When the Moon Is Low(87)

For years after, Saleem’s father would chuckle and remind him of the most memorable part of that day.

And then the chief engineer came in and asked if you would like to work in the same building one day and you said, “No, sir. My mother gets angry sometimes because she says Padar-jan gets lost in his books. I don’t want her angry with me too.”

Saleem wondered how Padar-jan had never tired of repeating such a simple childish comment. At the same time, part of him had never tired of hearing it either. With a sigh, he returned to the present.

This must be her father’s office, Saleem realized.

Saleem took three steps into the office to get a closer look at the shelves with books perfectly arranged by the height of their spines. He touched the glossy book jackets. Many of the books were in English, some in Greek. There were books about medicine and philosophy, from what Saleem could gather. He turned to the shelf behind the desk. On the bottom row, something caught his eye—Farsi lettering along the spines of one entire row of books.

Saleem hunched over to get a better look. Sure enough, the titles read, Afghanistan: A Nation’s History; Afghanistan: The Fallen Empire; and Collection of Afghan Poetry. Why would they have so many books on Afghanistan? Did Roksana’s father speak Dari?

Saleem thought back to days in Attiki when the guys would make snide and often lewd comments about her, the cold glares she would shoot their way, almost as if she understood. Saleem looked around the office, confused. On another shelf across the room sat a small statue, no taller than five inches. It was an eagle carved out of a brilliant chunk of lapis lazuli, a blue stone as unmistakably Afghan as the similarly colored burqas.

“You are finished?” Roksana was in the doorway.

Saleem turned around abruptly, ashamed to have overstepped his welcome.

“Sorry. I saw the books and I wanted to see . . . there are so many but . . . Roksana, your father, does he speak Dari?”

“What?” She stiffened visibly.

“There are many books on Afghanistan. And they are in Dari. And this bird, this stone is from Afghanistan. Why . . .” Saleem’s half-formed thoughts stumbled out as he tried to make sense of it all. “My mother. You talked to my mother? Do you speak Dari? Your father . . . did he work in Afghanistan?”

Roksana shook her head, sighed, and smiled coyly.

“Ela, Saleem, my father . . . my father did not work in Afghanistan.” She spoke in a hushed tease.

“But then why—”

“He lived there. He was born there. My father is Afghan.”

Saleem’s jaw dropped. He looked at Roksana through narrowed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. If Roksana’s father was Afghan, then Roksana was . . .

“Half Afghan and half Greek,” Roksana explained, with a hand on her chest. “My mother is Greek. My father came here as a young man to study medicine but ended up doing something different. He married my mother and has lived here ever since. I learned to speak some Dari from him. Not very much but enough that I can have a conversation.”

Saleem clapped his hands and broke into a grin.

“You are Afghan!” he cried in Dari, the words sliding effortlessly off his tongue. “I knew there was something about you! I just did not know what it was! Is that why you do what you do? But your father, he probably would not like to know that you are around Afghan boys, especially boys that . . . boys like . . .”

Roksana rescued him from having to say it.

“My father doesn’t know where I spend my time. He wouldn’t like it, but not exactly for the reasons that you think. It is more complicated than that. I don’t tell anyone because I know that it will cause problems. I want to help, but you can imagine how difficult it would be for me if those boys knew that my father is Afghan.”

Saleem understood this perfectly. As long as Roksana was Greek, she would be held only to Greek standards. The men in Attiki would not judge her clothing or her behaviors by Afghan standards. But if they knew she was Afghan, they may not be so forgiving. Or they might pursue her. She would have men approaching her for all the wrong reasons. Just imagining it made Saleem want to keep her away from Attiki.

“You are right. I will say nothing.”

“Thank you. Let’s eat something and then we should leave.”

Saleem followed her to the kitchen where she had warmed up a flaky spinach pie, roasted chicken, and something green and leafy. Saleem ate until he thought his belly might burst. Roksana laughed to see him lean back and groan in discomfort.

“How was it? Looks like you enjoyed it.”

“Oh yes, I like it very much! I had food for three days.” Saleem laughed, patting his flat stomach.

“Good. Now let me clean up and we can go. You can wait in the other room if you want,” she offered.

“No, I want to . . . I will stay with you. I can help,” he offered sheepishly. Roksana’s eyes brightened, and together they cleared away all evidence of their clandestine lunch. Roksana grabbed her sweater and they headed out the door.

“Today we will go to the Acropolis. Have you ever been there?”

“Acro—what did you say?”

“Acropolis,” she said slowly. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

For this one day, Saleem was a tourist, one infatuated with his personal guide. They wandered through the bustling streets of Athens and its differently flavored neighborhoods and landed at the foot of the steps that led to the Acropolis, ancient ruins atop a hill with a majestic view of Athens. Saleem had seen the structures from a distance but had never ventured close. Today, Roksana told him about the temple dedicated to Athena, how it had changed hands many times over the course of history and was controlled by the Ottomans at one point. She showed him the amphitheater and explained how this was once a center for the community.