When the Moon Is Low (20 page)
“He is,” Saleem said. “We’re going to go for a little walk, all right? I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay,
bachem
. Be careful and don’t stay too late. A mother should see her son’s face too, you know.” Saleem promised to return soon and walked back out to find Kamal waiting impatiently behind the house, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.
“Ah, much better! Now maybe you won’t scare the girls away,” he said, laughing.
Saleem and the professor’s son went out into the market in search of some mischief that would entertain them for about an hour. It was a taste of a life so deliciously normal that Saleem wanted to fall to his knees and pray for it to last.
KAMAL, HAKAN, AND HAYAL MADE SALEEM FEEL SETTLED IN INTIKAL
, thousands of miles from “home.” It was harder to think of Intikal as just a temporary stop on their way to England.
Aziz’s condition had improved slightly. His weight and appetite still lagged, but he didn’t look as uncomfortable. Madar-
jan
gave his doses religiously and was grateful for his improvement. In her second visit with the good Doctor Ozdemir, Madar-
jan
had prepared a special dish of
mantu
dumplings. She had felt compelled to show her gratitude somehow, but he again declined any fee for the visit.
But even as things seemed to be turning around, Saleem knew they would eventually have to plan their next move if they were to make it to England. Madar-
jan
had called their family in England several times but was unable to get through.
She seemed reluctant to call again even though Saleem knew they were the Waziri family’s only hope. Aziz’s medications were an additional draw on the family’s meager monies. There was nothing to save him from the brutally long days at the Polat farm. If it weren’t for the
generosity of Hakan and Hayal, they would have been on the street for sure.
Kamal and Saleem spent more time together off the soccer field. With the connection between Kamal’s father and Hakan, Madar-
jan
was even happier about Saleem’s new friend. She wanted him to be social and enjoy his time away from work. When Kamal invited Saleem to join him at his second cousin’s wedding in the village, Saleem was hesitant. He wasn’t certain how the rest of Kamal’s family would receive him, the migrant worker with manure under his fingernails. Madar-
jan
encouraged him to go.
Weddings in Kabul were major social events, dampened only in the last few years by the stringent restrictions of the Taliban. Madar-
jan
had always loved getting dressed up, the banquet halls, the music, and the sight of the bride and groom embarking on a new life together. Though she did not speak much about her own wedding, Saleem knew it was the first time she’d been the center of attention and that it had marked a break from the hardships of her childhood. More times than he could count, Saleem had heard the story of his parents’ wedding—the car draped in flowers and ribbons, the drummer who led their celebratory procession down the street, the music that had gone on until four in the morning.
“What will you wear, Saleem? Let’s see here . . .” she said as she rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of pants. She continued digging. “Here’s your button-down shirt. This should do. Why don’t you try it on?”
“Madar-
jan,
the wedding is three days away.”
“What if it doesn’t fit? Better we know now than on that day.”
The pants were undeniably short and the shirt hung loose on his shoulders. Madar-
jan
let out the one-inch hem and restitched it so that his ankles were not completely exposed. The pants and shirt would have to do.
On Friday night, Saleem walked the fifteen minutes to Kamal’s house, his palms sweaty. On his ride back from the farm, he’d
started to imagine what it would be like as a total stranger amid a Turkish family’s private celebration. He had serious doubts about going. Afraid of disappointing Kamal, he chose to push his apprehensions aside.
Saleem would be joining Kamal and two of his cousins to drive to the wedding together. The rest of the family had already left. The celebration was being held at a farmhouse outside of town, and the boys were eager to get there before dinner was served.
Kamal’s cousins were older, in their twenties, but cut of the same unruly cloth. They were chain-smoking young men who told lewd jokes and went home to mom’s cooking every night. The cousins barely raised an eyebrow to see Saleem, reassuringly disinterested. They parked the car and headed into the house, hoping that they had timed their arrival well to miss the religious ceremonies and make it for the food and music that would follow.
They were right on time. The bride’s and groom’s families were shaking hands and congratulating one another. The smell of roasted meats and baked cheeses wafted through the air. Food was to be served shortly and this left time for the guests to wander around, for relatives to catch up on gossip, stories of the old days, and complaints about the unseasonably hot weather.
Saleem drank it all in.
This could be an Afghan wedding,
he thought to himself. It really was no different. A circle of men chatted in one corner. Women were laughing in another. Turks and Afghans were more alike than he had thought.
The food was delicious. Since Saleem had barely had time to eat anything when he came home from work, he arrived at the party ravenous. He kept his eyes on his plate. Quite a few girls in the room had caught his attention, but he did not want to be caught ogling them. Although they were dressed modestly, their calf-length dresses showed off the shapes of their youthful curves. One girl had chestnut hair that curled around her face and brushed against her cherry lips. Saleem made extra effort not to stare in her direction.
“Do you want some more food? I’m going for seconds. Or maybe you’re worried you’ll split your pants?” Kamal said, nudging Saleem with his elbow as he stood up.
“No, I’ll come with you. I would gladly split my pants for this kebab.” They walked over to the long tables where trays of food were laid out. Off in the corner, the bride and groom stood chatting with a few guests.
“The family’s been waiting a long time for this wedding,” Kamal explained. “The bride is my cousin. The groom comes from a family that lives nearby, a neighboring farm. He’s been in love with her for years. There’s another family that wanted her to marry their son so that they’ll inherit this land eventually, but she wasn’t interested and her father doesn’t like them anyway.”
Just like Kabul,
Saleem thought.
They filled their bellies, listened to music, and watched the men grow rowdy as the hour grew late. There was clapping, feet and elbows bouncing to the music blaring from a stereo system, the rhythm and the instruments reminiscent of the music of Kabul’s past. Tea and syrup-soaked pastries were passed around. Saleem, more sated than he could ever recall being, still did not turn down the flaky baklava or the pistachio-coated nougats offered to him. If only he could have shared this feast with his family. He licked his sticky fingers and wondered if there was a way to slip something into his pockets without being noticed.
“Hey, let’s get a smoke. It’s too hot here, no?” Kamal suggested. Saleem agreed and followed his friend out to the back of the house. His eardrums buzzed. Saleem took a deep breath of fresh air, stretched his arms out, and smiled. Kamal looked amused.
“Having a good time, are you?” Kamal asked, taking out a cigarette and matches.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a party. A really long time.”
“Yeah, well. This is life in Intikal. Every day is a party,” he said sarcastically, the cigarette casting an orange glow in the night. The
boys began to stroll around the shed behind the house when they stopped short.
Explosive sounds thundered through the night—followed by screams.
Saleem’s instincts kicked in first. He grabbed Kamal by the shoulder and pulled him to the ground.
“Stay down!” he yelled. On their knees, the boys crawled around the side of the shed to get a look at the house. Kamal did as he was told. There were loud pops, more screaming, and the sound of breaking glass.
“What’s happening?” Kamal screamed, panic in his voice. The screams were more familiar than the gunshots to Saleem. Those were the screams of people under attack.
“My parents!” Kamal yelled, his voice breaking.
“Quiet,” Saleem warned, throwing his arms around his friend to keep him calm. “Quiet for a minute.”
Three shadows ran out of the house, leaped into a car, and roared off. Kamal and Saleem ran back into the house as the car lights faded down the road. The screams had melted into wails.
Blood.
Saleem’s stomach reeled at the smell of gunpowder and metal. People were huddled in two corners of the room, groans echoing over the sound of festive music made for a macabre cacophony. Two women snatched curtains from the windows to make bandages. Kamal’s mother was one of them, shouting her son’s name even as she tore at the fabric.
“Mother!” Kamal ran over to her. She dropped the fabric and grabbed him by his shoulders.
“You’re not hurt? You’re all right? Oh, thank God!” she cried.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Where’s Father?”
“Helping your cousins over there.” She picked up the curtain and ran over to a mass of people crouched over one woman.
Saleem stood locked in place.
People were yelling, walking around him as if unaware of his
presence. He saw their mouths move and heard a noise, the sound of frightened, hurt people. He saw people running. Arms and legs moved around him, sometimes pushing him out of the way. He couldn’t move.
Saleem was back in Kabul. He heard rockets, saw people burying young children and families crying after disappeared fathers. His breathing slowed, and his eyes grew blurry.
There was no escape. The bloodshed had tracked him down to Intikal. How naïve he was to think he had left it all behind. It danced around him, taunting him and poking at his sides. It had followed him all along, waiting for him to grow complacent. Saleem had buried his head under a pillow as a young boy to muffle the sounds of the rockets. Now he put his hands over his ears to deaden the cries.
Saleem caught a glimpse of one of the victims, the bride’s father, his white shirt turned crimson. The color drained from his face as his daughter lay over him shrieking.
Everywhere he turned, Saleem saw his father.
HIS MOTHER BARELY STIRRED AS SALEEM CREPT INTO THE BEDROOM
, his heart still pounding. He could hear Samira’s soft breathing. His eyes tried to adjust to the dark as he felt for his mattress on the floor.
“Thank God you’re home,” Madar-
jan
whispered. “It must be so late. Get some sleep, Saleem-
jan
.”
“Yes.” That was all Saleem could get out without his voice breaking.
He walked into the washroom and let out a trickle of water from the faucet. He let it run over his hands and between his fingers. He brought his palms to his face and held them there.
Get some sleep,
Madar-
jan
had said.
Get some sleep.
Saleem slipped out of his pants and shirt and slid under his bedsheet. He stared at the ceiling, traced its cracks in the dark, and tried to block out all he’d seen. But it all came back. The bride, her dress stained with her father’s blood. Her brother, shot in the leg but alive and yelling as they’d shoved him into a car to be taken to the hospital. Two others had been lucky, bullets just grazing their arms.
Lucky,
Saleem thought,
was relative.
It was forty-five minutes of chaos. A few cool heads had taken control and shouted out orders. Someone took the inconsolable bride into a back room. Her new husband, paralyzed with fear during the mayhem, felt his own body for bullet wounds that were not there. One of the shooters had aimed directly at him and fired, but the gun had jammed.
Lucky.
Saleem found himself whispering his prayers, as if his father’s hands were on his shoulders, turning him away from the windows and bringing him to the ground. He touched the lifeless watch on his wrist, absent of the soft ticking that once lulled him to sleep.
Kamal’s father had driven them home, filling them in on what had happened. Three men had burst into the house. They’d been recognized immediately as sons of the neighboring farm family—boys who had wanted this bride for their own clan. Slighted and incensed, they’d decided to exact their revenge on the young couple’s wedding night.
They directed their aim at the bride’s father, the groom, and then the bride’s brothers. Guests ran for cover, hiding under tables full of celebratory sweets and escaping into adjacent rooms.
They’d spared the bride, a punishment in itself.
Kamal had never seen more than a bloodied nose in a street fight.
Things are different outside the town’s limits. People take their own revenge when they feel they’ve been dishonored.
It was forever before the police officers arrived. They shook their heads and went from person to person, assessing the damage. They took notes, but it was unclear what they would do about the attackers. Kamal’s father decided to take the boys home. His mother was in another car with his aunts and cousins.
SALEEM HAD FALLEN ASLEEP THINKING OF WHAT KAMAL’S FATHER
had said.
Grudges don’t die—people do.
Saleem woke abruptly to the sound of Madar-
jan
shrieking. She ripped the bedsheet off him. He bolted upright, his eyes bloodshot. Her hands were on him, touching his chest and face.
“What happened? Why is there blood on your clothes? Where are you hurt?”
The night came rushing back. Saleem cocked his head back and put his hands over his eyes.