When the Moon Is Low (36 page)
“You are finished?” Roksana was in the doorway.
Saleem turned around abruptly, ashamed to have overstepped his welcome.
“Sorry. I saw the books and I wanted to see . . . there are so many but . . . Roksana, your father, does he speak Dari?”
“What?” She stiffened visibly.
“There are many books on Afghanistan. And they are in Dari. And this bird, this stone is from Afghanistan. Why . . .” Saleem’s half-formed thoughts stumbled out as he tried to make sense of it all. “My mother. You talked to my mother? Do
you
speak Dari? Your father . . . did he work in Afghanistan?”
Roksana shook her head, sighed, and smiled coyly.
“
Ela,
Saleem, my father . . . my father did not
work
in Afghanistan.” She spoke in a hushed tease.
“But then why—”
“He
lived
there. He was born there. My father is Afghan.”
Saleem’s jaw dropped. He looked at Roksana through narrowed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. If Roksana’s father was Afghan, then Roksana was . . .
“Half Afghan and half Greek,” Roksana explained, with a hand on her chest. “My mother is Greek. My father came here as a young man to study medicine but ended up doing something different. He married my mother and has lived here ever since. I learned to speak some Dari from him. Not very much but enough that I can have a conversation.”
Saleem clapped his hands and broke into a grin.
“You are Afghan!” he cried in Dari, the words sliding effortlessly off his tongue. “I knew there was something about you! I just did not know what it was! Is that why you do what you do? But your father, he probably would not like to know that you are around Afghan boys, especially boys that . . . boys like . . .”
Roksana rescued him from having to say it.
“My father doesn’t know where I spend my time. He wouldn’t like it, but not exactly for the reasons that you think. It is more complicated
than that. I don’t tell anyone because I know that it will cause problems. I want to help, but you can imagine how difficult it would be for me if those boys knew that my father is Afghan.”
Saleem understood this perfectly. As long as Roksana was Greek, she would be held only to Greek standards. The men in Attiki would not judge her clothing or her behaviors by Afghan standards. But if they knew she was Afghan, they may not be so forgiving. Or they might pursue her. She would have men approaching her for all the wrong reasons. Just imagining it made Saleem want to keep her away from Attiki.
“You are right. I will say nothing.”
“Thank you. Let’s eat something and then we should leave.”
Saleem followed her to the kitchen where she had warmed up a flaky spinach pie, roasted chicken, and something green and leafy. Saleem ate until he thought his belly might burst. Roksana laughed to see him lean back and groan in discomfort.
“How was it? Looks like you enjoyed it.”
“Oh yes, I like it very much! I had food for three days.” Saleem laughed, patting his flat stomach.
“Good. Now let me clean up and we can go. You can wait in the other room if you want,” she offered.
“No, I want to . . . I will stay with you. I can help,” he offered sheepishly. Roksana’s eyes brightened, and together they cleared away all evidence of their clandestine lunch. Roksana grabbed her sweater and they headed out the door.
“Today we will go to the Acropolis. Have you ever been there?”
“Acro—what did you say?”
“Acropolis,” she said slowly. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”
For this one day, Saleem was a tourist, one infatuated with his personal guide. They wandered through the bustling streets of Athens and its differently flavored neighborhoods and landed at the foot of the steps that led to the Acropolis, ancient ruins atop a hill with a majestic view of Athens. Saleem had seen the structures from a distance
but had never ventured close. Today, Roksana told him about the temple dedicated to Athena, how it had changed hands many times over the course of history and was controlled by the Ottomans at one point. She showed him the amphitheater and explained how this was once a center for the community.
Saleem was fascinated. They sat down to rest along a low wall that formed a perimeter for the buildings. He kicked at a stone sullenly.
“What are you thinking, Saleem?”
“Hmm? Oh. I was thinking these buildings—they are so old, so many years. But they look better than the newest buildings in Kabul.”
What he wanted to say was that two thousand years of peace could be undone in a month of war. Roksana understood.
“Yes, well, people are very good at destroying things, good things.”
“Things look really bad in Kabul. Everyone is leaving. Even in Kabul, Afghans are living like refugees.” He looked at Roksana quickly and then turned his eyes back to the ground. “That’s all people will see when they look at Afghans.”
“Saleem,” she said gently. “I don’t see a refugee when I look at you. I see someone who should be in my class, sharing books and playing sports, sitting in cafés. I see you.”
Her fingers touched his hand and squeezed briefly before letting go.
“Does your father miss Afghanistan? He is away from home so long. I do not know. Maybe I go back one day. Sometimes I miss my home.”
“No, my father doesn’t miss it. He loves his country, but he says Afghanistan is like a woman too beautiful for her own good. She will never be safe, even from her own people. He left the country when life was still normal, but he is different, I think. After the wars, he said it was not the same country. He listens to the news and talks to his family there, but it only makes him more upset.”
“But to live for so long in a different country . . . no one here speaks Dari, the food is different, there is no
masjid
to go for praying—”
“
Masjid?
My father is not a man of religion. He believes that people have destroyed religion and religion has destroyed people. He says he believes in God, but he doesn’t believe in people.”
Maybe he was right, but Saleem had never before heard an Afghan who did not consider himself a Muslim.
Saleem asked her how she’d learned to speak Dari.
“From my father. And my grandmother. She lived with us for a few years before she died. My father loves the language, the poetry. It’s the rest that breaks his heart. I think he is happy here in Greece but sometimes . . . sometimes I find him reading his books or looking at old photographs. I think there is a piece of Afghanistan still in his heart and it makes him sad.”
She stood up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. She felt uncomfortable discussing her father’s thoughts with Saleem. “It is late,” she said, changing the subject. “I should go home.”
Saleem had dreaded this, the moment when she would leave him.
“Roksana, thank you . . . for everything. Today was a nice day.” He stood up and slung his knapsack over his shoulder.
“You are welcome.” They headed back down the steps, trying not to lose each other amid the hordes of guided tours each speaking a different language. At the foot of the hill, Roksana turned quickly.
“Oh, one more thing . . . I almost forgot! Good news for you,” she said as she reached into her bag for a scrap of paper. “I think I found your uncle’s address in London!”
Saleem’s eyes widened.
“I found his name on the Internet. I think this is the address. I could not find the telephone number, but at least when you get there, you will know where to go.”
Saleem took the scrap of paper and stared incredulously at the numbers and street name scribbled on it. He felt infinitely closer to reuniting with his family. Roksana had given him a real destination.
“Roksana, you helped me. You helped my mother. I really . . . thank you.”
Saleem looked close to tears. Roksana shifted her weight and looked away, uncomfortable.
“I’ll see you around.” She gave his arm a light squeeze. “Be careful, Saleem.”
SALEEM RETURNED TO THE SQUARE EXHAUSTED FROM HIS DAY AS A
tourist. Abdullah had teased him when he returned. Despite having put on the same worn clothing, Saleem did look much refreshed from his shower.
“Well, well, well, is this Saleem or some movie star? Is it your wedding day? How did you manage to get your hair so clean?” He ruffled Saleem’s hair for good measure. Saleem ducked and grinned.
“I found a bottle of shampoo. Took it to one of the public rest-rooms and stuck my head in the sink. You should have seen the way people looked at me,” he fibbed.
“I bet they did!”
It was night. Most of the guys had tucked themselves into a corner to get some rest. Saleem, Abdullah, Hassan, and Jamal were in the same corner, having lined up their cardboard sheets. The need for security was balanced against the need for personal space. It was the unspoken code of the park. Saboor had been away from the park all day and seemed to have returned worn out. He was one of the first to retire to his spot under a tree.
Good,
Saleem thought.
Just sleep and leave us alone.
He dreamed of Roksana again. She was walking in a park with Madar-
jan,
Samira, and Aziz. Aziz was walking, his cheeks fat and pink, his bowlegs barely keeping up with the others. They were laughing, chatting. Samira bubbled with excitement, her hand in Roksana’s. Then Roksana turned to him, her eyes twinkling flirtatiously.
And suddenly he was awake. It was pitch-black. Everything was invisible. His senses were on edge. He could smell something . . . was it sweat? Saleem concentrated on being perfectly still. He heard nothing and saw nothing.
You’re imagining things,
he told himself.
Go back to sleep.
Saleem closed his eyes again and willed himself to return to his dream. He had just started to drift off when he felt it. A hand on his thigh. Saleem jerked in fright. Another hand slapped against his mouth. Saleem grabbed the wrist with both hands, but the grip was firm and callused. Hot breath in his ear.
“Be still, dear boy. Be still. Just relax and we can be good friends.” Saboor was fumbling for Saleem’s buckle. Saleem tried to wriggle out from under his grasp, but Saboor’s massive weight held him down. He could barely breathe.
“Quiet or you’ll regret it.”
No, no, no!
Saleem tried to get the hand off his mouth and nose. His legs kicked but hit nothing. He clawed at the hand, but it was heavy and unmoving.
No, no, no!
His stomach turned to feel the hand reach into his waistband.
Saleem reached behind him and fumbled for the handle that lay against the small of his back. He twisted left and right and finally felt it come out between his fingers. He could barely make out the silhouette above him, but he could feel the rancid breath on his face.
He had the handle. In one swoop, he pulled out the knife and thrust it into the dark space above him. He heard a gasp and something push back against him. The hand on his mouth released, the one on his crotch retracted.
“Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!” Saleem yelled out.
Saleem could see the shadow move, stumble, and fall backward. The others had woken.
“What’s happening?”
“Who’s yelling? Everybody all right?”
“What’s going on?”
Saleem was on his feet. His eyes adjusted, and he could make out Saboor’s outline as he limped away, holding his left side. Saleem felt someone grab his arm and jumped back.
“Hey, hey, Saleem! It’s me, Abdullah! What happened?”
What happened? Saleem was not sure. Was this real? What had he just done? He felt numb, dazed. He looked down and could now make out the blade, still in his tight grip.
“Oh God. Oh my God. Oh God.” Saleem was crazed. “He was here! He was on me!”
“Hey, it’s Saboor! Saboor has been hurt!” Voices called out in the darkness.
“He’s bleeding!”
“What happened to him? Who did this?”
Abdullah was at Saleem’s side. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flicked on a flame. The rusted blade glinted in Saleem’s hand. A drop fell from its tip.
“Did you stab him?” he whispered in disbelief.
“I . . . I . . . he was on me! His hands were . . .”
The distant voices continued to call out. People were confused and panicked.
“He’s hurt. Someone should do something!”
Saleem’s fingers felt moist, sticky. He looked at his right hand.
“Saleem, stop! Where are you going, Saleem! Wait!”
Saleem’s feet pounded against the ground as he wove through small side streets and in and out of alleys. He stumbled and fell in the dark, tripping on loose stones. There was no mistaking the blood, now dried by the breeze, on his right hand. He could feel it. He could smell it, the metallic smell of life. Saleem remembered Intikal. He saw the bride’s brother, his clothes bloodied, his face twisted with pain.
Saleem wished he could run into his mother’s arms, bury his face in her shoulder, and listen to her soothing voice tell him that he had done the right thing. He wished his father had been sleeping beside him, so that Saboor never would have dared to come near him. But Saleem was also thankful that neither of his parents was here at this moment, to see their son, a fugitive in the night, blood on his hands.
SALEEM HELD THE ALUMINUM POT OVER THE MAKESHIFT STOVE,
with its bricks laid out in a square, kindling burning within. The handle was hot and getting hotter. Flames licked the blackened bottom. Saleem wiggled his way closer to the fire. A chill in the air made his jacket feel especially thin.
The water was starting to boil.
“Is it ready yet?” Ali called out from inside.
“Yes, just now.” Ali came outside and looked inside the pot. He opened a tea bag and carefully let half its contents tumble into the pot.
“Take it off the flame now. I’ll get the bread so we can have our breakfast. It looks like it might rain later today. What do you think?”
Saleem slipped his sleeve over his hand and used the cuff to grip the handle. He ignored Ali’s last comment. Ali had said the same thing every day for the last two weeks, no matter what the appearance of the sky. Saleem hadn’t noticed on the first day, but on the second, when they were inside listening to raindrops pelt against the plastic tarp overhead, Ali again predicted that it would rain later in the day.
Saleem thought he was joking but turned to see Ali’s face looking grim and pensive.