When the Moon Is Low (32 page)
Be smart. Be very careful.
The port was bustling. Saleem stood opposite a major road that ran like a divider between the town and the docks. Beyond the gates, he could see a huge lot of containers, large rectangular freight boxes of different colors with writing on the sides. He watched a couple being loaded onto a ship.
But how would you know when the container was set to be shipped or where it was going?
He spent the evening watching the ships, studying their procedures and their patterns, and making note of the piers. He needed to find the gaps, the places where he had a good chance of getting by without being noticed.
Farther along, there was a dock where people moved in and out of passenger ferries. The Waziri family had boarded here to get to Athens. How different that boat ride was! They’d been petrified of being caught but they’d been together. They’d rejoiced in the sight and sound of the sea.
We had no idea how easy we had it then. If only it could be that simple again.
Saleem kept walking until he reached a secluded grassy area on the port side of the highway. It was just behind a construction site, and he could see the workers were packing up their tools and heading toward the road. He had a good view of the docks. He used his backpack as a pillow, leaned it against a tree and studied the scene. It was later now and harder to make out what was happening in the distance but he paid close attention anyway, straining to see what he could. Within an hour, a magnificent sunset glazed the sky in oranges and purples. Moments later, it was dark and Saleem was completely alone.
He picked up his backpack and walked cautiously to the small building nearby. It was still under construction. He peered into its dusty windows and saw no one within. There were exposed pipes, bricks, and tools everywhere. The doors were locked. He snuck around
to the back of the building and tried the windows. He was lucky. He crawled through an unlocked window and landed, with a thump, inside a skeleton of a room with only its framework and no walls. Every creak and howl made his skin jump. He put on an extra shirt and zipped his jacket up and stretched his legs on a folded gray tarp.
SALEEM WOKE TO THE SOUND OF MEN’S VOICES IN THE DISTANCE
. His eyes opened slowly.
The construction workers! It was morning and they’d returned to start a new day. Saleem grabbed his bag and climbed back out of the window before they could make it into the back room. He heard voices shouting behind him but did not stop or turn around. He ran, darting between cars to cross the highway, and dodged behind an apartment building. He was panting, his tongue thick and dry as if it were coated with the white dust he’d brushed off his clothes and hair. Confident no one was chasing after him, he walked toward a corner store to buy a bottle of juice and then got back to work.
Cargo vessels were loaded onto trucks and, from there, onto ships. Saleem got a bit closer to the shipping yard, but the containers were all locked and impenetrable as far as he could tell. They would not be easy to break into. There were freight trucks, eighteen-wheelers backing into the ship slowly while passengers walked single file up the ramp and onto the deck level. Saleem’s plan was beginning to take shape.
Saleem went to the ticket booth and asked for a ferry schedule. The woman at the desk gave him a pamphlet, which he took back to the outer limits of the dock to read.
By midmorning, Saleem had watched three ships dock and take off again with fresh loads of passengers and freight. He was starting to get hungry when something caught his eye. A dark-skinned man, who looked to be a few years older than Saleem, strolled casually by the fence surrounding the cargo container lot. As inconspicuous as he
was trying to be, he was nearly six feet tall and his head turned left and right every few moments. Saleem recognized the nervous walk right away.
Saleem watched the man make a quick, agile climb over the metal fence and into the yard. Saleem craned his neck for a better look. The African man wound his way past the cargo vessels and stood at the edge of the lot where trucks backed onto the ships. Crouched behind a red container, he waited a few moments before making a break for a truck waiting to be loaded onto the ship. He dashed toward the gap between the cab and the trailer, trying to find a space to crawl under. Saleem held his breath.
Two men ran over in his direction. He had been spotted.
Saleem moved a few steps closer, anxious to see what would happen. The man heard yelling and scrambled onto his feet. He charged into the maze of containers, weaving his way in and out of vessels.
Saleem bit his tongue.
That could be me. That easily could be me.
The man made a nimble climb back over the fence and ran across the highway, just a few meters from where Saleem stood. As he neared, Saleem could see a streak of blood from his hand. He did not appear to notice his own injury.
“Hey!” Saleem called out. “Hello!” The man looked over as he slowed down to catch his breath. He looked at Saleem with suspicion.
“Your hand!” The man was about twenty feet away now. His forehead glistened. The man looked startled but quickly recognized Saleem for what he was too.
“Your hand!” Saleem repeated, pointing to his own left palm.
The man looked down, unfazed. He nodded at Saleem and walked down the street, careful to keep his hand out of view.
Saleem’s trepidation increased. It was one thing to hear stories from the boys in Attiki but quite another to stand at the port and watch people being chased. He could imagine what might have happened if the African man had been caught.
TWO NIGHTS MORE, SALEEM SLEPT IN THE NEARBY CONSTRUCTION
site and left before the work crews returned in the morning. He used as little money as he could for food, just enough to keep his energy up. He spent his days studying the port. Once, he’d even seen the African man return to survey the possibilities, his hand wrapped in a cloth bandage and held close to his body. He made no daring attempts and did not seem interested in talking to Saleem.
By the third day, Saleem decided to make his way onto the docks. A ferry for Athens was coming in at noon. Thirty minutes before the ship’s arrival time, three trucks pulled in and backed up toward the ramp in preparation. The drivers got out, chatted with others, and got some food.
Saleem began his dangerous flirtation. He tossed his backpack over his shoulder and walked casually toward the trucks. Passengers were just starting to file in, wheeling compact suitcases behind them or carrying duffel bags over their shoulders. Saleem hoped he was blending in.
Saleem broke away from the group and wandered over to the side where the trucks idled, thick plumes of smoke rising from their exhaust pipes. He moved in closer when he saw no one paying attention. Two drivers had their backs turned to him, standing just in front of a truck. Saleem was about thirty feet away. If he could get to the back of the cab, there was a chance he could slip into that gap and then get under the carriage of the truck. But he would have to be quick about it.
One driver pointed at something off in the distance. Saleem acted before he could give it a second thought. He made a dash for the truck, trying to keep his footsteps as light as possible. The drivers were on the opposite side, still engaged in conversation. Saleem looked for something to grab onto behind the cab. There were pipes and coiled wires but no place for him to slip under and clutch. He crouched down and grabbed at something so hot that his hand jerked back reflexively.
He found a rod that ran from behind the front wheels down the length of the chassis. It was thin but it might support him. Saleem had flipped his backpack so that it rested on his belly. As he grabbed at the rod, part of it dislodged and clanged against the ground. The drivers, alerted by the sound of metal on pavement, came around to the back of the truck just as Saleem was scrambling to his feet.
Run. Just run.
They were behind him, hollering and cursing.
Run.
The boys back home would have bet on Saleem. They would have bet that he could outrun the truck drivers and make it away without them ever getting close to laying a hand on him. He’d been that fast on the soccer field, so quick on his feet that he would have time to turn his head back and smile at the boy chasing behind him, panting and reaching with an outstretched hand.
But that was a different Saleem. That was a boy who had a mother and father to go home to. That was a boy whose belly was full of his mother’s cooking and new sneakers on his feet. That boy wasn’t here.
The boy who ran from the truckers was hungry and alone and had only the strength required to hunch over tomato vines or rake animal shit with someone standing over his shoulder.
This Saleem was much easier to catch.
They grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. His feet, still trying to propel forward, flew into the air as he was thrown to the ground. His face hit blacktop, and searing pain ripped through his jaw.
The rest Saleem would remember only in bits and pieces, in souvenirs left on his body by those men who were tired of being used by refugees and tired of having their trucks checked and rechecked by customs agents. Brown boots and angry words.
He had tried to get back on his feet. He staggered.
One burst of adrenaline.
Run.
They yelled behind him.
Their voices faded as Saleem managed to put some distance between them.
His backpack slapped against his chest violently. He leaned against a brick building, out of sight. The adrenaline gone, he began to feel again. His ribs throbbed, and his legs felt as if they might buckle. His shirt was torn and pants covered in dirt. His pulse pounded in his ears, not loud enough to drown the sound of their shouts.
His lip was bleeding. Saleem wandered in and out of narrow side streets, staying away from pedestrians. He wanted to be invisible.
Saleem stumbled into a vacant warehouse and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He crouched against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the hurt.
Please, God, let me rest here.
He was broken and did not know how much more he could take.
FOR TWO DAYS, SALEEM MOSTLY SLEPT. HE’D LOST TRACK OF DAY
and night. Every time he started to wake, his mind coaxed him back, unable to muster the strength to face a new day and ignoring his hunger.
On the third day, his stomach argued for food, unsatisfied by the half bottle of juice he’d dug out of his backpack. He touched his lip and knew the swelling had improved. He could move about, not as sore as he had been. He changed his clothes and stood. His head spun.
He’d miscalculated. He didn’t know enough about trucks or their bodies and his ignorance had set him back. He felt like a failure.
Saleem wandered outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He walked down into the market and bought a twist of bread and a bottle of milk from one of the corner shops. The owner watched with a raised eyebrow, but Saleem kept his head down and paid quietly for his purchase, eager to get out of sight.
His stomach cramped as he ate, but Saleem could feel himself recovering, his head clearing. As the sun sank into the horizon, he made
his way back to the construction sites, purchased some more food along the way, and found a dusty, familiar shelter.
There were no options. Saleem would either persist or rot in this country, away from his family. His bruises would heal. He needed to learn from his mistakes.
He went back to watching the docks from enough distance that he was out of sight from the truckers. He stared at the ferries and tried to find an opening. There were blue-and-white-uniformed crew members guiding passengers onto the ship. There was no getting past them and onto the main deck.
He could try the trucks again. Maybe go around the back this time, though he remembered one of the boys in Attiki telling him about a friend who had died from inhaling the exhaust fumes for too long.
He turned his attention back to the containers, but they were daunting. Saleem’s hopes dwindled. He was beginning to think that he would have to seek out a smuggler, though he had no idea where to find one. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would stroll through the town and look for refugees. Someone had to know of a smuggler. Saleem returned to the docks to make one more scouting expedition before nightfall.
The last ferry for Athens was scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes. As he neared the ships, Saleem saw a driver step out of his truck and make his way to the loading area where two young women in blue-and-white uniforms stood chatting.
When he was sure no one was looking, he went around the back of the truck and crouched down to get a look at the undercarriage. He saw nothing he could latch onto without repeating last week’s mistake. He stood again and stared at the padlock on the bottom of the truck’s back door. There was no way in. Saleem studied the bottom of the door and realized something else.
There was a platform. And more than that—there was a small latch on the side of the door.
He stepped up onto the platform and grabbed onto the side of the truck. He managed to perch himself and get his right foot onto the small latch. He dug his fingers onto the edge of the truck, his breaths quick and nervous. He pushed himself up against the latch, his foot nearly slipping from the small hold. He reached as far as he could to grab onto the truck’s roof but couldn’t get his fingers onto the ledge. Voices neared. The drivers were coming back. Down or up, he needed to go somewhere.
With one last determined effort, Saleem leveraged all his weight on his right foot and swung his left leg upward. The metal ledges dug into his hands. His left foot landed on the lip of the roof with a thud. Saleem strained to pull the rest of his body up.
His biceps burned from the effort but he’d made it. He lay flat and still on his belly with his head turned to the side, hoping his backpack was not visible from the ground. The voices were within a few feet but by their easy tone, he knew they’d not seen him in the twilight.