When the Moon Is Low(91)

“Forget about America,” Saleem grumbled, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “We’re having a hard enough time getting to Italy.”

“That is true,” Ali laughed. “Today does not look like a good day for a long walk anyway. It looks like it is going to rain today.” He opened the door again, stuck his head out, and looked at a brilliant, blue sky.

Saleem had no interest in being contrary this early in the morning. He hurriedly washed up with the water that had chilled in the brisk night air. The camp was a dilapidated neighborhood of single-room homes, one up against another. Clotheslines were strung from home to home like cobwebs. There was no real supply of water or electricity, but a few refugees had snaked a pipeline from the nearby apartment buildings. One water pump served the entire settlement with an inconsistency the refugees cheerfully accepted.

Saleem returned to the port and the familiar dance of trucks, ships, and passengers. He watched a few men make a run for it, scaling black metal fences and nearing the trucks cautiously. They inspected undercarriages and looked for footholds, jostling handles to see if they could climb into trailers.

Saleem looked around, watching the activity from a few meters away. There were three trucks lined up and not a driver in sight. His feet itched to give it a try.

He scanned the area again while the potential of the moment made his heart quicken and his tongue dry. He darted across the street and climbed onto the fence, swinging his leg over and jumping to the ground on the other side. He jogged to the unattended trucks. A few of the guys from the camp were there, pondering the best way to get on a truck.

One boy tried to pry at the lock on one trailer. Two others had already slipped under to check out the chassis. Saleem watched their feet dangle on the ground as they readied themselves for the short drive onto the cargo ship.

He ducked his head down to see what they were grabbing. He saw a boy close to his own age, judging by his facial hair. The boy’s face was red as he strained to keep his entire body off the ground. He caught Saleem peering.

“Go, brother! There is only room for one person here!”

Saleem nodded in understanding. He looked around for another truck, another mousehole to crawl through, but saw none. Disappointed, he and four others jogged back to the fence to regroup.

“Police! Police! Run, boys!” a panicked voice yelled out.

Saleem turned around. A police car was coming down the road. They picked up their pace and climbed over the fence as quickly as they could. The car pulled up a few yards away and the doors swung open. Two officers sauntered out.

Saleem jumped over with the others, his ankle stinging from the impact. He scrambled to his feet and ran, breaking off in a different direction from the others. Everyone scattered. The police picked two of the boys to halfheartedly chase for a few meters, enough to make a point. Saleem cut a sharp turn to duck behind some trash bins alongside an apartment building. He panted, his chest burning.

When ten minutes had passed, he walked back to the camp. Ali was sitting outside the room with four other men. They had overturned buckets and plywood crates for chairs.

“Where’ve you been, Saleem?” Ali called out.

“Went to the port,” Saleem replied, taking a seat with the others. They were not surprised. There was nowhere else for them to go in Patras, especially with the rising hostilities.

“No luck, eh?” Saleem had met these guys before but he could not remember their names. Was this Fareed? Or Faizal?

“No. The police came and chased us away.”

Haris shook his head. He was in his thirties, a veritable elder in this community of juveniles. His perspective was a little different from that of the others.

“Can you blame them? Have you looked at this camp? People don’t want to look out their windows and see this.”

There was silence. Haris was right, but it felt better to be angry. Resentment was a unifying sentiment among the refugees. It felt good to sit around and agree, to have a common enemy and a shared struggle. It felt good to be understood. Haris’s rationality would not give them the charge they needed to keep going.

Ali looked at the sky. “It does look like it is going to rain today.”

“For God’s sake, what is it with you and the rain!” Saleem exploded with the force of an agitated bottle of cola. The talk about the camps and running from the port this morning had riled him and he unleashed it all on Ali in that moment. “Always, every single day!”

There was a pause. Saleem’s outburst had surprised the others. Ali’s face froze, then turned red and splotchy. Saleem regretted his words immediately, but it was too late. He looked down, ashamed and unable to face Ali.

Ali stood up and went inside.

“You don’t know anything about him, do you?” Hakeem asked in a castigating tone.

Saleem looked up.

“Do you have any respect for a guy who shared his space with you?”

“I didn’t—”

“You want to know what happened to him? Ali lived on my street in Kabul. He was outside his house when his mother called for him and his brother to come back in. She told them it looked like it was going to rain and that they should get back inside. His brother listened. Ali didn’t. He said he would find other people to play with and went down the street. And that was when the rockets flew right into his house. Killed his entire family. Ali came running back to find his brother stumbling into the street, falling to the ground in flames. Ali tried to put them out, but it was too late.