When the Moon Is Low(46)

“No Turkish.”

“No Turkish?” The boy laughed and switched into English. “You like to play football or you like to sleep in grass?”

Saleem felt a rush. He followed the boy over to the others who had already broken into two teams. One team was short a player.

“You play with them,” the lanky boy declared. He paused and looked Saleem up and down. “You have a name?”

Saleem paused, wanting to be sure he was not being mocked.

“Saleem,” he finally answered, taking his watch off and placing it in his pocket.

“Saleem? You talk slow. I hope you move fast.”

Kabul had been full of boys like this. Saleem sauntered over to his designated team and greeted the guys with a quick nod. They looked him over in turn and began to assume their field positions.

As the ball tumbled from boy to boy, Saleem was transported. He was in Kabul, catching a quick street game with neighborhood friends before light fell. He ran after the ball, kicked it away from boys whose names he did not care to know. He tapped it, passing it to his new teammates, boys who otherwise in the marketplace might shun him as a foreign migrant worker. He was not an outsider here. The ball came his way again. Saleem dribbled to the goalpost, watching for defenders and trying to stay ahead of the others.

His team lost by a point but he’d played well enough to have won the respect of the group. The lanky boy gave Saleem a sidelong glance, panting and sweaty.

“Where are you from?” he asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Afghanistan,” Saleem answered hesitantly. The boy seemed unfazed.

“My name is Kamal.”

KAMAL AND SALEEM BECAME FRIENDS, AS MUCH AS A NATIVE AND an immigrant could in Intikal. From that day on, Saleem joined the boys once a week for a soccer game, returning from the Polat farm to play for an hour or two and sometimes going back to the farm to resume work. He was exhausted and ravenous on those days, but it was worth it to feel the grass under his feet, the pats on the shoulder, and the wind on his face. Polat grimaced but tolerated Saleem’s absences since he made up for the work he missed.

At home, Saleem kept his new activities to himself. He could not bring himself to tell his mother that for an hour a week he felt free. He saw his mother’s anxious face when he came home. She spent every moment fussing over Aziz and scrounging for any work to pad their pockets. Samira continued to pitch in, either watching Aziz while Madar-jan worked or helping out around the house for Hakan and Hayal. Though it felt dishonest, Saleem kept his sport to himself.

On the field, Saleem was too tongue-tied to make smart replies when the boys tossed around the usual jeers. He hoped his silence came off as cool indifference. Kamal continued to poke at Saleem and didn’t seem too disappointed that he didn’t get much response.

In the evenings, the boys sometimes gathered in town to have a soft drink and ogle the scantily clad women in magazine ads. Saleem only met up with them on occasion, self-conscious about his sweaty work clothes and vine-chafed hands. Unable to keep everything from his mother, he told her he’d met some nice local boys and would join them for a soda. She was encouraging, which only made him feel worse that he’d kept so much from her.

Kamal, having walked Saleem home once, knew where they lived. Still, Saleem was surprised to come home from the farm one evening and find his friend sitting in the kitchen with Hakan. On that night, Saleem learned that Kamal was as adaptive as a chameleon. It was a quality he admired for its usefulness.

“Saleem, good timing. You have a visitor,” Hakan announced with a smile.

“Hello, Saleem,” Kamal said jovially, rising from his chair.

“We were just chatting. I’m happy you are getting to know the neighborhood boys. And as it turns out, I know Kamal’s father.”

“Hello . . .” Saleem was caught off-guard. He was not thrilled to see Kamal at home. “You . . . you know his father?”

“Yes, isn’t that interesting, Saleem? I had no idea that this was dear Mr. Hakan’s home!”

“It is Intikal. We are bound to know each other. But I haven’t seen Kamal here since he was a young boy, just barely the height of this table,” Hakan said with a chuckle. Kamal grinned, looking remarkably wholesome.

“Yes, it turns out that my father and Mr. Hakan taught at the same university,” he explained.

“Indeed, but Kamal’s father is much younger than me. He was new—a very bright professor. The students loved him then and now. Although I’m sure his son misses having his father around during the semester.”

Saleem’s surprise must have been obvious in his face. He had a lot to learn about Kamal. Hakan stood up and took his teacup to the sink. He tousled Kamal’s hair on the way. Saleem could understand most of their conversation but had to focus. Kamal’s Turkish was a cleaned-up version of what Saleem usually heard him speaking.

“Well, you boys enjoy yourselves. Kamal, give your father my regards when you speak to him. Tell him I’ll be waiting for a visit when he returns. It would be nice to catch up with him at the end of the semester.”

“Of course, Mr. Hakan. I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be most pleased to hear from you. Just a few more weeks and he’ll be home.”

Hakan walked out of the kitchen, and Kamal punched Saleem in the shoulder playfully.