When the Moon Is Low(86)

“Eighteen.”

Saleem paused. He thought back to last night and the hand on his knee.

“Fifteen euro, please,” he offered. The man nodded. He held out his palm as Saleem counted out bills. He tucked the handle into the waist of his pants. Just as he was walking out the door, he paused.

“Mister, you fix the clocks?”

“Mm-hmm.” The shop owner had already gone back to work and didn’t bother to look up.

“You . . . you can check my watch?”

At the mention of a watch, the old man’s head lifted. He held out his hand expectantly. Saleem quickly unfastened the band, then slipped the watch off his wrist and into the man’s open palm.

The shop owner turned it over, shaking it gently while he held it up to his ear. He mumbled something and dug through a plastic bin until he found the right tool. He pried open the back of the watch and pulled out a set of fine tweezers. He touched the cogs gently and nudged and tapped. The parts were so small, Saleem could not see what he was doing. After a few moments, he snapped the back on again, turned it over, and wound the dial.

He handed the ticking watch back to Saleem unceremoniously.

“Is okay now. You fix the time.”

Saleem took the watch, his heart leaping to see the small hand tick away the seconds. His father’s watch worked again!

“Mister, thank you! Thank you very much! Thank you!” Saleem leaned across the counter and wrapped his arms around the startled shopkeeper.

“Yes, yes.” The man slid out of his arms and waved him off. His spirits lifted, Saleem set out again and found a strip of fabric outside a clothing store. He looped the material around the knife’s handle and tied the band around his waist, knotting it by his belt buckle to keep it in place.

Saleem looked to his left and saw a road that led to the hotel. He looked to his right and saw signs for the area of the food market where he’d stolen their first meals. He bit his lip in shame to think of all he’d taken. It was not something he would do again, he vowed. A man, he thought, would find a more noble way to feed his family. It became important to Saleem not to feel desperate and criminal.

And there was one more thing Saleem would do to restore the Waziri family. Madar-jan would have warned him against being so rash, but Saleem decided, in one impulsive flash, to walk eastward. This was not something he would have discussed with her anyway. Maybe having survived this long with empty pockets gave Saleem the audacity to act impractically.

A bold plan in his head and purpose in his step, Saleem listened to the reassuring tick of his watch and grinned.





CHAPTER 41


Saleem


“HURRY.” ROKSANA TUGGED AT HIS ELBOW. “WE HAVE NOSY neighbors.”

Saleem took a nervous step into Roksana’s home. He could not begin to imagine what might happen if her father came home to find an Afghan refugee sitting in his living room.

“Maybe I should . . .” he mumbled.

“It’s all right. Just come in.”

She closed the door behind them, stealing one last peek into the hallway to be sure none of the other apartment doors were open. Satisfied, she led him from the foyer into the living room.

Saleem’s eyes swept across the room, taking it all in. Neat beige sofas huddled around a low, espresso-stained coffee table atop which sat a few books. Old, sepia-toned photographs hung on the walls. Backlit linen shades gave the room a soothing feel. Their apartment was probably the same size as the Waziri home in Kabul but looked much more modern and spacious to Saleem.

“My parents have just gone out for the afternoon so we should be quick. I just wanted you to get a proper bath to use.”

Her voice was different. She was not her usual cool self. She fidgeted and averted her eyes. Saleem was not sure if Roksana was uncomfortable to be alone with him or worried that her parents might return earlier than expected.

“Roksana, maybe I go . . .”

“No,” she said, understanding how unwelcoming she’d sounded. She took a deep breath and started over. “Everything’s fine.” She smiled, her composure restored. Saleem was impressed and quietly envious. His anxieties had full rein over him, he thought.

From the living room, Roksana led Saleem down a narrow hallway and pointed at a door. “This is the washroom and here’s a towel. Shampoo and soap are there. I’ll wait for you in the other room, okay?”

It was more than okay. It was wonderful. The washroom was unlike any he had seen. Lemon yellow walls made the space bright and cheerful. The sink was a glass bowl anchored into the wall. A row of mint green miniature ceramic urns sat on a floating shelf, a wisp of baby’s breath propped in each. A frosted glass door slid open for the shower.

Saleem felt awkward and out of place in the most beautiful washroom he’d ever seen. He fumbled with the faucet. He took off his clothes and folded his knife and money sack into his jeans. He stepped into the shower and let hot water run over him, a murky swirl disappearing down the drain. Saleem scrubbed his body until the water ran clear, washed his hair three times, and then reluctantly turned the water off. He stood for a moment, the room steamy and warm.

Water, he thought with a new appreciation, is most certainly roshanee.

Saleem towel-dried, re-dressed, and stepped into the hallway. To his left, half-open French doors led to an office. In the center of the room was a heavily carved wooden desk. Three sides of the room were bookshelves made of the same cherry-colored wood. So many books! It reminded Saleem of the time his father had taken him to his office in the Ministry of Water and Electricity. They’d visited the ministry’s library and its stacks thick with texts, feathered pages, and dusty bindings. Saleem was keenly aware at the time that no other five-year-old would be allowed to wander through the rows, a fact that was more interesting than any of the books in the enormous room.