When the Moon Is Low(61)

“I’ll go, Madar-jan. Let me do it,” he offered.

“No, bachem,” she said carefully unfolding her legs to extricate herself from the miniature house. “I need you to stay here with them. I won’t be long.”

It was torture for her to be gone. Saleem looked at his siblings. He was wholly responsible for them now. The feeling overwhelmed him. Was this how Madar-jan felt or was it different for her as their mother? If she did feel overwhelmed, she hadn’t really let on.

What if Aziz has trouble? What if Samira starts to cry? What if someone comes and takes us away?

All the resentment he had for being the one running the family’s errands while Madar-jan tended to the younger ones, all of it melted and was replaced with a yearning for Madar-jan to come back. It was late, the hour when the underworld trolled the streets. If she was spotted by the police, she would have no way of returning to them.

He strained his eyes to make out her shape from the plastic window of the playhouse, but it was dark and the rain made it nearly impossible to see. Minutes ticked away.

When she did appear, her hair was drenched, her sopping clothes clung to her. She’d gathered rocks from the playground and used them to weigh down the layer of plastic bags she’d pieced together to block the seeping rain. It worked.

Their clothes and bread were soaked, though the rain let up in just an hour. Well before sunrise, Madar-jan folded up the plastic bags and returned the rocks to the flower beds. She was saving the bags, Saleem could see, for when the rain returned.

They changed into drier clothes in a public restroom. Saleem used a few precious euros to buy fresh bread and juice from a local shop. They ate quietly, exhausted from a restless night.

Saleem and Madar-jan counted their remaining money and set aside what Roksana had estimated they would need to purchase the train tickets. Saleem stuffed the money and his Belgian passport as deep into his front pocket as he could and set out. By afternoon, he was anxious to have their tickets purchased already. It was a huge relief that Roksana would be meeting him at the station.

He wished he could be more like Roksana. She was cool and confident. While he knew her parents traveled quite a bit, he did not know what they did. She was an only child, and her mother and father gave her quite a bit of autonomy for her age. Anytime he tried to learn more about her, she deflected his questions and turned the conversation back to his situation.

She stirred feelings in him. Feelings he knew he should squelch but couldn’t. It was hard not to watch her. He could only hope she did not notice. He buried the urge to wrap his hands around her waist or bury his face in her neck. She did not seem uncomfortable around him, so he doubted she knew how he felt. Or maybe she knew but did not mind. Saleem could entertain that possibility for hours on end.

SALEEM WAITED OUTSIDE THE TRAIN STATION, TRYING TO LOOK AS casual as possible. He had used his reflection in a store window to finger-comb his unkempt hair into place. He spotted her across the street, a backpack slung over her shoulder as an afterthought. Saleem straightened his posture. She had on a black fitted button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her jeans tapered to a delicate ankle.

“Hey. How was the night?” she asked.

“It was okay,” he shrugged with a weak smile.

“But the rain. Did you stay dry? I did not even know it had rained until this morning. I was thinking about your little brother all day today.” There it was. Another clue that she saw him as more than just another refugee. He tucked her comment away with others he’d collected in their conversations. He would think more about it later.

“We were all right. It was wet but we . . . we covered. He is okay today.”

“I am glad to hear that. The newspaper says there is no more rain for the rest of the week so it should not be a problem again.”

“That is good.”

“All right, let’s go and find you some tickets, huh?” Roksana led the way. Together, they looked at the overhead board that listed the train schedule. “Did you plan where you want to go?”

“Yes, we will go to Patras and take the ferry to Italy.”

Roksana nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I suppose that is the best way. You brought some money?”

Saleem pulled out his passport and the folded-up bills. Roksana told him to hold on to it. She looked for an open counter and indicated for Saleem to follow. She stepped up to the clerk and put on an especially cheerful voice. Saleem watched as she chatted amicably. The clerk, a middle-aged woman that Saleem would not have thought to approach, laughed and shook her head. Roksana half turned to Saleem and held out her hand. He gave her the money and passport without the clerk noticing.

They walked away with train tickets to Patras. Roksana was so at ease. Saleem could not recall the last time he’d been so comfortable. It seemed like all his life, his movements had been shadowed by fear. The monster may have changed shape and color over the years, but it was steps behind him, always.

Today was Wednesday. Their tickets were for Friday morning. Weekend travel was busier and they would stand a better chance of getting lost in the crowd. Madar-jan had decided it was time to sell off some of her jewelry. Saleem would need a day to find a way to turn her bangles into cash they could use for food and transportation.

“I do have some good news,” Roksana said as they reached the street. “I wish it could have come sooner. I found a place for you and your family to stay. I know you’ll be leaving soon, but at least you won’t be on the street. One room. It is an older hotel run by a couple—my friend’s grandparents. They are selling the hotel in two or three weeks to retire and it is in bad shape, but they have a room. They’ll ask you to help them with a few things around the hotel, since they are old, but they are kind people. I explained your situation and they said if you help them enough with their move, they will not ask any money of you.”