When the Moon Is Low(63)

And though it had been her father to put the bangles in her hand, it had felt as if her mother had drifted in while Fereiba slept, slipped them over her daughter’s fingers, and slid them onto her arm. It was the gentle touch of a mother, a touch Fereiba had never known until she’d held Saleem in her arms for the first time, pressed her lips to his forehead, and realized she had much to give him, much that she’d never received.

Saleem knew none of this when he took the bangles from his mother. He could see only that she looked uneasy.

“My mind is restless today. I wish you would leave the pawnshop for tomorrow. We can stop by on the way to the train station. We could all go together.”

“It’s not far and we don’t have much cash left, Madar-jan. Who knows what will happen in Patras. We’ll need money for food and the ferry or else we’ll be stranded.”

“But today . . .”

“I’m going, Madar-jan. If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England.”

Fereiba bit her tongue. She began to dress Aziz and asked Samira to wash some of their clothes. She was going to see to what needs the hotel owners had. She turned away as Saleem put the bangles into his pocket and buttoned it to make sure they would not fall out.

Fereiba did not see the hesitation on her son’s face—that second where he considered his mother’s warning and chose to ignore it because he wanted to be braver than her.

“I’m going to the pawnshop now and then I’ll be back in two hours,” Saleem promised.

It was a promise he would not keep.





PART TWO





CHAPTER 30


Saleem


AN ENTIRE LIFETIME CAN CHANGE IN ONE AFTERNOON. THE rest of the world can continue on, unaware of a quiet, solitary cataclysm occurring a few feet away. A police officer stood to Saleem’s left, twirling a set of keys on his finger. A second officer rested his outstretched palm on the concrete wall above Saleem’s right shoulder. He could feel the officer’s breath on his cheek.

“Where do you stay?” The smell of garlic on his breath made Saleem’s stomach turn. He dared not look away. He stared at the caricature of himself in the officer’s sunglasses—his eyes wide and fearful. His adolescent face hadn’t taken on the angles of manhood yet. A shadow lined his upper lip but nothing more.

“Again, please?” Saleem felt his voice quaver. In the few weeks he’d been in Greece, Saleem had picked up a few phrases but not enough to sound convincing. He tensed his shoulders, hoping to steady his words.

“Where do you sleep? Where is your home?”

The officers huffed and shook their heads at his blank stare. They were lighter in complexion than Saleem’s deep olive skin, his color deepened by the months he’d spent working under the sun. The officer with the keys gave in and spoke in English.

“Where do you stay here?” he said, angrily.

Saleem’s mind raced to come up with a plausible story. He couldn’t lead these officers back to his family.

“I not stay. I am visitor. I come for shops,” he explained meekly, pointing in the direction of the stores down the street. The officers both snickered.

“Shops? What did you buy?”

“Ehh, nothing. Today, nothing.” Saleem willed them to lose interest.

“Nothing? Okay. Where is your passport? Papers?”

Saleem’s stomach reeled. He tasted bile. “Passport? I do not have my passport.” The owner of the pawnshop opened the door, saw the two officers on either side of his last customer, and quickly retreated into his shop.

“No passport?” The officers exchanged a glance that Saleem could not interpret.

“My friend . . . he has my passport.”

“What is your name?”

“Saleem.”

“Where are you from?”

Saleem felt his heart pounding in his ears. Could he make a run for it? Unlikely. He was pinned against the wall in a busy market. Tourists walked in and out of shops, door chimes dancing in their wake. A dark-skinned street peddler kept his eyes averted as he packed his dancing stick figures into a sack. People walking by looked over with vague interest barely enough to slow their steps. Only the gray-haired man grilling corncobs seemed sympathetic. He wiped his hands on his half apron and nudged the fallen husks into a pile with the toe of his shoe.

It was hot enough to sweat even in the shade. Saleem was thirsty and hadn’t eaten since last night. If he ran, they would overtake him quickly. The officers wore blue uniforms, felt berets, and button-down shirts tucked crisply into navy slacks. He stared at their thick belts weighed down with radios, handcuffs . . . pistols. Running was not an option. Neither was refusing to answer their questions.

“I am . . . I am from Turkey.” Saleem had rehearsed this part with his mother at least a hundred times and even more on his own. Other refugees had warned him about the chain of questions. He hoped they’d advised him wisely.

“Turkey?” The officer seemed repulsed. He shot the key jangler a knowing glance. “And how did you come here?”

Saleem nodded. “Airplane.”

“Who came with you?”

Saleem shook his head. “I came alone.” He prayed nothing in his voice or his eyes gave him away. He kept his hands glued to his sides.