When the Moon Is Low (23 page)

Something—fate, the universe, God—something owed the Waziri
family a break, Saleem rationalized. Abdul Rahim’s hand was on one shoulder. Hakan before him. Padar-
jan
’s voice rang through his head.

Saleem-
jan,
my son, reap a noble harvest.

IN THE HOTEL ROOM, SALEEM SPREAD THE BOUNTY ON NEWSPAPERS
.

“If your father were with us, he would be so proud,” Madar-
jan
said, sighing as she broke the bread and cheese into pieces. “God bless you for what you do to keep this family alive. So much food! How much did all this cost?”

Saleem replied with a number so unreasonable, it made him angry that his mother did not question it.

They ate in the silence that filled most of their days. It was easier not to say the things they were thinking. Samira chewed slowly, sesame seeds crunching between her teeth. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and looked at her brother. Saleem turned away quickly. She had spent enough nights sleeping within arm’s reach of her brother to know when he was hiding something.

“There’s a part of town where all the Afghans live,” he announced. “I’ll go there tomorrow morning and talk to people. Maybe they’ll have something useful to say.”

“A whole Afghan neighborhood so far from home! God bless them . . .”

While she prayed for others, Saleem doubted anyone prayed for them.

“I’ll try to find out how people travel out of Greece and into Europe. Maybe they can tell me how people earn some money here.” He told her about the Bangladeshi man selling dancing stick figures. He told her about the metro and how he’d paid for his ride. He described the market and the streets, the roundabout that reminded him of Kabul. Samira and Aziz listened in. He exaggerated his story, made
the buildings taller, the train faster, and the people friendlier. He created a caricature of his day, mostly for Samira’s benefit. It was more interesting, he thought.

As their stomachs filled, their confidence grew. They could make plans for tomorrow and the days after.

“You will have to be persistent and determined. And I believe you will.
Inshallah, bachem
.” Madar-
jan
sighed again, chewing the stolen food gratefully.
God willing.

CHAPTER 27

Saleem

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SALEEM HEADED OUT WITH A CONFIDENCE
spurred by the previous day’s success. The hotel owner had agreed to let the family stay on through the week at a lower rate in exchange for Madar-
jan
helping out with cleaning and kitchen work. Samira stayed in the room and watched over Aziz while Madar-
jan
did chores downstairs.

Saleem had directions for Attiki Square, which was much closer than the Bangladeshi man had implied. He wound his way through streets and shops. Today was quieter than yesterday but it was early yet.

He approached a kiosk. The woman inside the booth was busy stocking shelves with packages of cigarettes. Saleem looked at the newspapers, thumbing the first pages as if any of it was decipherable.

Bottles of soda sat next to the rack of newspapers. With no one else on the cobblestoned street, Saleem slipped a bottle into his knapsack, his eyes on the woman’s back. When she turned, he picked up a package of chewing gum and placed it on the counter. He pulled
a handful of coins from his pocket and she took what was due. He nodded in thanks, slung his bag over his shoulder, and continued on down the sidewalk.

Once he had made a few turns, he took the soda out and took a big gulp. The sweet syrup fizzed on his tongue. It did not taste as good as he thought it would, nor did he feel the thrill he’d felt the day before. He drank it as quickly as he could, eager to be rid of it.

Saleem walked under clear skies, admiring the tall buildings around him, scrollings and curls carved into their façades and a rainbow of rooftop colors. This city was vibrant and nothing like the monochromatic Mashhad or even Intikal. Bare-legged women laughed, flirted, and smiled in the streets. Some had painted eyelids or lips and looked like the women Saleem and the boys had ogled in the magazines of Intikal’s newsstands. Here they were, close enough to talk to. Young men and young women walked together unabashedly. Saleem found himself staring outright. Few people noticed. Some quickened their step to put distance between them. Most were too wrapped up in their own conversations.

Farther down the road, Saleem saw three men, probably in their early twenties, leaning against a sculpture and chatting amicably. They had dark eyes and thick brows with thin features. Refugees were much like their clothing—tired, frayed versions of their former selves. Saleem had learned to spot them from a distance.

“Hello,” Saleem called out hesitantly. He was certain they were Afghan.

The men looked over, brows raised in curiosity. They were equally trained in recognizing people on the run. They waited to hear from him.

“You’re Afghans, aren’t you?” he asked.

The three men broke into wide grins.

“What gave us away, huh? Our empty stomachs or our shamelessly handsome faces?” Belly laughs. Saleem felt himself relax. He had a good feeling about these guys.

“It is nice to be able to speak to a fellow countryman. I feel as if my tongue has been tied for months,” Saleem admitted.

“Really? Well, release the beast, my friend. Set your tongue free!”

“We have not seen you around,” said one of the men, the shortest of the group. “My name is Abdullah. Where have you come from?”

“From Turkey.”

“Oh, good for you! You survived those waters! We heard a few people weren’t so lucky last week. They drowned on their way here. God must have saved you,” Abdullah said.

“Lucky you, for sure. I nearly drowned when I came over,” his friend added. This man was taller, with a round face and scant mustache. “The one I came on . . .”

His friends groaned good-naturedly. They prepared themselves to hear his story again.

“The one I came on looked like cardboard boxes and plywood stitched together. There were supposed to be only eight of us on that boat but these bastards . . . you know how they are. And the waves were horrible that night. In the daylight those waters look beautiful. But in the night, those waters eat people alive.”

Saleem felt a wave of gratitude.

Thank you, God, for the passports that spared us such a nightmare.

“How long have you been here?” Abdullah asked. “And this is Jamal, by the way, and his friend over here is Hassan. What is your name?”

“Saleem. I’ve been here only two days. A Bangladeshi man told me that the Afghans were in this area.”

“Oh, you’re new to town! Let’s welcome you to Greece, since no one else will.” His friends let out a chuckle.

“Yeah, you’re going to love it here as much as we do, right?” Hassan had a long, raised scar that snaked down his forearm. Saleem tried not to stare.

“How long have you been here?” he asked the trio.

“I’ve been here for two years,” Hassan answered first. “These boys
came about six months after me. You’ve been here two days? Where are you sleeping?”

“By the port. We can’t stay here. I have an aunt and uncle in England and we’re trying to get there.”

“We? You’re not alone?” Jamal asked.

“Er, no,” Saleem hesitated. He reminded himself not to share everything. “I have my family with me.”

“Oh, you lucky boy! You made it through from Afghanistan with your family! How many are you?” Jamal’s eyes widened. He looked impressed.

“There are four of us,” he said simply. He didn’t want to attract the same unwanted attention his family had gotten in Turkey.

“Really lucky!” Abdullah agreed. “Most of the Afghans you will find here in Attiki Square are like us—here on their own. There are many boys your age here. Everyone is hoping to apply for asylum and be accepted, but this country does not accept any refugees. We’re all here but we aren’t supposed to be.”

“We’re harder to get rid of than the lice in Hassan’s hair!” Jamal jested. Hassan punched him in the arm playfully. Saleem was reminded of Kamal and the boys back in Intikal. But it felt good to understand every word that was spoken for a change. It was a conversation without the work. “But you say you want to see Afghans. We’ll show you where you can find the Afghans.” They led Saleem down the street a few blocks and then made a left behind a large graffiti-painted building. The area looked remarkably different from the neighborhoods Saleem had been exploring yesterday. There were no shops. There were no tourists.

In a large patch of weeds behind the building, the group of three Saleem had just met multiplied. There were men and boys everywhere, milling about outside makeshift tents or sitting on overturned pails. There were two small fires burning, with people sitting or lying around them, drinking palmfuls of water from five-gallon buckets.

The squalor rivaled that of Kabul’s worst-hit areas. This was the
dark side of Athens, the secret world of people who did not exist. They were neither immigrant nor refugee. They were undocumented and untraceable, shadows that disappeared in the sun.

Hassan and Jamal went off in search of food. They would scrounge near restaurants for discarded food. Abdullah told them they were wasting time and took Saleem around to meet some people.

“Even here among your own people, you need to be careful who you talk to. Especially you, since you have a family and all. For instance, you see that guy in the corner with the yellow shirt?”

There was a man sitting on the ground, his back against a tree. Saleem realized that everywhere, people were clustered. This man was alone.

“Yes, I see him.”

“Well, that’s Saboor. Leave him alone.”

“Why should I leave him alone?”

Abdullah lowered his voice and began to retell what was probably the camp’s most-oft-told story by now.

“He’s a snake. He steals from his own people, people who are no better off than he is. In a place like this, there are no locks, no gates, just pockets and plastic bags. Usually, the most valuable thing you have is food. Anyway, people would wake in the middle of the night to find him sneaking around like a rat and rifling through their things. Small things were going missing here and there. And when you have nothing, that’s more than everything.

“Anyway, two weeks ago, one of the guys, Kareem—he’s a nice enough guy from Mazar—he had gotten a potato from somewhere and ate half. He was saving the other half. He wakes up in the morning and realizes the other half of his potato is gone. And then, what do we see? Plain as day, there goes Saboor, with a half-eaten potato in the far end of the park. Kareem was furious. He marched straight up to Saboor, something no one had done until that point, and accused him of taking his potato. Saboor, straight-faced, told him that he had
gotten the potato from a church handout. But there hadn’t been a church handout that week.

“Kareem kept on him. Accused him of lying, telling him to give the potato back, to apologize to everyone for all the things he had taken since he came. Saboor looked Kareem dead in the eye and said, ‘If anyone else wants to cause trouble like this bastard here, let me warn you. You all have families in Afghanistan and I know your names. My friends back home would not mind paying a visit to people you’ve left behind. Try me and see what happens.’ Since that day, we all just avoid him.”

“If he’s got such powerful friends, why would he have left?” Saleem asked, his body turning away from the man instinctively.

Abdullah shrugged his shoulders. “It’s probably a lie, but no one wants to find out. Just stay away.”

Abdullah next took Saleem to a group of six boys playing cards. Some of the boys were young, just barely older than Samira. As a newcomer, Saleem was welcomed and everyone was willing to share with him bits of refugee wisdom.

They had arrived together, a group of about fifteen young men. They’d been directed to go to “the ministry.” The ministry bounced them to another place, an office called the Greek Council of Refugees. The council was largely uninterested in the boys. They were told that they could apply for asylum if they got a job, but, they were warned, no one would hire refugee boys. And there would be no food or shelter provided.

The young men, along with a few families, had come from a place called Pagani, a name they spat out with a shake of the head. Pagani was a detention center for immigrants on one of Greece’s many idyllic islands. The building was a cage, as the boys described it, the biggest cage any of them had ever seen. It teemed with refugees who’d struggled to leave their countries, only to be trapped in Greece. Men, women, and children overwhelmed the building’s capacity three times
over. The modest courtyard could hardly accommodate a fraction of the residents. People went for days without stepping outside. There were at least a hundred people to each toilet.

No one knew how bad it was here until it was too late. For a few, Pagani had been so damaging that, even in the open air of Attiki Square, their breath turned into a nervous wheeze at the mention of the detention center.

As unaccompanied minors, Pagani awaited them, but the boys refused to go back to the cage. Jamal, Hassan, and Abdullah had decided to live together in an apartment they shared with nine others. They had dreamed of going to Germany where they’d heard refugees were granted asylum, given housing, and fed. But in Greece, police officers stopped them and asked for “papers.”

“The papers do not mean anything,” Jamal explained. “They gave us ‘papers’ in Pagani and told us to keep them on us at all times. Be careful with the police here. Even with those papers, we are targets for them, like dogs in the street. Even at some of the churches that give out food, the police may be there. There is no asylum here.”

Saleem spent the day listening, disheartened. Outwardly charming and beautiful, Greece was a hostile place, and many of the young Afghans Saleem met regretted the money they’d spent to reach her shores.

IN THE FOLLOWING DAYS, SALEEM RETURNED TO ATTIKI. THE
boys told him the places to avoid and brought him along to the churches where food and water were distributed.