Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Water is roshanee, it is light. To be surrounded by so much of it. .” Fereiba let the sea air fill her lungs. “This must mean something good for us.”

Her family needed the light of good fortune.

The ticket agent had pointed out a navy blue ferry, a building afloat. Saleem’s stomach leaped with boyish excitement. He led his mother and siblings to the pier to claim their seats. The wind cast a microshower of cool droplets on their cheeks. Samira’s hair flew into her face and she giggled trying to brush it away. Saleem and his mother paused. It had been a lifetime since they’d heard that laughter.

Choppy waves lapped at the boat, and Saleem and Samira leaned over the rails to get that much closer to the ocean. The ride was too short and well before they’d had their fill, the crew announced their arrival in Chios, a Greek island where the Waziri family was to catch yet another ferry to Athens.

Surrounded by tourists in shorts and backpacks and commuting Greeks, Saleem and his family hoisted their bags over their shoulders and tried their best to look inconspicuous. Each leg of their journey had a checkpoint, a place where their pounding heartbeats and falsified documents could give them away.

But entering Greece turned out to be much easier than they’d anticipated, and they were soon on the next ferry. Chios to Athens was a longer journey, more opportunity for Fereiba to soak in the vast waters and pray they would herald brighter days. Eight hours later, they reached the port of Piraeus, and nerves began to kick in again. Samira had fallen asleep, her head resting on Saleem’s shoulder. Madar- jan bit her lip nervously as they neared the dock.

The men in uniforms standing at the pier ratcheted up the family’s anxiety. Saleem and his mother kept their faces steeled. Saleem’s stomach quivered as if he carried under his shirt a balloon stretched so taut that the slightest movement might cause it to burst, alerting the world to his transgression. They were ushered forward with the crowd. Saleem felt eyes boring into his back, but nothing happened. Soon they were standing amid the flurry of taxis in the port city of Athens.

Turkey has one foot in Europe and the other in Asia. Things will be different in Greece, Hakan had cautioned them. You will be outside the Muslim world, for better or worse.

Saleem and his mother knew Pakistan, Iran, and India had grown increasingly fatigued by the burden of Afghan refugees. This was not the case with Europe or America. People who fled to Europe never spoke of returning. Word of their happy, new lives traveled like the scent of ripe peaches in the summer breeze. Europe had sympathy for the war-ravaged people of Afghanistan and offered an outstretched hand.

Hakan had been concerned by Saleem’s rosy view of what life would be like in England. Saleem had talked of attending school and having his mother return to teaching. Hakan knew immigrants, including thousands of Turks, faced misery in Europe, but he cautioned only gently. Some would hate the Waziris for trespassing, for sucking at their nation’s teats, for looking different. But there was no better alternative for the Afghan refugees, and he felt it useless to disappoint them so early in their journey.

Saleem had pushed aside Hakan’s warnings. Now the family walked about the port city, wondering if it might be possible to pass for Greeks. Since they’d left Intikal Madar- jan had folded up and put away the head scarf that had been forced upon her by the Taliban. She was happy to leave it behind. Here in Greece, she could dress as she did in the Kabul of her youth. Fereiba ran her fingers through her loose hair, feeling renewed.

They stopped in three hotels looking for lodging but were discouraged by prices too steep for their shallow pockets. One front desk clerk took pity on Saleem and directed him to a smaller, cheaper hotel a half kilometer away. She drew him directions on a paper napkin before returning her attention to the small television under the desk.

Attica Dream turned out to be the best they could do. Saleem negotiated the rate from forty euro to twenty, promising to be very clean and quiet. The clerk, a woman in her fifties, saw Madar- jan with three children and four bags in tow and then turned to a leather-bound ledger on the desk, tapping her pencil on the grid of numbers and dates. Attica Dream had survived decades without renovations, and the owners did not seem to mind the lack of interest in their lodgings. They’d long been overshadowed by newer hotels in the area and the owners didn’t seem to care much. Their advancing age would drive them out of business, if the lack of guests didn’t.

The clerk sighed heavily and nodded in agreement, trying to appear as if it were a huge sacrifice to rent the room for so little. Saleem pulled out the bills he had changed in Chios and paid the woman for one night while she extracted a key from a wooden box. Saleem led his family up the creaking steps and into the room with two beds. The mattresses were old and lumpy, but they were happy to get off their feet, stretch their legs, and rest their shoulders.

Saleem’s legs throbbed as his head hit the pillow. He closed his eyes and thought of how far they’d come. Maybe it had been the right time to leave Intikal. Or maybe they should have left long ago. This was the next phase of their travels, Madar- jan had told them.

So here we are in Greece, Saleem thought as he tried to get to sleep. But now what?

THE HOURS CREPT BY WITH SALEEM AWAKE, LISTENING TO THE remote sounds of conversation and footsteps on the street below. Athens was alive at all hours. Eventually sunlight began to filter through the gauzy curtains. Samira stretched her arms and arched her back with her eyes still shut. Aziz flipped onto his belly, and Fereiba’s legs slid to the floor. She rubbed her eyes and stood. Saleem felt very adult watching them wake, as if not being able to sleep indicated some sort of maturity.

They splashed cool water on their faces in the bathroom so small Saleem could touch all four walls with outstretched arms. The last of the food Hayal had packed for them was spread out on a newspaper and divided.

Saleem took a shower and headed out to find food and ways to get to Italy. Athens was far more expensive than Intikal, and even this run-down hotel would exhaust their funds quickly. Saleem tucked his passport deep into the pocket of his jeans along with a few euros.

THE HOTEL CLERK, AS DISINTERESTED THIS MORNING AS THE previous night, advised Saleem to take the subway to Omonia if he wanted to find food. The silver snaking train roared into the station and then slithered back into the tunnel with new passengers aboard. Saleem watched what others did and followed, boarding the train in nervous exhilaration. He checked the scrap of paper in his pocket, matching the stop the clerk had written out for him against the map on the subway wall. He twirled the watchband around his wrist, feeling surprisingly unnoticed by the people around him. He, on the other hand, was absorbed with the hum of the train, the bitter smell of coffee, the snap of newspapers being opened.

Hakan had told Saleem he would see many immigrants in Greece. He wanted to find them and ask how best to travel to Italy or find cheap food. After getting off the train, he kept his eyes on the street map he’d picked up and buried himself in the crowd when he saw uniformed officers walking by. He wound through the city’s plazas, a maze of wide buildings and paved streets. The men dressed the same as they had in Turkey, but the women looked much different. Women walked about in tight shirts with necklines low enough to draw his adolescent eyes. Bare arms and legs moved around him, oblivious to his gawking. There were people of all shapes and colors wandering through the streets, many with cameras and small books, pausing occasionally to snap a photo.