Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Saleem carried his empty knapsack on his shoulder and hoped to fill it before returning to the hotel. He reached a roundabout, a much grander version of the one in Kabul with curbs, lights, and more cars. Extending out from the roundabout like an outstretched hand were smaller streets lined with shops.

Men with skin as black as night crouched on sidewalks with burlap sacks full of purses. Their eyes drifted left and right, scouting the scene. They mumbled to passersby, trying to hawk their wares. These men looked even more foreign than him, Saleem thought, and he grew nervous to approach them.

Farther into the market, he came upon two men peddling stick figures that danced to the sounds of the radio, sidewalk marvels. Saleem reminded himself of his purpose and looked at the men. Not as dark as the ones he’d seen a few meters back, they looked to be from India. A blond-haired woman pulled her toddler away from the toys, her hair reflecting the sun. The man reinforced the child’s resistance, making the figure dance toward his stocky legs. The woman shook her head, picked up her protesting child, and hurried down the street.

The street vendor sat cross-legged on the concrete, utterly bored. He barely looked at Saleem.

“Speak English?” Saleem asked cautiously.

The man gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. Saleem continued.

“Where are you from?”

The man paused, wondering the same thing about Saleem.

“Bangladesh,” he said finally, his eyebrows lifted and a finger pointed at Saleem.

“Me? Afghanistan.”

The man nodded as if to say he had guessed as much. He’d been in Greece for a year, he told Saleem. He tried to catch the attention of pedestrians, but none looked his way. Saleem pushed on.

“I am here with my family. We want to go to Italy. .”

“Many, many Afghanistan people,” the vendor commented absently.

Saleem paused.

“Here? Afghan people are working?” Saleem’s interaction with Afghans in Turkey had left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was still comfort in finding people who came from the same corner of the earth.

“Where? I want to find Afghan people. Please help?”

“Afghani people. .” the Bangladeshi man began, cocking his head to the side. With a flick of his left hand, he pointed into the distance. “Afghani people not here. Far. Eat, sleep together.”

“Where? Tell me please, mister?”

“Far, far,” the man shooed with both hands and a shake of his head for emphasis. “Metro. No walk.”

Attiki Square, the Bangladeshi man finally said. It was distant enough that Saleem could not find it on his metro map. With prices as steep as he’d seen, he was not surprised other Afghans had taken refuge outside the city center. The man raised an eyebrow and looked at Saleem expectantly. He pointed to his dancing stick figures, untouched, and waved Saleem away.

Saleem decided to look for food first. He fingered the bills and coins in his pocket. It wasn’t much. He walked by a kiosk selling newspapers and bottles of water. The sun had moved higher in the sky. Samira would be hungry soon, though she wouldn’t say so.

He touched the face of his watch nervously. From a large gray building to his right, people emerged carrying heavy plastic bags. He saw loaves of bread sticking out from some of the satchels. Saleem followed the crowd through the glass double doors.

The building was shaped like a hangar, deep enough that he could not see the end and had to tilt his head back to get a glimpse of the ceiling. Three long lines of stalls split the room into rows. Saleem’s nostrils flared. He smelled brine, fish, and onions. He turned to the left and walked ahead. The concentrated smell of sugar made his mouth pucker. Saleem dove in.

He walked up and down the rows. His eyes bulged to see the fruits, vegetables, cheeses, pastries, and olives. Stickers told him he had little hope of affording most of what he was seeing.

Saleem’s heart pounded as part of him began to plot.

No one is watching you. Just like Intikal. Choose carefully and quietly and look for an exit.

Saleem sauntered to a stand in the first row. The man behind the table laughed, explaining something passionately to two customers considering his dried fruits carefully. Saleem picked up two packets of dried apricots and turned them over slowly. He had dropped his knapsack from his shoulder to his elbow, where its unzippered mouth begged for loot. Saleem’s downcast eyes surreptitiously moved left and right.

No one is watching you.

Quietly he dropped one bag of apricots into the knapsack while he leaned over to place the other back on the stand. The owner looked over momentarily, saw Saleem replacing the apricots, and turned his attention back to the Greek couple.

Saleem walked away slowly and tensely, ready to bolt at any hint his actions had been noted. Nothing. He looked around some more. There were loaves of flatbreads, round breads, and cheese wedges on a corner stand, not ten yards from the door. Saleem’s stomach grumbled in encouragement, his mind calculating the shared portions. From where he stood, he could read the price on the toothpick flag sticking out of one of the cheese wedges. Far too many euros. Saleem moved in closer. The thick braid of dough was topped with a heavy sprinkle of sesame seeds.

Saleem took one more look at the distance between the stand and the door. Once outside those glass doors, he would make a quick left and head back in the direction of the hotel.

Six or seven people crowded around the bread table, but mostly on the adjacent side with the cakes and pastries. Saleem casually picked up one of the fat, braided loaves and considered it. Next, he picked up a large, round flatbread and peered at it, covering the braided loaf that hung directly over the open mouth of his knapsack. Holding the two loaves in his left hand, he reached over with his right and picked up a large cheese wedge.

Suddenly, the vendor’s voice boomed out over the crowd and customers pushed closer to the table. Saleem felt a rush in his cheeks. He looked up and saw that the man, an older gentleman with gray hair and a white apron, had sliced up one of his pastries, a long syrup-drenched doughnut. He offered the bite-size samples to the customers, none of whom had noticed Saleem’s sleight of hand.

“Ela, ela!” Saleem had just turned his back to the stand. He froze in place and debated whether to turn or simply run, his mouth as dry as sawdust.

The aproned man barked something in Greek as he pushed the metal tray of doughnut samples in Saleem’s direction.

Is this a test?

The baker gave an eager nod. Saleem positioned himself in front of his knapsack, afraid its bulkiness would give him away.

“Dokimase!” The baker winked. Saleem took a sticky piece of doughnut from the tray and the man nodded in approval, turning his attention to a middle-aged woman and her husband who had smudged the glass display case to point out their order. Saleem picked up the knapsack and walked as evenly as he could to the exit, his weighted bag bouncing against his back with every step.

A breeze chilled the perspiration on the nape of his neck.

Chew, he told himself. The syrup made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed without tasting anything. He moved absently through the winding streets, accusing eyes all around him. He made several turns to put the market and its customers behind him. Within minutes, he’d lost track of his lefts and rights. He was panting and lost.

With his back against a stucco wall, he looked across the street and saw a sign for the metro. The bread vendor’s eager smile toyed with his conscience.

I’m sorry, he thought. He truly was.