When the Moon Is Low(68)

Saleem hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a small child. Part of him wanted to drive his fist through the doctor’s curious glasses while another part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and wail. The exam concluded before Saleem could act.

“Okay, finished.” He motioned for Saleem to pull up his underpants and jeans, as he jotted something into a notepad that fit in his palm. “Any health problems?” he asked as Saleem hurried to pull up his briefs and jeans.

“No. No problems.”

“How old?” The question resurfaced. It dawned on Saleem this was the reason for the doctor’s visit, explaining his focus between Saleem’s thighs, the part of him that had changed most in the last few years.

“Fifteen,” Saleem answered meekly.

“Hmph.” The doctor paused briefly to look at Saleem’s face and scribbled a few more notes. He packed up his tools, retrieved his white coat, and exited the room without any further conversation.

Alone, Saleem began to pace the room, his anger fanned by exhaustion. He let out a short yell that bounced from wall to wall. He yelled again—longer and louder.

Saleem put his palms and forehead against the wall. It felt cold and real, realer than the rest of his situation. He brought his right palm against the wall a second time, harder.

Again and again, harder and harder, Saleem slapped his palm against the cold wall as the past twenty-four hours spun through his head: the policeman grabbing his elbow as he exited the pawnshop, the cigarette smoke blown in his face, the doctor examining his genitals with more attention than the customs officer had paid to their travel documents, his mother frantic in the hotel or searching the streets, Samira frightened and silent, his father watching and shaking his head in disappointment, Aziz’s tiny chest heaving with discomfort. They exploded above him like a shower of rockets, raining down on his head and shoulders when there was nowhere to run and nothing that could be done.

Saleem was pounding the wall with two hands now, enraged and crying. He didn’t notice the door open behind him.

“Hey! Hey!” Saleem felt a hand pull his shoulder. It was Officer G, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip. “You crazy?”

Saleem turned around and slumped to the floor, weakened by his outburst. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Almost as if the officer and Saleem realized this at the same time, he left the room and returned with a plate. There were a few pieces of chicken kebab and pita bread. He put the plate on the table unceremoniously.

“Eat something.”

Saleem’s breathing slowed. His palms stung, pulsing. He returned to the table in defeat. He took the food and chewed bite after bite, tasting nothing. He stared at the plate, letting his eyes gloss over and his muscles relax. The officer watched Saleem, a specimen in a jar. Captivating to his captors.

Saleem ate without looking up or saying a word. Maybe if his belly stopped growling, he could come up with a way to get out of this mess. Maybe he could figure a way to get back to his mother.





CHAPTER 34


Saleem


TWO TURKISH POLICE OFFICERS STARED DOWN AT SALEEM AND the other refugees. Herded onto a boat like cattle, Saleem and a dozen similarly thwarted migrants had been returned to Izmir. The Turkish officials were not pleased to have to reclaim these refugees but those were the rules. Refugees were to be returned to the first country they entered and the burden was on that country to deal with them. It was a cause of persistent resentment between the Turks and the Greeks. The handoff had been terse.

Saleem watched the Greek officers smirk as they handed over a stack of papers and unloaded their cargo onto Turkish soil. Few words were exchanged between the two sides but their sentiments were clear.

Not our problem anymore, the expressions on the Greek officers read.

Thanks for nothing, the sarcastic reply on the faces of their Turkish counterparts.

They took their frustration out on the refugees, grabbing people by the arm and shoving them into a van waiting at the port. Thighs overlapping, shoulders pressed together. One small window in the back did little to ventilate a van full of refugees who had been languishing in a Greek detainment cell for days, weeks, months.

Every step of the way, Saleem had promised that if released, he would leave Greece immediately. His pleas drowned in the sea of similar pleas authorities had heard before from so many others facing deportation.

Saleem wanted to be the one, the exception to the rule. He wanted to be able to look back at the moment and recall how close he had come to being deported, how close he had come to being separated completely from his family. But everything—the seat beneath him, the smells around him, the people standing over him—told him he was not in the least bit different from any other ragtag passenger in the van.

There were Africans, a few eastern Europeans (Saleem guessed by their appearance and their unfamiliar language), and even a few Turks. There were no other Afghans, which made Saleem feel both more alone and relieved at the same time. He was not in the mood to talk when he felt it would not help.

Where does Madar-jan think I am? Could she have found the pawnshop? Maybe they’ve gone to the train station to wait for me there. Maybe they even got on the train, thinking I would show up. They could be anywhere now. Madar-jan, how frantic you must be! How will I find you again? What can I do by myself?

Saleem’s mind was a thunderstorm, moments of peace interrupted by electrical flashes of dread and a flood of remorse.