Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

The barn’s dust had dried his tongue and airways. The sound of her drinking made him furious but he said nothing.

“What is your name?” When she did not get a response, Ekin repeated her question, louder and annoyed. “I said, what is your name?”

“Saleem,” he mumbled.

“Saleem?” Ekin played with her stringy hair. She picked through the ends, her fingers getting locked in the knots. “This is name for old man. Why you have old man name?”

Saleem’s lips tightened.

“Why you not clean there? It will still smell if you do not clean this. The animals will be sick. My father will not be happy.”

Saleem remained tight-lipped, finished as quickly as he could, and returned to the fields where the Armenian woman raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of the barn. When he shook his head in frustration, she smiled. They were beginning to understand each other.

A WEEK LATER, EKIN SAW SALEEM MAKE HIS WAY INTO THE BARN. She followed after, turned the crate over, and sat on it, stretching her legs out before her.

“The summer is too hot. I am in the house all day. It is too long! School is better. Better to see my friends.”

Saleem’s silence was not a deterrent.

“Here, there is nothing. I cannot talk to my friends. I am alone.” She paused. “You do not go to school so you do not know. Have you been to a school?”

Saleem raked harder.

“I know the work people do not go to school. But my father and mother say I must learn so I will not be a worker. They say I must be a schoolgirl and be clean, have a nice life. Why you do not talk? It is good you are not in school. In school the teachers say you must talk!” She laughed, tapping her heels on the straw-covered floor.

Mrs. Polat’s voice rang out. Ekin stood with a heavy sigh. She brushed the straw off the seat of her pants and left the barn, throwing Saleem a curious look on her way out. Saleem was thankful for the reprieve. A few moments with Ekin was more exhausting than a fourteen-hour workday. But before he could fully enjoy the silence, she returned with his lunch sandwich in her hand.

“Here,” Ekin called out from the barn door. She paused and looked down at the sandwich in her hands. She brought it to her face, so close that Saleem could see her nose brush against the meat. “It is good. We can eat together?”

Ekin sat on the crate and just as Saleem walked over to claim his sandwich, she carefully pulled it into two pieces and handed him half. Saleem watched angrily as the bread and chicken disappeared between her teeth.

“This food is for me,” he objected.

“But we eat together,” Ekin replied, confused. “Like friends, okay?”

“No. No. No. Not okay!” Saleem’s back ached. His fingertips burned, and his stomach growled angrily.

Ekin seemed surprised by his reaction. After a moment she stood, reached into her dress pocket, and pulled out a packet of two small sugar cookies. She tossed the packet onto the crate and walked out of the barn without saying a word.

Saleem, furious, could think only that he would be hungry for the rest of the day. The half sandwich she’d left him was not much sustenance, and there was no use complaining to Polat or his wife. He threw the rake to the ground and shoved the half sandwich into his mouth. He looked the sugar cookies over and wondered what they meant as he scarfed them down.

Ekin did not venture out into the fields, but Saleem could feel her eyes on him from a distance, watching him pick tomatoes as she pretended to read a book. The Armenian woman noticed Ekin’s presence too and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. She put two fingers to her lips and shook her head. She pointed to the six rows of tomato plants left to harvest and patted her pocket.

Say nothing, she was telling him. Get back to work and earn your money.

Saleem knew it was sound advice. As a young child, he’d seldom worried about money. If he did think about money, it was to wonder if he had enough to pay for a piece of candy or a soda in the market. They were far from wealthy, but Padar- jan made sure they had plenty. After his death, Madar- jan rationed their savings and meted out small allowances for groceries and the absolute essentials. Saleem knew they had little, but it never occurred to him that their funds would dry up entirely. Now that he was passing his wages over to his mother, he understood that they were financially in a very precarious position.

There are too many of us, Saleem thought on the truck ride home. He recalled the thick envelope of cash his mother had traded Abdul Rahim for the documents. The price of documents, food, and smuggling fees multiplied by four left the Waziri family with little reserve. Samira was too young to realize how hard Saleem worked every day. She stayed home and helped Madar- jan with chores but only when Hayal wasn’t catching her up on school lessons. Aziz was even needier.

Saleem regretted his thoughts. He loved his sister and brother very much, but the frustration and fatigue was beginning to wear him thin.

Every day, his mother needed more of him. Saleem ignored his desire to curl up against her. There was no room for him to be a child. Saleem still ached for his father, but he often thought it was Padar- jan ’s decisions that had put their lives in danger. On other sleepless nights, Saleem lamented his childhood mischief and the disappointment he’d caused his father. He was a kaleidoscope of feelings when it came to his parents.

And now Saleem was the breadwinner. The more he thought about it, the more he felt like the head of their family and the less he felt like taking orders from others. Mr. Polat kept his burgeoning adolescent ego in check but when it came to his mother, Saleem’s tongue was loosening. He said things he would not have dared to say a year ago. He shot her looks he knew were out of line, but he gave himself latitude to do so. He worked long hours, kept the family fed, and wanted his opinions respected.

He returned to the Yilmaz home to find his mother cleaning the kitchen. Samira and the baby were already asleep.

“Are they all right?” he asked, slumping into the chair.

“They’re fine. Aziz’s eyes look for you, though,” she offered with a weak smile. She slid a plate of food in front of him and sat with him while he ate. Things were not fine, he knew, but she wasn’t going to burden her young son with her worries. He was doing enough.

It was good to be cared for, Saleem thought, as he fell onto the floor cushion and closed his eyes.

“WHY IS HE ALWAYS SICK?” SALEEM ASKED. HE’D WALKED IN TO find me sponge-bathing his baby brother. Aziz was pale and whimpering. He’d vomited twice already.

I wrapped a towel around Aziz and laid him on the floor gently. I didn’t have a real answer for Saleem.

“I think it’s the changes. The air, the food — everything is different here. And he’s so little. His body must be having a hard time adjusting.” I drizzled olive oil onto my palm and rubbed my hands to warm them. Even as I gently massaged Aziz’s chest and belly he seemed to be uncomfortable. “Maybe Aziz needs some vitamins to make him stronger.”

Aziz hadn’t gained much weight since we’d arrived in Turkey. I was trying everything I could. I used the few Turkish words I’d learned in the market to purchase fruits and vegetables. Havuc, bezelye, muz . When my vocabulary failed me, I resorted to pointing and rudimentary sign language. I picked through the herb bundles and found those I knew had healing properties. I boiled them and spooned the tea into Aziz’s mouth. I fed him the greenest spinach, the juiciest pears, and ground-up chunks of meat with an extra bit of fat on them. None of it seemed to make an ounce of difference.