Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

“Please, mister, water?”

The officer cocked his head to the side and stood. “Water? Of course.” He exited the room and returned with a small paper cup that held no more than one sip, barely enough to wet his mouth. Saleem accepted it and felt his hopes for mercy wane. He looked back down at the page before him and started to sound out the words with as much confidence as he could muster. He looked up at the officer.

“Translate, please,” Officer G said casually, taking the cigarette pack out of his pocket. He used his last cigarette to light a new one.

Saleem’s whole body tensed. Was he being toyed with? His breathing quickened, and he felt his throat tighten. He wanted to be back on the cold, gray ground of the cell. The officer waited for his response.

“You are not from Turkey,” he declared simply when he saw Saleem squirm in his chair. “I ask you again. Where are you from?” His words were carefully enunciated so that there would be no mistaking the question or its importance.

Saleem recognized defeat.

“Afghanistan.”

“Ahh, Afghanistan. How did you come here?”

“I came from Turkey.”

“Boat?”

Saleem shook his head. “Airplane.”

“Without passport?”

“I have passport but my friend. . he take it.”

“How long are you here?”

“One week,” Saleem lied insecurely. As best as he could figure, the longer the time he had illegally been in Greece, the angrier this man would become.

“You want to stay in Greece?”

Saleem shook his head.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I want to go England.”

“England.” He chewed on Saleem’s answer before asking his next question.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Saleem said.

“Fifteen?” Officer G doubted this as much as his other answers.

“Yes.”

Thinking of the darkness they’d left behind in Kabul, Saleem convinced himself even the most stone-hearted officer would take pity on a lone adolescent. Officer G stepped out of the room and returned with a can of orange-flavored soda, the sort that universally appealed to children. He popped the tab and slid it across the table, then lit himself a cigarette.

“Your situation is bad,” he said simply. Saleem watched his face. There was no arguing that fact. “And if you do not tell us the truth, it will only get worse for you.”

Away from his family, Saleem had nothing to lose. Exhausted and desperate, Saleem heard a softening in the officer’s voice, the tone of a father chastising his son. He took a long sip from the orange can. The warm fizz tingled in his mouth and coated his throat with a reassuring sweetness. He felt his shoulders untense like the freshly popped soda can with its quiet hiss.

“I will tell you now,” Saleem said limply. “I will tell you my story.”

The officer leaned back in his chair, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and nodded as Saleem returned to the night that was blacker than sin.

“STAY HERE. DOCTOR COME NOW.” SALEEM WATCHED BLANKLY AS Officer G exited the room. A doctor? His mind felt fogged from his sleepless night. It was difficult to focus.

An hour later, a man in a collared shirt and slacks entered the room. He had a white doctor’s coat slung over his arm and a tawny leather bag in his hand. He was heavyset, the buttons of his shirt looking ready to give way. His face was round with jowls that sagged despondently. He looked like a Russian cartoon character Saleem had once seen on a black market video.

The doctor muttered something as he entered the room. He dropped his bag and white coat on the table. From the leather case, he pulled out a stethoscope, a small penlight, and a pair of latex gloves. He sat in the chair that Officer G had occupied and motioned for Saleem to come over to him. Saleem slowly rose and walked over.

The doctor gave him a general once-over and then stood to begin his inspection. He shined his light into Saleem’s bloodshot eyes and dry mouth. He motioned for Saleem to remove his shirt. Saleem could smell his own staleness as he lifted his arms. The doctor didn’t seem fazed. He brought his stethoscope to Saleem’s chest and listened while he stared blankly at the ground. He peered closely at Saleem’s underarms before slumping back into the chair. He tapped Saleem’s waistband.

“Take this off,” he said simply. Saleem felt blood rush to his face.

“No!” he blurted. He took a few steps back, putting the table between him and the doctor.

The doctor let out a tired sigh.

“Take off. I must check,” he said. He checked his watch and looked at Saleem expectantly. Saleem crossed his arms, his skin prickled with anger. The doctor waited a moment, his fingers tapping on the table. Quickly, his face grew serious and his eyes zeroed in on Saleem.

“Take. . OFF.”

In his voice was the clear message that there would be no way out of this. Saleem felt incredibly alone and small. He took a few deep breaths before doing as instructed, his fingers fumbling nervously with the button and zipper before he slowly brought his pants down to his ankles. His briefs hung loosely on his hips. Saleem stared at the ceiling.

“Take off.” The doctor touched the waistband of his underwear as he snapped the gloves over his thick hands. Saleem felt a heat rush over him. What was this doctor looking for?

Saleem’s breath was a slow and bitter exhalation, an effort to expel his humiliation in a whistle of air. He pulled his briefs down to his knees. The doctor adjusted his lenses and peered interestedly at the area between Saleem’s legs. From his bag, he pulled out a paper tape measure and used it to assess whether Saleem’s body had a different answer to the age question.

Saleem hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a small child. Part of him wanted to drive his fist through the doctor’s curious glasses while another part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and wail. The exam concluded before Saleem could act.

“Okay, finished.” He motioned for Saleem to pull up his underpants and jeans, as he jotted something into a notepad that fit in his palm. “Any health problems?” he asked as Saleem hurried to pull up his briefs and jeans.

“No. No problems.”

“How old?” The question resurfaced. It dawned on Saleem this was the reason for the doctor’s visit, explaining his focus between Saleem’s thighs, the part of him that had changed most in the last few years.

“Fifteen,” Saleem answered meekly.

“Hmph.” The doctor paused briefly to look at Saleem’s face and scribbled a few more notes. He packed up his tools, retrieved his white coat, and exited the room without any further conversation.

Alone, Saleem began to pace the room, his anger fanned by exhaustion. He let out a short yell that bounced from wall to wall. He yelled again — longer and louder.

Saleem put his palms and forehead against the wall. It felt cold and real, realer than the rest of his situation. He brought his right palm against the wall a second time, harder.

Again and again, harder and harder, Saleem slapped his palm against the cold wall as the past twenty-four hours spun through his head: the policeman grabbing his elbow as he exited the pawnshop, the cigarette smoke blown in his face, the doctor examining his genitals with more attention than the customs officer had paid to their travel documents, his mother frantic in the hotel or searching the streets, Samira frightened and silent, his father watching and shaking his head in disappointment, Aziz’s tiny chest heaving with discomfort. They exploded above him like a shower of rockets, raining down on his head and shoulders when there was nowhere to run and nothing that could be done.