When the Moon Is Low(65)

The train was loud enough to muffle Saleem’s cries as it pulled in and out of the station.





CHAPTER 31


Fereiba


MAYBE THIS IS HOW IT IS MEANT TO BE. A WIFE WITHOUT A HUSBAND. Children without a father. Perhaps incomplete is the very definition of a normal family. Where did my lofty expectations come from anyway? Afghanistan is a land of widows and widowers, orphans and the missing. Missing a right leg, a left hand, a child, or a mother. Everyone was missing something, as if a black hole had opened in the center of the country, sucking in bits and pieces of everyone into its hard belly. Somewhere under our khaki earth is everything we’ve ever lost. I’ve heard the gray-haired Afghans living in foreign lands say, “Bury me in Afghanistan when I die. Return me to the land I came from.” They say it’s for love of country, but maybe it’s because they think they’ll be reunited with all they’ve lost there. Others stubbornly refuse to leave Afghanistan, no matter what is happening in our streets. Maybe because they think the earth will open up and return to them all that has been stolen.

I believe in no such thing.

What is gone is gone and will not come back. When the earth swallows, it swallows forever and we are left to stumble along feeling the absences. These are our burdens.

My son is hardened. He is becoming a man without the guidance of a father. I let him run with boys because he cannot be around women only. I can only teach him what I know. He needs to learn the ways of men and I pray that he will be safe while he does so and that I will be able to pull him back if he strays too far. He will resent me more if I do not give him this space. Already his words and accusing eyes are those of a man while his face and body remain that of a boy. He’s not the boy he was a year ago.

I miss the boy Saleem once was, mischievous and coy. I miss his laughter. I miss having his arms around my neck. All these were lost back home, in the land of the missing. Even if we reach England and settle into a new life, I know Saleem will never be that boy again. What is gone is gone.

My children inherited from me the misfortune of a missing childhood, as if the time they spent in my womb stained them with a naseeb of hardship.

Now I wait for Saleem to return from the pawnshop. My gold bangles, the only piece of my mother I had, are gone now and can be counted among the missing. I hated to part with them, but how could I keep them while my children are put to work or hungry? What Saleem brings back will be my mother’s gift to my children. It will not glitter or sing like wind chimes, but it will be her soft kiss on their cheeks.

KokoGul had never known about the bracelets. Unlikely they ever would have graced my wrists if she had.

“So what else have you hidden from me, dear husband?” she’d asked in a half tease. “Maybe these walls are full of treasures gathering dust. Why did you not let me keep those bangles in a safe place?”

“What place could be safer than somewhere unknown to you?” my father had retorted.

“Well, let me see them at least before they leave this house for good.” KokoGul had beckoned me to her. I’d stuck out my wrist, not wanting to slip them off for even a second. “Hmph. From a distance they looked thicker. Actually, they are very thin and flimsy. More like gold plate.”

Every hallway creak brings a tightening in my chest. I hope Saleem returns soon. He had said two hours, but it has been much longer. I should not worry. When he returns, he’ll tell me he got caught up playing soccer with friends, that he lost track of time because he was with boys, the afternoon sun bright on his face. I will shake my head at him, but I will be happy for him, too. If only his father could see him now, our wayward boy, carrying his family on his back. My husband would put his arm around me and grin as he did when one-year-old Saleem took his first triumphant steps.

Things will be better once we get to England. Despite what her husband says, I know Najiba will help us. We will have them to lean on until we find our way, but it will not be long, God willing. If we have gotten this far, we can make a life for ourselves in any country. We need only a chance. Somewhere in the world, there must be a place where we will be welcomed as a long-lost sister, not stoned away like an unwanted snake in the garden.

Please hurry back, Saleem. The hour is late and my faith too shallow to reassure me much longer. Please come back soon.





CHAPTER 32


Saleem


THE RIDE TO THE PRISON SEEMED AN ETERNITY. SALEEM COULD feel the sweat trickle down his back. His window was open about an inch—just enough to make him wish he could roll it down more.

“Please, sir, I must go. I will leave Greece tomorrow. I will not be a problem. I do not need help.”

“You will leave tomorrow? Very easy, yes?”

Sarcasm was never lost in translation.

They reached the outskirts where tourists dared not venture, and Saleem’s cheeks were hot with tears. They passed by the narrow road that led to the Yellow Hotel, an unimaginatively named lemon-colored building. He fixed his eyes on the street but saw no one. In an hour the sun would start to set and Madar-jan would begin to worry.

At the prison, Saleem was led past desks and officers, most barely looking up as he passed. He was taken toward the austere back of the building where two African men and one Greek man sat in a cell. Saleem felt the urge to run for the nearest exit, but with every passing minute, his chances at valiance grew slimmer. The older officer motioned to another policeman to open the cell for Saleem.