When the Moon Is Low(71)

“Eat something, dear boy. You look like nothing has passed your lips in days!” Hayal mothered him while Hakan tried to understand what had happened after the family left Intikal.

“You took the ferry to Athens—all of you? Where did you stay?”

Saleem was too exhausted to filter how much he shared with them. He told them about the first hotel and then the Afghans he had met in Attiki Square. He told them about their decision to leave the hotel and save their euros for their travels and the brisk nights they’d spent in the playground.

Hayal cringed to hear him talk about Fereiba and the younger children sleeping in the cold rain. Saleem went on. He talked about the Yellow Hotel and the train tickets they had purchased. Then he got to the pawnshop and the police. His voice began to choke. Hayal put a hand over his. The police station in Greece. The police station in Turkey and then the only place he could think to come to, the Yilmaz home in Intikal. Odd how in this moment, Hakan and Hayal felt more like family than any of his aunts or uncles. If Madar-jan knew he was with them, it would bring her so much comfort.

Hakan leaned back in his chair. As parents, they’d had the same thought. The only possibility was to reach the Yellow Hotel, but Saleem did not have the phone number.

“Maybe we can find the number but we will need a computer,” Hakan said.

“A computer? Kamal’s family! They have a computer!”

“Saleem, Kamal’s family moved away after that wedding. They are gone. But I have another friend nearby who may be able to help. I’ll go to his house and see if he can help find something. But first, tell me everything you remember about this hotel.”

Saleem wrote out the hotel’s name and the cross streets as best as he could remember. While Hakan left to search out the number, Hayal prepared a much needed bath for Saleem.

Warm water relaxed his neck but not his mind. He could not stay here forever. He had to get back to Greece.

He put on the clothes Hayal had laid out for him, a pair of pants and a shirt her sons had outgrown and left behind. Hakan returned with good news. He’d been able to track down the phone number of the hotel on the Internet. Saleem, who’d been nodding off on their sofa, was suddenly awake and ecstatic.

“I must call! I must call now! Maybe they are there!”

“I know,” Hakan smiled, but he seemed hesitant. “I have a calling card. We can try the number now but . . . but Saleem, you must remember it is possible that they have taken the train. They may not be there and that does not mean something bad.”

Saleem nodded. He was glad he was not making this call by himself. Whether or not he was able to reach them, he would need someone to turn to when he hung up the phone.

Hakan read the instructions on the back of the card and dialed the string of numbers until they were finally connected. He handed the phone to Saleem, whose knuckles blanched as he listened to the trill of the phone ringing on the other end.

A click, a throat cleared, and some mumbling.

Saleem recognized the old man’s voice.

“Please! I need to speak to my mother. Is my mother there?” His words were a jumble of English, Turkish, and Farsi, an emotional short circuit between his thoughts and his tongue.

“Who is this?” The voice on the line was confused, suspicious. Hakan put a hand on Saleem’s elbow. Slow down, he motioned. Saleem took a deep breath and focused his English.

“Please, my name is Saleem. I was staying at the hotel with my mother. I need to speak to my mother. She is there with my brother and sister!”

“Ah, the boy! Your mother looks for you. She is in room. Maybe you call back later. Now I am busy.”

“No, I cannot call later. Please, my mother. I must speak to her now!” The old man detected the desperation in his voice.

“Okay, okay.” He muttered something in Greek that Saleem did not understand.

The silence was interminable. Hakan and Hayal watched Saleem’s face anxiously.

Fereiba’s voice crackled through the receiver. Saleem leaped to his feet and, like a tethered animal, paced as far as the coiled line would allow.

“Saleem? Saleem, bachem? Is it you?” Her voice trembled.

“Yes, Madar-jan,” he said. “It is me.”

“Bachem, where are you? Oh, thank God! I’ve been so worried!”

“I’m in Intikal, Madar-jan, with Kaka Hakan and Khala-jan. The police caught me and sent me back to Turkey.”

“The police? Oh God, you are in Turkey!” Madar-jan’s mind was racing as she processed the implications of this news. “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

“I’m all right, Madar-jan. I’ll find a way back to Greece, but I don’t know how long it will take.”

It was not so much that they needed to make a painful decision but rather that a painful decision had been made for them. Saleem spoke first.

“Madar-jan, you have the passports and the train tickets. Take Samira and Aziz and get yourselves to England as soon as possible. I have to find a way to get back and it may not be soon enough since I don’t have my papers. But if you wait for me, Aziz might get worse.”

“I can mail the passport to you. I can send it to Hayal-jan’s house.” Madar-jan’s voice was laden with guilt. “But, Saleem-jan, what about money? Did the police take everything from you?”

“No, I have the money from the pawnshop. If you can send me the passport, then I can take the same route and before you know it, I’ll meet you in England.” Part of him wanted Madar-jan to say no, to tell him that she would wait for him in Greece and that they would all go together to England. Surely, she wished for the same but their plan had to take Aziz’s broken heart into consideration.