When the Moon Is Low(107)

“We should move. We should leave this camp before they come in and send us all back to Afghanistan.”

“Are you crazy? Where will we go?”

“We can all go through the tunnel. If we all go at once, they won’t be able to catch everyone. Our chances will be better. We should do it tonight, the night of the holiday. There will probably be fewer guards there.”

“As if one person does not draw enough attention! You think all of us should walk together into the police’s arms?”

The debate went on for two hours. Just as the city of Patras had grown weary of its blight, Calais had tired of the Jungle. As Saleem listened to the sounds of their banter, his eyes were drawn to the sidelines. A white-bearded man sat on an overturned bucket. He watched the mass as they debated, observing without participating. Strange, Saleem thought, as it was rare for a man of his age to make the journey out of Afghanistan. Unless they found a legitimate way out of the country, people like him were destined to be buried in Afghanistan’s blood-soaked earth.

The man looked oddly familiar, though Saleem could not place him. He stared, waiting for his mind to make the connection. He met Saleem’s gaze and tilted his head to the side. Saleem looked away for a second, but his eyes drifted back again and he offered a tight-lipped smile in return.

Does he know me? Or did he just catch me staring at him?

Saleem kept his head bowed, and when he looked up again, the old man had vanished.

Several of the men went to explore a new part of town. The Jungle might close down, but that did not mean the displaced would be offered any alternative place to set up shelter. Some said the police were waiting for the right moment to storm in and sweep up the refugees. Saleem could not have arrived at a worse time.

They ate boiled rice with tomatoes. It didn’t taste like much, but it was warm going down.

IN THE EARLY EVENING, TWO OF AJMAL’S ROOMMATES DECIDED to leave the Jungle and set up camp elsewhere. They believed those who said the Jungle’s days were numbered. They packed their rusted frying pans, their mugs, and their spare clothes into plastic bags and headed off. Ajmal was disappointed to see them go but offered their space to Saleem, who gratefully accepted.

The following morning, Saleem walked to the fly-infested latrines. The camp was quiet. It was just after sunrise and only a handful of men were awake. As he came around a cluster of tents, Saleem nearly walked straight into the old man he’d seen yesterday. The man smiled.

“Sohb-bakhair, bachem.”

“Good morning to you, too. Pardon me—I hadn’t seen you standing here.”

“The elderly become invisible sooner than we would hope,” he said, smiling.

“God forbid. It was my oversight,” Saleem said meekly. The man had to be in his seventies, at least, with thin, olive skin and a full white beard and mustache. The corners of his eyes crinkled under heavy, snowy brows. He wore a long beige tunic and pantaloons of a slightly darker shade.

“You have come recently,” he said. “What is your name and where are you from?”

“My name is Saleem Waziri. My family lived in Kabul.”

“Everyone here says they are from Kabul. But I can hear in your accent that you were raised there. Walk with me. I want to know more about you.”

Saleem followed, mesmerized by the soft rasp of the man’s voice. They strolled away from Ajmal’s hut and toward the far end of the camp, the side from which England’s chalky cliffs could be seen.

I feel like I know you, Saleem wanted to say. But he resisted and followed the man’s lead. They walked through the main pathway that crossed through the Jungle.

“A Kabuli family. Your father’s name?”

“Mahmood Waziri.” Saleem fiddled with the worn watchband on his wrist.

“Waziri. Mahmood Waziri? That name sounds awfully familiar. Let me see, do you mean Mahmood Waziri, the engineer? Worked for the Ministry of Water and Electricity?”

Saleem felt a tingle in his chest.

“Yes, yes! Did you know my father?” He stopped in his tracks and looked up at the old man’s face. His thin lips parted in a half smile.

“Do you not see these white hairs, my friend? I am old enough to have known more than just a few men. I know generations of men. I dare to say, much of Kabul’s history fills the space between my ears.”

Saleem grinned.

“Of course I knew your father. He’s not here with you.” A gentle statement more than a question.

“No, he was . . . taken.” Saleem said it quickly, not wanting the words to linger.

“A shame, a true shame. Such an intelligent man. And your mother? She was a teacher. Where is she?”

“She is with my younger sister and brother. I think they’re in London. We were separated during our travels.”

“Ah, I see. God willing, your family is safely in London and anxiously awaiting your arrival. You’re brave to have made this voyage on your own. You must have seen many difficulties on your way here.”

“No more and no less than anyone else,” Saleem said, thinking of Ali. Naeem. The boys in Attiki. Patras. Pagani. The ones whose journey ended in the rocky waters. The ones who never made it out of Kabul.

“Wise of you to know this. We all cross a hundred peaks to get even this far. And there will be more before we each make it to whatever destination God has fated for us.”