When the Moon Is Low(112)

In an hour, all that remained of the sun was a purple glow on the horizon. The boys crept down the embankment and tiptoed toward the tracks, sidestepping the rails with caution.

Their first peek into the tunnel was intimidating. There was only about two feet of space on either side of the train tracks. They would have to keep their bellies plastered against the wall while trains passed by. Wavering or losing balance would be fatal.

“It will be dark,” Saleem warned. “We should stick close together and listen for the sound of trains coming.”

“Yes, stick together. And listen for trains.” Saleem could hear the quiver in Ajmal’s voice.

“Ajmal, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Saleem said gently. He did not want to be responsible for what might happen if Ajmal’s nerves got the best of him during their crossing.

“I’m fine, Saleem. I want to go.”

The boys entered the dark. Saleem felt once more for Khala Najiba’s address, tucked safely into his pocket.

They had walked about two kilometers into the tunnel when their feet sensed a light rumble in the tracks.

“Saleem!”

“Remember, up against the wall and don’t move! Don’t move!” Saleem yelled out. He pressed his cheek against the cold tunnel wall and tried to flatten himself. He closed his eyes, scared for Ajmal and scared for himself.

The train was upon them almost instantly, glaring lights announcing its arrival. Traveling at nearly one hundred miles per hour, the train slammed the boys with a hard blast of air.

One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . Saleem counted as his fingers clawed at the concrete wall. Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . and the assault continued. Fourteen . . . fifteen . . . sixteen . . . until finally, mercifully, the deafening noise faded into the distance.

Saleem, unmoving, let out the desperate breath he’d held in. Slowly, his body, realizing it was whole, untensed. This could work!

“Ajmal?”

There was no reply.

“Ajmal!”

Silence still.

“Ajmal, are you all right! Answer me!” Saleem groped behind him in the dark.

“Yes, yes, I’m okay. I just . . . oh, Saleem, that was close!”

“But you are okay?”

“Yes, I am okay.”

“Can you go on?”

“My friend, you’ve brought the donkey halfway up the hill, there is no use in turning him back around.”

Saleem’s laughter echoed through the dark tunnel. It ran ahead of him, leading the way like a beacon in the night. All he had to do was follow.

Saleem touched his pocket and felt for the pouch. He thought of his return to the pawnshop in Athens and the surprised look on the store owner’s face when Saleem reached into his pocket and handed over money he could scarcely afford to pay.

Madar-jan, I am just a few kilometers away. I will be by your side and show Padar-jan that I can be the man my family needs me to be . . . the man I want to be. I will not stop until I see these bangles back on your wrist, Madar-jan.

His throat thick with the honeyed taste of promise, Saleem called out to his invisible friend.

“Ajmal, my friend, let’s go!”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


My deep gratitude to my parents, who are a real-life love story and my biggest champions. For my hamsar, this story would not exist without you and your belief that I could make it happen. Zoran, Zayla, and Kyrus—my biggest critics—you make storytelling challenging and rewarding and I love you with all my heart. Fawod and family, your extraloud cheers feed my soul. Thank you, Fahima, for knowing me so well that you send all the right inspirations my way. You make my inbox happy. To my uncle Isah and the other family members who have shared details of their sometimes heartbreaking journeys, thank you for your generosity. Emine, my immensely talented Turkish advisor, your creative input was precious, and I hope the world gets to see the important moments you’ve captured (www.eminegozdesevim.com). For Laura, my overqualified Hellenic guide, efxaristo koukla mou. To my wise editor, Rachel Kahan, thank you for making my imaginary friends your imaginary friends and for taking such good care of them. Helen Heller, my astute agent, thank you for finding this story a home and for breathing poetry into the book’s title (again). To the entire family at William Morrow/HarperCollins, thank you for your creativity, dedication, and enthusiasm. I am eternally grateful to all the friends who have supported my writing in many creative ways: the LadyDocs, the Queens crew, Professor Holly Davidson, the Warwickians, and others.

This story was inspired by the masses of people all over the world in search of a place to call home. It is a fictional story, meant only to represent the dilemma of the displaced in a small way. There are many out there documenting true human experiences, and I am grateful for the critical work they do. What do I wish for? Since I’m one part dreamer and two parts realist, I wish for a world that doesn’t create refugees, but until then, I’ll settle for the humanity in each of us that makes sharing and hearing these important stories possible.