When the Moon Is Low(83)

Saleem did not want to miss his meeting with her. He spent the afternoon listening to Abdullah and Hassan tell the same tired mullah jokes they’d told a thousand times before. The one about the mullah and the pumpkin. The one about the mullah and the one-eyed donkey. Afghans loved to poke fun at their clergymen.

“The guy walking along the riverbank sees the mullah on the other side and calls out to him: ‘Hey, how do I get across?’ and the mullah says: ‘Are you a fool? You are across!’”

Hassan chuckled. To laugh at a joke he’d laughed at as a boy in Afghanistan was to call to mind better times. There was a sweet nostalgia to these droll vignettes. Had Saleem been less anxious about the hour, he might have appreciated them more.

He spun his watch around his wrist. Judging by the sky, it was probably nearing seven o’clock.

“My friends,” Saleem yawned. He rose to his feet slowly, hands on his knees for support. He arched his back and let out a soft grunt for good measure. “My back is so stiff . . . I think I need to walk around a bit.”

“You sure you want to walk? If you’d like, I can have my chauffeur take you for a drive.”

Saleem forced a smile.

“Maybe next time.”

AT THE PARK, THREE YOUNG GIRLS PROPELLED THEMSELVES upward on the swings, pushing their legs out and bringing them back in as they swooped back down. Two school-age boys climbed a wooden ladder and crossed a play bridge. Their parents watched on, stealing sidelong glances at Saleem.

He made them uneasy. It might have interested them to know that they terrified him.

He consciously stayed back, sitting on one of the farthest benches and keeping his gaze off into the distance. He considered walking away and coming back when they had taken their children home. But he did not want to risk missing Roksana. She made him feel human again, and he was not willing to pass that up. There was a newspaper on a nearby bench. Saleem picked it up and returned to his seat, pretending the Greek characters on the page made sense to him.

Roksana finally came, standing behind him without saying a word. The children had gone by then, led away by their parents who shot one final look over in Saleem’s direction. She was probably late. Maybe she knew Saleem would have waited all night for her.

“Saleem.”

He spun around at the sound of her voice. Why did it feel wrong for them to meet like this? Why did he feel so awkward about it? There was something clandestine about the hour and the setting.

“Here, try this,” she said, handing him something wrapped in a folded sheet of wax paper. She took a seat next to him on the bench.

“What is this?” he asked, undoing the paper.

“Kebab. My mother makes great kebab. Thought you should try some yourself.” She slid onto the bench, moving the newspaper and taking a seat beside him. The kebab was still warm—the ground meat and spices made Saleem’s mouth water. “So you’ve learned how to read Greek, eh?”

Saleem grinned even as he bit into the meat. The first morsel melted under his teeth and tasted better than anything he could remember.

“You like it?”

“Mmm, it tastes like . . . it tastes like home.” Saleem licked his lips and closed his eyes. “Thank you!”

Roksana laughed.

“You are welcome. Thought you would enjoy that,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you and see if you have any ideas. To get to your family, you know?”

Saleem sighed.

“I don’t know.” Parts of him still felt battered and bruised from his trip over from Izmir.

“I asked the people I know, but no one knows anything about getting documents made. I think it’s because they’re afraid to tell me. I’m so sorry, Saleem. I wish I could help more.”

Saleem was disappointed, but it was a feeling he was getting used to.

“I know you try. It’s okay. I must find another way.”

The farm work, the street life, the hunger, and the beatings had taken their toll. His body was not maturing so much as it was aging under the stress. He was certain that was what Roksana saw when she looked at him.

“Ela, I had an idea. I was thinking about your aunt and uncle. When you get to England, where are you going to go? It is a big country and you’ll be lost without an address. If you give me their names, maybe I can help you to find them? I can search on the Internet. I cannot promise anything, but it would be good to check at least.”

“You will try?” Saleem used the wax paper to wipe the grease from his lips. “My aunt is in London. They live in apartment.”

Roksana took a pen and scrap of paper out of her shoulder bag.

“Write down their names for me. Your aunt, her husband, your cousins. Write it all down, and I will see what I can find.”

“My aunt, her name is Najiba. She is my mother’s sister. Her husband is Hameed Waziri. He is my father’s cousin. These are the names I saw on the letters they sent to us in Afghanistan.”

“Good,” Roksana said, stuffing the scrap of paper back into her small bag. “And another thing, Saleem.”

Anything, he thought. Just sit here with me and keep talking.

Saleem was content to listen to her, to watch her lips move, to watch the way she pushed her bangs away, and the way her lashes fluttered.

“I know it is not easy to be in Attiki.” Attiki was a nice way of saying homeless. “And I thought . . . I just wanted to say that if you want, you can come to my house this weekend for a proper bath. I thought it might make you feel better.”