Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Well, let me see them at least before they leave this house for good.” KokoGul had beckoned me to her. I’d stuck out my wrist, not wanting to slip them off for even a second. “Hmph. From a distance they looked thicker. Actually, they are very thin and flimsy. More like gold plate.”

Every hallway creak brings a tightening in my chest. I hope Saleem returns soon. He had said two hours, but it has been much longer. I should not worry. When he returns, he’ll tell me he got caught up playing soccer with friends, that he lost track of time because he was with boys, the afternoon sun bright on his face. I will shake my head at him, but I will be happy for him, too. If only his father could see him now, our wayward boy, carrying his family on his back. My husband would put his arm around me and grin as he did when one-year-old Saleem took his first triumphant steps.

Things will be better once we get to England. Despite what her husband says, I know Najiba will help us. We will have them to lean on until we find our way, but it will not be long, God willing. If we have gotten this far, we can make a life for ourselves in any country. We need only a chance. Somewhere in the world, there must be a place where we will be welcomed as a long-lost sister, not stoned away like an unwanted snake in the garden.

Please hurry back, Saleem. The hour is late and my faith too shallow to reassure me much longer. Please come back soon.

THE RIDE TO THE PRISON SEEMED AN ETERNITY. SALEEM COULD feel the sweat trickle down his back. His window was open about an inch — just enough to make him wish he could roll it down more.

“Please, sir, I must go. I will leave Greece tomorrow. I will not be a problem. I do not need help.”

“You will leave tomorrow? Very easy, yes?”

Sarcasm was never lost in translation.

They reached the outskirts where tourists dared not venture, and Saleem’s cheeks were hot with tears. They passed by the narrow road that led to the Yellow Hotel, an unimaginatively named lemon-colored building. He fixed his eyes on the street but saw no one. In an hour the sun would start to set and Madar- jan would begin to worry.

At the prison, Saleem was led past desks and officers, most barely looking up as he passed. He was taken toward the austere back of the building where two African men and one Greek man sat in a cell. Saleem felt the urge to run for the nearest exit, but with every passing minute, his chances at valiance grew slimmer. The older officer motioned to another policeman to open the cell for Saleem.

“Get in.”

Think, Saleem told himself. Think of something to say that will make them pity you. Something that will make them let you go.

“Please, I will go home. Please let me go, sir,” Saleem said, making one more ineloquent plea for mercy.

“You will go. You will go here.”

With a quick shove to his back, Saleem stumbled into the cell. His shoulders hunched in defeat. The other prisoners glanced over with the kind of vague interest that idleness breeds. The men had no desire to make eye contact, much less conversation. Saleem shuffled to the back corner of the cell, about twelve feet by twelve feet in size, and sulked like a caged animal. He leaned his back against the cold wall and slowly slid to the ground, his knees bent against his chest.

Madar- jan would leave Samira to look after Aziz while she searched for him, Saleem knew. She might try to find the pawnshop. Perhaps the store owner would tell her that the police had stopped Saleem. Maybe she would faint or become hysterical right there. Saleem reviewed the afternoon’s events and kicked himself for being so careless. The man of the family sitting, useless, in a jail cell. His adolescent muscles burned at the thought of his mother and siblings left on their own, the money from his mother’s gold bangles tucked into his left sock where it did them absolutely no good.

SALEEM SPENT THE NIGHT IN PRISON.

In the solitude of the crowded cell, he had time to reflect. Saleem had spent months looking over his shoulder and worrying about this very scene, winding up in a cell. He no longer had to worry about it. The sense of dread was gone, though replaced with new fears.

As his mind settled, he took stock of the men around him. Two African men sat side by side, mumbling to each other without the effort of eye contact. The Greek man would look at the others and grunt, his face twisted in annoyance. His cell-mates ignored him mostly. Saleem’s mind wandered.

Life would be different if my father were alive.

It wasn’t a new thought, but it felt especially loud and true as he wondered what would become of his family. When he needed to break his train of thought, he stood and walked the length of the cell, keeping close to the wall, but it was of little use. His mind was just as much a prisoner as he was.

Saleem nodded off intermittently over the course of the night, waking up with his neck stiff and pins and needles in his legs. He changed position frequently and grew to hate the smell of the concrete floor.

Should I tell them the truth? Wouldn’t they pity me? If they knew what happened, they couldn’t possibly send me back to Afghanistan. But what if they did?

IN THE MORNING, HIS STOMACH GRUMBLING, SALEEM WAS TAKEN into yet another room for questioning. He was seated across a bare table from a new officer, who had introduced himself with a name that sounded like it started with the letter G. It was too foreign and cumbersome for Saleem’s tongue. The officer blew a dense cloud of cigarette smoke across the table. Saleem held his breath and exhaled slowly, hating to let this man’s smoke waft through his lungs as if it had every right to.

This officer was very different from the two who had brought him here yesterday evening. He was older, middle aged, and smaller framed. He wore a gray shirt, but paired with the same navy blue slacks and burdened belt of the two who had arrested him. His breast pocket bulged with a pack of cigarettes. Salt-and-pepper hair framed his weathered face, cut so short it stood on end. His eyebrows and mustache curved downward in a way that made his entire face droop.

Officer G spoke English well and did not seem to be in any kind of rush. He looked thoughtful before he started to pose his questions to Saleem. Saleem wondered, briefly, if this man might have pity on him and allow him to go free.

“How old are you?” G’s eyes squinted as he sucked on the filtered end of his cigarette, his teeth yellowed with years of nicotine and coffee.

“Fifteen,” Saleem answered, determined to stay consistent with the answers he had given yesterday.

“Fifteen. Hmm. Fifteen.” There was a pause. “And where do you come from?”

Saleem had spent a good deal of the night preparing for this question. Yesterday, he had told the officers he was from Turkey. But if he told them where he was really from, they might send him back there. He didn’t think he would survive if he was sent back to Afghanistan alone.

“Turkey.” Saleem braced himself.

“Turkey?”

Saleem nodded.

“You are Turkish. Hmm. Why have you come here?”

“I want to study,” he said honestly.

“Study? You cannot study in Turkey?”

Saleem did not respond.

Officer G pulled a sheet of paper from under his notebook. He slid it across the table. “Read this.”

Saleem looked at the paper. He recognized the writing as Turkish. The characters were the same as the English alphabet but with dots and curved accents that reminded him of Dari. He had learned conversational phrases but knew he would stumble horribly if he tried to read. He was cornered. He wet his lips and reminded himself that this officer was not Turkish. He probably couldn’t read the text either.