Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Where are you from?” he asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Afghanistan,” Saleem answered hesitantly. The boy seemed unfazed.

“My name is Kamal.”

KAMAL AND SALEEM BECAME FRIENDS, AS MUCH AS A NATIVE AND an immigrant could in Intikal. From that day on, Saleem joined the boys once a week for a soccer game, returning from the Polat farm to play for an hour or two and sometimes going back to the farm to resume work. He was exhausted and ravenous on those days, but it was worth it to feel the grass under his feet, the pats on the shoulder, and the wind on his face. Polat grimaced but tolerated Saleem’s absences since he made up for the work he missed.

At home, Saleem kept his new activities to himself. He could not bring himself to tell his mother that for an hour a week he felt free. He saw his mother’s anxious face when he came home. She spent every moment fussing over Aziz and scrounging for any work to pad their pockets. Samira continued to pitch in, either watching Aziz while Madar- jan worked or helping out around the house for Hakan and Hayal. Though it felt dishonest, Saleem kept his sport to himself.

On the field, Saleem was too tongue-tied to make smart replies when the boys tossed around the usual jeers. He hoped his silence came off as cool indifference. Kamal continued to poke at Saleem and didn’t seem too disappointed that he didn’t get much response.

In the evenings, the boys sometimes gathered in town to have a soft drink and ogle the scantily clad women in magazine ads. Saleem only met up with them on occasion, self-conscious about his sweaty work clothes and vine-chafed hands. Unable to keep everything from his mother, he told her he’d met some nice local boys and would join them for a soda. She was encouraging, which only made him feel worse that he’d kept so much from her.

Kamal, having walked Saleem home once, knew where they lived. Still, Saleem was surprised to come home from the farm one evening and find his friend sitting in the kitchen with Hakan. On that night, Saleem learned that Kamal was as adaptive as a chameleon. It was a quality he admired for its usefulness.

“Saleem, good timing. You have a visitor,” Hakan announced with a smile.

“Hello, Saleem,” Kamal said jovially, rising from his chair.

“We were just chatting. I’m happy you are getting to know the neighborhood boys. And as it turns out, I know Kamal’s father.”

“Hello. .” Saleem was caught off-guard. He was not thrilled to see Kamal at home. “You. . you know his father?”

“Yes, isn’t that interesting, Saleem? I had no idea that this was dear Mr. Hakan’s home!”

“It is Intikal. We are bound to know each other. But I haven’t seen Kamal here since he was a young boy, just barely the height of this table,” Hakan said with a chuckle. Kamal grinned, looking remarkably wholesome.

“Yes, it turns out that my father and Mr. Hakan taught at the same university,” he explained.

“Indeed, but Kamal’s father is much younger than me. He was new — a very bright professor. The students loved him then and now. Although I’m sure his son misses having his father around during the semester.”

Saleem’s surprise must have been obvious in his face. He had a lot to learn about Kamal. Hakan stood up and took his teacup to the sink. He tousled Kamal’s hair on the way. Saleem could understand most of their conversation but had to focus. Kamal’s Turkish was a cleaned-up version of what Saleem usually heard him speaking.

“Well, you boys enjoy yourselves. Kamal, give your father my regards when you speak to him. Tell him I’ll be waiting for a visit when he returns. It would be nice to catch up with him at the end of the semester.”

“Of course, Mr. Hakan. I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be most pleased to hear from you. Just a few more weeks and he’ll be home.”

Hakan walked out of the kitchen, and Kamal punched Saleem in the shoulder playfully.

“Hey, come on, man. Get that look off your face! And some of that sweat, too, while you’re at it.”

Saleem smiled sheepishly and went to wash the hard day’s work from his face, neck, and arms. Madar- jan, Samira, and Aziz were in the back bedroom. Aziz was already asleep and Madar- jan was braiding Samira’s hair. Saleem greeted them and leaned over to kiss his mother’s cheek. She had met Kamal, she told him, and was happy that Hakan seemed to know his family. He seemed like a nice young man.

“He is,” Saleem said. “We’re going to go for a little walk, all right? I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay, bachem . Be careful and don’t stay too late. A mother should see her son’s face too, you know.” Saleem promised to return soon and walked back out to find Kamal waiting impatiently behind the house, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.

“Ah, much better! Now maybe you won’t scare the girls away,” he said, laughing.

Saleem and the professor’s son went out into the market in search of some mischief that would entertain them for about an hour. It was a taste of a life so deliciously normal that Saleem wanted to fall to his knees and pray for it to last.

KAMAL, HAKAN, AND HAYAL MADE SALEEM FEEL SETTLED IN INTIKAL, thousands of miles from “home.” It was harder to think of Intikal as just a temporary stop on their way to England.

Aziz’s condition had improved slightly. His weight and appetite still lagged, but he didn’t look as uncomfortable. Madar- jan gave his doses religiously and was grateful for his improvement. In her second visit with the good Doctor Ozdemir, Madar- jan had prepared a special dish of mantu dumplings. She had felt compelled to show her gratitude somehow, but he again declined any fee for the visit.

But even as things seemed to be turning around, Saleem knew they would eventually have to plan their next move if they were to make it to England. Madar- jan had called their family in England several times but was unable to get through.

She seemed reluctant to call again even though Saleem knew they were the Waziri family’s only hope. Aziz’s medications were an additional draw on the family’s meager monies. There was nothing to save him from the brutally long days at the Polat farm. If it weren’t for the generosity of Hakan and Hayal, they would have been on the street for sure.

Kamal and Saleem spent more time together off the soccer field. With the connection between Kamal’s father and Hakan, Madar- jan was even happier about Saleem’s new friend. She wanted him to be social and enjoy his time away from work. When Kamal invited Saleem to join him at his second cousin’s wedding in the village, Saleem was hesitant. He wasn’t certain how the rest of Kamal’s family would receive him, the migrant worker with manure under his fingernails. Madar- jan encouraged him to go.

Weddings in Kabul were major social events, dampened only in the last few years by the stringent restrictions of the Taliban. Madar- jan had always loved getting dressed up, the banquet halls, the music, and the sight of the bride and groom embarking on a new life together. Though she did not speak much about her own wedding, Saleem knew it was the first time she’d been the center of attention and that it had marked a break from the hardships of her childhood. More times than he could count, Saleem had heard the story of his parents’ wedding — the car draped in flowers and ribbons, the drummer who led their celebratory procession down the street, the music that had gone on until four in the morning.

“What will you wear, Saleem? Let’s see here. .” she said as she rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of pants. She continued digging. “Here’s your button-down shirt. This should do. Why don’t you try it on?”