Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

But he felt something else too — something he didn’t intend to feel. He lifted his bag and felt its bulk, pounds of success. He would feed his family for a couple days without costing them precious euros. Every bite they ate, everything they did was measured in days of tomato picking or housecleaning.

Something — fate, the universe, God — something owed the Waziri family a break, Saleem rationalized. Abdul Rahim’s hand was on one shoulder. Hakan before him. Padar- jan ’s voice rang through his head.

Saleem- jan, my son, reap a noble harvest.

IN THE HOTEL ROOM, SALEEM SPREAD THE BOUNTY ON NEWSPAPERS.

“If your father were with us, he would be so proud,” Madar- jan said, sighing as she broke the bread and cheese into pieces. “God bless you for what you do to keep this family alive. So much food! How much did all this cost?”

Saleem replied with a number so unreasonable, it made him angry that his mother did not question it.

They ate in the silence that filled most of their days. It was easier not to say the things they were thinking. Samira chewed slowly, sesame seeds crunching between her teeth. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and looked at her brother. Saleem turned away quickly. She had spent enough nights sleeping within arm’s reach of her brother to know when he was hiding something.

“There’s a part of town where all the Afghans live,” he announced. “I’ll go there tomorrow morning and talk to people. Maybe they’ll have something useful to say.”

“A whole Afghan neighborhood so far from home! God bless them. .”

While she prayed for others, Saleem doubted anyone prayed for them.

“I’ll try to find out how people travel out of Greece and into Europe. Maybe they can tell me how people earn some money here.” He told her about the Bangladeshi man selling dancing stick figures. He told her about the metro and how he’d paid for his ride. He described the market and the streets, the roundabout that reminded him of Kabul. Samira and Aziz listened in. He exaggerated his story, made the buildings taller, the train faster, and the people friendlier. He created a caricature of his day, mostly for Samira’s benefit. It was more interesting, he thought.

As their stomachs filled, their confidence grew. They could make plans for tomorrow and the days after.

“You will have to be persistent and determined. And I believe you will. Inshallah, bachem .” Madar- jan sighed again, chewing the stolen food gratefully. God willing.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SALEEM HEADED OUT WITH A CONFIDENCE spurred by the previous day’s success. The hotel owner had agreed to let the family stay on through the week at a lower rate in exchange for Madar- jan helping out with cleaning and kitchen work. Samira stayed in the room and watched over Aziz while Madar- jan did chores downstairs.

Saleem had directions for Attiki Square, which was much closer than the Bangladeshi man had implied. He wound his way through streets and shops. Today was quieter than yesterday but it was early yet.

He approached a kiosk. The woman inside the booth was busy stocking shelves with packages of cigarettes. Saleem looked at the newspapers, thumbing the first pages as if any of it was decipherable.

Bottles of soda sat next to the rack of newspapers. With no one else on the cobblestoned street, Saleem slipped a bottle into his knapsack, his eyes on the woman’s back. When she turned, he picked up a package of chewing gum and placed it on the counter. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and she took what was due. He nodded in thanks, slung his bag over his shoulder, and continued on down the sidewalk.

Once he had made a few turns, he took the soda out and took a big gulp. The sweet syrup fizzed on his tongue. It did not taste as good as he thought it would, nor did he feel the thrill he’d felt the day before. He drank it as quickly as he could, eager to be rid of it.

Saleem walked under clear skies, admiring the tall buildings around him, scrollings and curls carved into their façades and a rainbow of rooftop colors. This city was vibrant and nothing like the monochromatic Mashhad or even Intikal. Bare-legged women laughed, flirted, and smiled in the streets. Some had painted eyelids or lips and looked like the women Saleem and the boys had ogled in the magazines of Intikal’s newsstands. Here they were, close enough to talk to. Young men and young women walked together unabashedly. Saleem found himself staring outright. Few people noticed. Some quickened their step to put distance between them. Most were too wrapped up in their own conversations.

Farther down the road, Saleem saw three men, probably in their early twenties, leaning against a sculpture and chatting amicably. They had dark eyes and thick brows with thin features. Refugees were much like their clothing — tired, frayed versions of their former selves. Saleem had learned to spot them from a distance.

“Hello,” Saleem called out hesitantly. He was certain they were Afghan.

The men looked over, brows raised in curiosity. They were equally trained in recognizing people on the run. They waited to hear from him.

“You’re Afghans, aren’t you?” he asked.

The three men broke into wide grins.

“What gave us away, huh? Our empty stomachs or our shamelessly handsome faces?” Belly laughs. Saleem felt himself relax. He had a good feeling about these guys.

“It is nice to be able to speak to a fellow countryman. I feel as if my tongue has been tied for months,” Saleem admitted.

“Really? Well, release the beast, my friend. Set your tongue free!”

“We have not seen you around,” said one of the men, the shortest of the group. “My name is Abdullah. Where have you come from?”

“From Turkey.”

“Oh, good for you! You survived those waters! We heard a few people weren’t so lucky last week. They drowned on their way here. God must have saved you,” Abdullah said.

“Lucky you, for sure. I nearly drowned when I came over,” his friend added. This man was taller, with a round face and scant mustache. “The one I came on. .”

His friends groaned good-naturedly. They prepared themselves to hear his story again.

“The one I came on looked like cardboard boxes and plywood stitched together. There were supposed to be only eight of us on that boat but these bastards. . you know how they are. And the waves were horrible that night. In the daylight those waters look beautiful. But in the night, those waters eat people alive.”

Saleem felt a wave of gratitude.

Thank you, God, for the passports that spared us such a nightmare.

“How long have you been here?” Abdullah asked. “And this is Jamal, by the way, and his friend over here is Hassan. What is your name?”

“Saleem. I’ve been here only two days. A Bangladeshi man told me that the Afghans were in this area.”

“Oh, you’re new to town! Let’s welcome you to Greece, since no one else will.” His friends let out a chuckle.

“Yeah, you’re going to love it here as much as we do, right?” Hassan had a long, raised scar that snaked down his forearm. Saleem tried not to stare.

“How long have you been here?” he asked the trio.

“I’ve been here for two years,” Hassan answered first. “These boys came about six months after me. You’ve been here two days? Where are you sleeping?”

“By the port. We can’t stay here. I have an aunt and uncle in England and we’re trying to get there.”

“We? You’re not alone?” Jamal asked.

“Er, no,” Saleem hesitated. He reminded himself not to share everything. “I have my family with me.”