When the Moon Is Low(90)

Patras was supposed to be a transit point. Even before the Afghans, others refugees had come there en route to Italy and the rest of Europe. There was a long tradition of finding ways of sneaking across to Italy, either on trucks or cargo ships. Saleem had become one more person in that shared history.

He was a more seasoned traveler by the time he arrived in Patras. He’d been there for months now, probably having passed a birthday at some point but it was hard to know and even harder to care. The days and weeks had blurred in his travels.

I need to get out of Patras, Saleem thought as he watched the tea steep, the amber leaching from the leaves and into the hot water.

His mind shifted back to Attiki, as it often did during the day and even more inescapably in the nights. He thought of his last night there, Saboor’s heavy hand over his mouth, Abdullah’s astonishment to see the blade, and the way he’d run through the night to get as far away as possible. Saleem had washed the blood off his trembling hands and cowered in an alley until daylight. He had not said good-bye to anyone, not even Roksana. He hadn’t bothered to go back for his knapsack, since it held nothing more than a few extra clothes. He had boarded the first bus he could find to Patras, where it had not been difficult to locate the refugee settlement.

He wondered if Saboor was alive. It was not that he would have regretted killing him, but it mattered because it changed the definition of Saleem. Flesh wound or fatal wound—it would remain a mystery. Though he was far from Afghanistan, the war and bloodshed followed him still. Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.

Saleem’s nights were tortured. He woke often and saw figures in the shadows. He was returned to his childhood, that time when the brain has matured enough to shape creatures and dangers from the dark. He was increasingly restless and felt his personality changing. People irritated him or scared him. There was little else they could do.

“Did you see Wahid’s leg?” Ali asked. “They stitched him up like a rice sack! He’s been limping around telling everyone it didn’t hurt, but I heard he cried like a baby when they did it.”

“Yes, I saw it.”

Wahid had been chased away from one of the trucks headed into Italy, and the metal fence he had scaled had torn into his shin. He’d been cared for by a paramedic from a humanitarian organization that had set up post near the camp. Wahid’s injury was not unique.

“Do you not know what today is?” Ali asked. “It is Da-Muharram. I’ve been keeping this sugar and rice for today. I’ll make sheerbrinj tonight and we’ll pray.”

Da-Muharram was the anniversary of the day that the Prophet Mohammad’s grandson was martyred in battle. Ali’s family followed Afghan tradition and marked the day with sheerbrinj, or rice pudding, distributing food to the poor, and prayers.

“Today? Really?” More interesting than the holiday was the promise of sheerbrinj. Saleem’s mouth watered, recalling how the creamy sweetness of Madar-jan’s rice pudding, topped with ground pistachios, would melt in his mouth. “You know how to make it?”

Indeed, Ali knew very well how to make rice pudding. They shared the sheerbrinj that night with three other young men who lived in the adjacent shelter. Huddled inside, they laughed and teased one another, taking a few moments to bow their heads in prayer. No one got more than a few spoonfuls but it was enough to sweeten their mouths.

“You know what they say,” Ali joked. “Even the oldest sandals are a blessing in the desert.”

Other than that holiday, Saleem kept to himself. He had little interest in making friends here. He kept quiet and listened. Everyone in the camp had a story, but Saleem was in no mood to share his. Nomads had no business forging relationships, he told himself.

Patras reminded Saleem of Izmir. It was on the shores of Greece, an exit point, and offered the same treacherous passages to the next body of land. Saleem had made a few attempts at sneaking onto trucks but failed miserably and only narrowly escaped getting caught. He watched the other stragglers and tried to learn from their failures.

All the while, he kept his two safeguards on his body—his money and his dagger. He was careful not to let anyone see a shadow of either and kept them within reach even while he bathed in the makeshift shower area. He eyed everyone with suspicion. He needed the shelter that this camp provided, and unassuming Ali was the best roommate for him under the circumstances. Ali liked to talk and seldom asked questions. It was a fitting arrangement.

Saleem was eager to leave before anything happened. Even the Greek medical staff had been targeted in the growing conflict for being vocal in their criticisms of the government. The refugees were on edge. Police were increasingly present and stopped them more often to ask for documentation.

Each day was a repeat of the one before. Saleem woke and felt for his money and knife. He would scout the transit points and try to find an opening to get to Italy.

IT WAS MORNING AGAIN. SALEEM HEARD ALI WALK OUTSIDE AND relieve himself behind their room. He came back in grinning.

“You’re awake! Good morning to you. I had such a good dream last night. We were walking, me and you, in these streets with big buildings, like the ones in the movies. There were people all around dressed in such fancy clothes and driving such fancy cars. We asked someone what country it was and guess what they said—America! Can you imagine that? I guess if you walk far enough, you will eventually hit America, eh?” Ali chuckled.