When the Moon Is Low(97)

“Go,” she hissed. “Do not stand here!”

“Please! I come from Afghanistan. Do you know if I find more Afghans here?”

“I do not know.”

“Where are you from?” he persisted.

“Albania,” she said, her eyes wistful for a sliver of a second. “Now you go.”

Saleem had never heard of Albania. He pressed on. They were so close in age. Maybe something about Roksana gave him hope that this girl would help guide him as well, though he knew there was nothing similar about them.

She turned her back defiantly. Saleem finally relented. He circled the blocks looking for anyone else he could ask for help but it was nearly midnight and he was exhausted. He rounded the corner and found her on the same block. The two other girls eyed Saleem from afar and crossed the street, shaking their heads. The Albanian girl stole a glance in his direction and threw her head back with a huff.

“I am sorry. I just want to ask you . . . please. I need to sleep, somewhere safe. No police.”

“Please, you make problem for me. Go!” As if they had been beckoned by Saleem, blue lights twirled in the distance. The girls began to disperse.

“Police?” Saleem asked, as the fair-skinned girl hurried down the street.

“Yes,” she whispered without turning around. Saleem moved closer to the building and away from the curb. The lights stayed at a distance. He watched her go, her legs pale in the darkness. She was awkward in her heels, and in her hurry, her ankle suddenly twisted in, sending her arms flailing. She stumbled a step or two before falling to the ground. Saleem ran over to her. Her knees were badly scraped, and she held her ankle, her face in a grimace. She tried to get back on her feet, but as she put weight on her right foot, she gasped.

Saleem held her elbow as she took off her shoe. The heel had broken off. She looked as if she might burst into tears. With her shoe in her hand, she began to hobble down the street. Saleem let her arm go but quickly caught up with her when he saw how she struggled to walk. “I will help you,” he offered and quietly extended his hand. She looked at him with resignation and nodded.

“Here,” she said simply and led the way. They made a few turns down slate-colored alleys. She led him to a rusted sedan parked on a back lot. She took a key out of her purse, unlocked the door, and slid into the backseat.

“Sit,” she offered, pointing to the seat beside her. He followed, careful not to get too close. She was less standoffish now, but being alone in a car with her suddenly made Saleem uncomfortable.

“Your name?” she asked with mild interest.

“Saleem. And you?”

“Mimi.”

There was a period of silence. Mimi fidgeted and rubbed her ankle. She looked at Saleem, her brow furrowed.

“Why you come here?”

“Here?”

“Italy. Why you come to Italy?”

“I want to go to England. My family is in England.”

“Family?”

“Mother, sister, brother.”

Mimi stared out the car window. Drops of rain fell silently on the glass.

“Where is your family?” Saleem asked. Mimi rubbed her arms and shifted in the seat.

“No family,” she said abruptly.

“Oh.”

Her answer left Saleem with many more questions.

“When you come to Italy?”

“Two years,” she said. “Two years.”

“You want to stay?”

Her lips pulled together in an angry pout. “There is nothing here.”

“Where do you want to go?”

Mimi looked up as if no one had ever asked her that question. Something about the darkness made their conversation even more pleasantly anonymous than it already was.

“I do not know.” The rain started to come down heavier, pelting at the roof of the car with a tin, staccato rhythm. Lulled by the dark and the rain, Mimi began to tell Saleem her story in a fragmented English that did not do it justice.

Mimi came from a poor family in Albania. She’d been the third daughter, and two more followed after her. When she was fifteen, her parents arranged for her to be married to a man nearly twice her age. She protested but it made no difference. She lived with her husband for nearly three months, picking up the empty bottles and suffering the rage of his alcoholic fits. After three months, she returned to her parents, but they refused to take her in again. Mimi went to live with her aunt.

She fell in love with a local boy who asked her to move to Italy with him where they would marry and start a new life. He arranged for them to travel by speedboat from Albania to Italy’s coast. Mimi did not tell her aunt or anyone else about her decision to leave. When they got to Italy, they lived in a small apartment, and for a week or two, Mimi believed she was beginning the gilded life he’d promised her. But before long, the boy began to complain that they needed money. He could not find work, he’d said, and told his fiancée that her beauty could earn enough to support them both. He promised it would not be for long and that things would not change between them.

Saleem did not interrupt.

The boy took all the money Mimi brought home. He spent her earnings on drugs and went out with friends while she worked. One day, he took her to an apartment and unceremoniously traded her to another man. She’d pleaded with him, reminding him of the promises he’d made and all that she’d done for him, but he turned his back and never returned. The new man wanted her to work. When she refused, he beat her and locked her in a room with two other girls until they had no choice but to submit. That was seven months ago. He was not the kind of man to chance running from, she’d learned from some other girls.