Kabul, the things he saw. He hadn’t wanted to rehash those dark times any more than he already did. In his mind, they were like the sound of a dripping faucet, a relentless sound that amplified in the quiet. And yet, he continued.

  “My sister could not go to school. My mother could not teach. My aunts, uncles, and cousins—everyone left. My family stayed. We listen to rockets in the sky and pray the rockets do not fall on our beds. There was no music. There was only life the Taliban way. Sometimes we think maybe the Taliban is better than fighting. Maybe the Taliban make the fighting stop but they bring more problems.

  “My mother cannot go outside without a man. There was only me. I go to the market and find food but we have only little money. There was no job. We understand that soon there will be no food and no money and no life.”

  Roksana listened intently. Her eyes stayed on the ground.

  There was silence. Saleem wandered through his broken memories. He had been only thirteen or fourteen at the time. Looking back now, he appreciated much more just how desperate their situation had become—especially now that the burden of feeding his family fell on his shoulders.

  “Saleem,” Roksana started, her voice barely above a whisper. “What about your father?”

  Saleem twirled the watch around his wrist.

  “My father . . .” he began slowly, feeling his chest tighten as he spoke. “My father was an engineer. He worked for the Ministry of Water and Electricity. His work was with water.”

  What an injustice to his father’s work to not be able to relay it in more detail. Saleem felt inadequate.

  “My father, he believed . . . he believed some things are important for the country but some people . . . One night, three men come to our house. I hear them talk with my father. I never see my father after that night.”

  Saleem pressed his fingers against his eyes to plug the tears. He kept his head down.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered with a hand on his shoulder. “I did not mean to . . .”

  “No, no,” Saleem said. He resented her hand on him and the pity in her voice. Resentment hardened him, and the knot in his throat released. He took a deep breath and continued, his composure regained. “We left Kabul. We were afraid these men, maybe they will come back. Or we will die hungry in our house.”

  “Saleem, let me help you with the application for asylum. Your family deserves to have this story heard. You have a good case.”

  “But there is no help here. We have nothing. In England, we have family. Other countries, they will give us something. My mother, my sister, my brother—they need food and a home.”

  Roksana’s eyes softened. She did not disagree with him.

  “What will you do in England?”

  “What will I do?” Saleem laughed. His shoulders relaxed. “I will drive a red car and eat in restaurants and watch movies!”

  Roksana said nothing. Saleem’s smile faded as he thought about what he really wanted to do in England. He wanted to go to school with his sister. He wanted to take Aziz to a doctor. He wanted to see his mother working as a teacher again.

  Saleem turned to Roksana, a twinge of resentment at the privileges she enjoyed.

  “What do you want here? You go to school, yes?”

  Roksana attended an international school in Greece with instruction in English. Her parents wanted her to be around people of different nationalities, she had explained.

  “Roksana, why do you come here? You have a nice school. You can go with your friends, your family. Why do you want to be with Afghans in a dirty park? You are Greek. For us, it is different. We are Afghans, lost from Afghanistan.”

  She turned away, avoiding his pressing gaze.

  “We are not so different, Saleem.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Saleem

  SALEEM WOKE TO THE FEELING OF PINS AND NEEDLES IN HIS LEG. It took more than a moment for him to realize what he was feeling. He’d only been asleep an hour or two. He’d been too anxious to close his eyes for most of the night.

  Roksana had told him about this playground, nestled in among the apartment buildings that housed the middle class of Athens. In the evenings, the area was serene. It was off the busy street and had no pedestrian traffic after the nearby shops closed. The Waziris tucked their bags out of sight behind the corner of a building, and Saleem pushed Samira on the swing until it was dark enough. The entire family climbed into a small wooden playhouse and huddled tightly. His mother had taken a wool blanket from the hotel before they’d left and used that to cover them as best she could.

  Madar-jan sat with her head against the side of the playhouse. Her eyes were closed, but by her breathing Saleem could tell she was awake. She opened her eyes when she felt his leg brush against hers.

  “Sorry, Madar-jan,” he whispered. “I did not mean to wake you.”

  “Good morning, bachem,” she said. Indeed it was. The sky was just starting to lift from black to a midnight blue. “I hope you got some sleep.”

  “I think I did.” A jarring pain shot through his neck as he turned his head. He rubbed the knotted muscle. Samira lay with her head on Madar-jan’s side. The bundle of layers that was Aziz lay in Madar-jan’s arms. It looked as if she had not moved since last night.

  But she will not complain, Saleem thought. She leaned in closer to Saleem.

  “Bachem, I’m going to step out before people start to rise and walk about. I’ll sit on one of the benches by the swings and leave you and Samira to sleep for a bit longer. Once I start to see people walking around, I’ll wake you as well.”

  Saleem nodded. “I’ll come with you, Madar-jan.”

  “No, stay. Samira will feel better if she wakes up to see her brother with her. You didn’t really sleep much. Stretch your legs a bit and see if you can get a bit more rest.”

  Saleem was too exhausted to argue. His heavy eyes closed again. It felt like only minutes later that he heard his mother whisper into the playhouse to wake them. People were walking their children to school. The family had survived their first night on the street. Saleem wondered how many more nights would pass before they had a real roof over them again.

  SALEEM COULD NOT DO MUCH IN THE EARLY MORNING. HE needed the cover of crowds to run his unlawful errands. Roksana was in school. She promised to meet him in Attiki in the afternoon. She was his only hope at this point, but when they met, he could tell from her expression that she did not have promising news for him.

  “No one knows of a room. I have one possibility that I am working on, but I don’t know yet. How was the night?”

  “It was all right—quiet and not too cold. It was much better than any place I would have found.” As long as they were not dragged off in handcuffs, Saleem could not ask for more.

  “Saleem-jan, how are you? Enjoying a visit with your girlfriend, eh?” Jamal said in Dari. Roksana instantly shot him an icy look, her eyes narrowed. Saleem looked from her to Jamal and saw that he had noticed the same reaction.

  “She’s kind to waste her time trying to help guys like us. We should show her a little respect.” Saleem had not intended to sound like he was admonishing Jamal, but he did not want to hear them talk about her in that way—even if they meant no harm by it.

  “Saleem, the great defender of honor!” Jamal smiled. “Hallo, Roksana. How you are today?” he said in overenunciated English.

  “Good. Get some sandwiches from Niko before they are all finished.” Her tone was flat and unamused.

  Jamal, distracted by his empty stomach, did not bother to wonder if Roksana had picked up on him talking about her. He made a dash to where Niko stood with a large cardboard box. There was silence before
Roksana resumed the conversation where they had left off.

  “The train is the best way for you to go. Really, in Europe they do not check for passports since you will be traveling between EU countries. The borders are open now. I can go with you to the train station to buy the tickets if you want.”

  “Please. It will help me very much.”

  “When do you want to go?” The smudged black liner gave an edginess to her look. When she wanted, though, her eyes warmed with a smoky softness.

  He had not brought enough money with him, nor did he have the passport the ticket agent would want to see. He asked Roksana to meet him the following day at the train station. In the meantime, she would continue to look for better shelter for them.

  Hang on, she told him, things will get better.

  IT RAINED THAT NIGHT. IT STARTED LIGHT AT FIRST, BUT THEN the drops grew heavier and slipped through the slats and into the playhouse. Saleem woke to find Madar-jan covering Aziz and Samira with what she could find, trying her best to keep their heads dry. Ten unrelenting minutes went by. Samira was wide awake, wiping rain tears from her cheeks, her bangs plastered against her head. Only Aziz remained dry, a plastic bag held over him by Madar-jan.

  “Saleem-jan, take my place with Aziz. I’m going to find something better to cover us. We need to stay dry,” she said.

  “I’ll go, Madar-jan. Let me do it,” he offered.

  “No, bachem,” she said carefully unfolding her legs to extricate herself from the miniature house. “I need you to stay here with them. I won’t be long.”

  It was torture for her to be gone. Saleem looked at his siblings. He was wholly responsible for them now. The feeling overwhelmed him. Was this how Madar-jan felt or was it different for her as their mother? If she did feel overwhelmed, she hadn’t really let on.

  What if Aziz has trouble? What if Samira starts to cry? What if someone comes and takes us away?

  All the resentment he had for being the one running the family’s errands while Madar-jan tended to the younger ones, all of it melted and was replaced with a yearning for Madar-jan to come back. It was late, the hour when the underworld trolled the streets. If she was spotted by the police, she would have no way of returning to them.

  He strained his eyes to make out her shape from the plastic window of the playhouse, but it was dark and the rain made it nearly impossible to see. Minutes ticked away.

  When she did appear, her hair was drenched, her sopping clothes clung to her. She’d gathered rocks from the playground and used them to weigh down the layer of plastic bags she’d pieced together to block the seeping rain. It worked.

  Their clothes and bread were soaked, though the rain let up in just an hour. Well before sunrise, Madar-jan folded up the plastic bags and returned the rocks to the flower beds. She was saving the bags, Saleem could see, for when the rain returned.

  They changed into drier clothes in a public restroom. Saleem used a few precious euros to buy fresh bread and juice from a local shop. They ate quietly, exhausted from a restless night.

  Saleem and Madar-jan counted their remaining money and set aside what Roksana had estimated they would need to purchase the train tickets. Saleem stuffed the money and his Belgian passport as deep into his front pocket as he could and set out. By afternoon, he was anxious to have their tickets purchased already. It was a huge relief that Roksana would be meeting him at the station.

  He wished he could be more like Roksana. She was cool and confident. While he knew her parents traveled quite a bit, he did not know what they did. She was an only child, and her mother and father gave her quite a bit of autonomy for her age. Anytime he tried to learn more about her, she deflected his questions and turned the conversation back to his situation.

  She stirred feelings in him. Feelings he knew he should squelch but couldn’t. It was hard not to watch her. He could only hope she did not notice. He buried the urge to wrap his hands around her waist or bury his face in her neck. She did not seem uncomfortable around him, so he doubted she knew how he felt. Or maybe she knew but did not mind. Saleem could entertain that possibility for hours on end.

  SALEEM WAITED OUTSIDE THE TRAIN STATION, TRYING TO LOOK AS casual as possible. He had used his reflection in a store window to finger-comb his unkempt hair into place. He spotted her across the street, a backpack slung over her shoulder as an afterthought. Saleem straightened his posture. She had on a black fitted button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her jeans tapered to a delicate ankle.

  “Hey. How was the night?” she asked.

  “It was okay,” he shrugged with a weak smile.

  “But the rain. Did you stay dry? I did not even know it had rained until this morning. I was thinking about your little brother all day today.” There it was. Another clue that she saw him as more than just another refugee. He tucked her comment away with others he’d collected in their conversations. He would think more about it later.

  “We were all right. It was wet but we . . . we covered. He is okay today.”

  “I am glad to hear that. The newspaper says there is no more rain for the rest of the week so it should not be a problem again.”

  “That is good.”

  “All right, let’s go and find you some tickets, huh?” Roksana led the way. Together, they looked at the overhead board that listed the train schedule. “Did you plan where you want to go?”

  “Yes, we will go to Patras and take the ferry to Italy.”

  Roksana nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, I suppose that is the best way. You brought some money?”

  Saleem pulled out his passport and the folded-up bills. Roksana told him to hold on to it. She looked for an open counter and indicated for Saleem to follow. She stepped up to the clerk and put on an especially cheerful voice. Saleem watched as she chatted amicably. The clerk, a middle-aged woman that Saleem would not have thought to approach, laughed and shook her head. Roksana half turned to Saleem and held out her hand. He gave her the money and passport without the clerk noticing.

  They walked away with train tickets to Patras. Roksana was so at ease. Saleem could not recall the last time he’d been so comfortable. It seemed like all his life, his movements had been shadowed by fear. The monster may have changed shape and color over the years, but it was steps behind him, always.

  Today was Wednesday. Their tickets were for Friday morning. Weekend travel was busier and they would stand a better chance of getting lost in the crowd. Madar-jan had decided it was time to sell off some of her jewelry. Saleem would need a day to find a way to turn her bangles into cash they could use for food and transportation.

  “I do have some good news,” Roksana said as they reached the street. “I wish it could have come sooner. I found a place for you and your family to stay. I know you’ll be leaving soon, but at least you won’t be on the street. One room. It is an older hotel run by a couple—my friend’s grandparents. They are selling the hotel in two or three weeks to retire and it is in bad shape, but they have a room. They’ll ask you to help them with a few things around the hotel, since they are old, but they are kind people. I explained your situation and they said if you help them enough with their move, they will not ask any money of you.”

  “Yes,” Saleem agreed excitedly. He could hardly believe their good luck. Maybe Madar-jan had been right. Maybe last night’s rain had brought roshanee after all. Roksana handed him a scrap of paper with the hotel’s address on it.

  “Don’t thank me. You can thank them. Good luck, Saleem. I know it’s not easy, especially with the entire family. I really hope the rest of Europe treats you well.” She looked at her watch. “I need to get back home, but I’ll be here Friday morning before you leave. I want to make sure you all get on the train. And I’ll write for you which ferry you’ll need to take from Patras. You know, in Patras there is a large camp of refugees. More Afghans are there than in Attiki and the situation is not good. Do not end up there, Saleem. From what I hear, it is a dead end.”


  He nodded, then watched her slide her backpack over her shoulder and cross the street. He would have one more chance to see her. He hadn’t been ready to say good-bye to her today.

  Their looming departure made him more anxious. He did not know what would be available to them once they got on the train or even in Patras. He stopped by a few markets on his way back and snuck away with what he could. He pushed aside thoughts of Roksana and reminded himself of the dwindling funds he’d counted out with Madar-jan. It was almost dark by the time he got back to his family. Madar-jan looked relieved to see him.

  He understood a little better how she felt every time he left but only slightly. He could not possibly know everything that ran through her mind any more than she could his. There were things they said out loud to each other, things they whispered with a twitch of the face, and things that were stoically hidden. Mother and son were divided by age and role and by the desire to protect each other. But, though they could never admit it, their secrets were also designed to protect themselves and their relationship. Some things neither would want to know about the other even if they could. Some secrets saved them.

  Saleem unloaded his bag and Madar-jan carefully rationed out what they could eat that night and what they needed to conserve for the journey. He gave her the tickets and passport, which she tucked into the drawstring pouch that hung around her neck, under her blouse.

  “Aziz had another episode today,” she told him quietly.

  Indeed, Aziz’s color was more sallow than yesterday. He lay on the bed, a pillow propped behind him. He’d gained a bit of weight since he’d started the medication they’d purchased in Turkey. He’d started walking, speaking a few words, and even giggling from time to time. Saleem did not see him much, and when he did, he kept a distance. Things were different with Samira. He liked having her near, her head against his shoulder as he talked about his day. But Aziz was a child who stared at him expectantly and needed so much. Saleem could not manage it. He turned away, ashamed of his own resentment.