When the Moon Is Low(110)

Enough of this. I am going to follow them.

And just as he resolved to push aside his fears and grab the low-lying fruit, the shouts rang out. White lights broke the soft orange haze. Three police cars peeled into view and screeched to a stop by the entrance. Flashlights led the way.

Saleem’s heart dropped. There were so many. For hours, it continued. Men were led out, their hands tied behind their backs, their feet dragging with disappointment. The boys had considered the possibility that a few would be caught, but it was much worse. They’d rounded up at least half by Saleem’s count. Everything those boys had done, all the money they’d paid and the risks they’d faced and the cold nights they’d endured—all of it had been in vain.

The others would likely be caught on the other side by the British authorities. What would become of them? Would they be given the chance to apply for asylum or would they be shuttled back to France?

Tonight had not been the right night to chase the moon. When all but one police car had finally left the scene, Saleem turned around and hiked back to the Jungle.





CHAPTER 55


Fereiba


NAJIBA-JAN HAS BEEN GOOD TO US. I CAN SEE THE LOOK ON HER husband’s face. Hameed would like nothing more than for us to be gone. Germany offers much better benefits to its refugees, he says, though he has no good explanation for why he does not want to move there himself.

I learned slowly, once I met them, that my sister had no idea he had discouraged us from coming to England. She’d even saved up some money and set it aside so that we would have something for food and clothing, until we were able to file the right papers and apply for asylum.

Her husband sees me as an intrusion. He wishes us to disappear. He cannot look me in the eye and fumbles for even simple conversation.

I want to tell him that he needn’t be so anxious. Those days, when his flirtations and romantic promises filled my sky, are part of a time I can barely recall. So much has happened between then and now. Though Mahmood, my hamsar, no longer stands by my side, my years with him are larger than girlish dreams. I am grateful for the time we had together, short as it was, and for the children we raised.

Hameed, the boy from the orchard, played a role in bringing me to Mahmood. The betrayal I felt at the time melted away once I got to know Mahmood. It was not the straightest road, but it led me home.

Hameed does not understand that. And I cannot explain it to him because he is my sister’s husband and I do not want to open doors that were rightly closed long ago. Najiba’s heart is welcoming and wide. I do not want to stir any ill will.

Even KokoGul. Even to her I must be thankful for it was she who nudged Najiba under Shireen-jan’s nose. It was she who thought her prettiest daughter, her true daughter, was more deserving of our esteemed neighbor. And I know that when his mother told him of Najiba’s beauty, he changed his choice readily and stopped visiting the orchard. He kept his choice a secret, too much of a coward to say anything himself.

I wept for days when I should not have. We are too shortsighted to rejoice in the moments that deserve it.

Khala Zeba, Mahmood’s beloved mother, saw what others did not. And my husband trusted his mother. How lucky I was to have both of them. Allah chose my naseeb wisely. In our wedding photograph I am solemn and unsure. Khala Zeba lifted my green veil and looked at me with warm, motherly eyes.

Mahmood’s hand joined with mine that day, my mother’s bangles delicately clinking against one another in their own private toast. My father had looked on somberly.

You look just like her, my daughter.

I remember the way my throat tightened, missing the mother I’d never met, the grandfather who had watched over me, and the old man in the orchard who promised to light the path before me. I was nervous about the man at my side, my new husband. But those people I missed so much, those faces I would only see in my dreams, whispered in my ear that all would be right.

Najiba’s children have inherited their mother’s delicate features and sweet disposition. From their father, only his restless nature. I watch them at the park, climbing ladders and laughing as they fall on their backsides or slip down a slide. Samira feels too old to play alongside her cousins. She’s nearly a young woman now and the only playgrounds of her youth were places of hiding on rainy nights. I wonder if that’s what she sees when she watches the children on the swings.

She speaks now. Just short sentences, but she is coming along slowly. She waits, as I do, for Saleem to join us. I know when she sees him, she will be complete again, a whole and perfect child.

Aziz is too nervous to wander far. He watches the other children play and imitates their actions from a distance. His legs have thickened and hold his weight comfortably. He is thin but he smiles with pink lips and eyes bright enough to make mine water. Thank you, God. Thank you.

Something tells me my son is close. I continue to wait for him, and it occurs to me that’s what being a mother is, isn’t it? Waiting for a rounded belly to tighten in readiness; listening for the sound of hunger in the moonlit hours; hearing an eager voice call even in the camouflage of traffic, loud music, and whirring machines. It’s looking at every door, every phone, and every approaching silhouette and feeling that slight lift, that tickle of opportunity to be again—mother.

I saw Saleem in my dream last night, swimming across a brilliant, blue ocean with ripples that sparkled under a warm sun. The breeze blew a salty mist onto my cheeks as I watched him. There was water all around him, and he glided through, swimming in smooth, strong strokes as if he’d been raised by the ocean. From afar, I could see his mischievous grin, the proud triumph of a boy who’d found his own way home.