Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

Saleem moved a few steps closer, anxious to see what would happen. The man heard yelling and scrambled onto his feet. He charged into the maze of containers, weaving his way in and out of vessels.

Saleem bit his tongue.

That could be me. That easily could be me.

The man made a nimble climb back over the fence and ran across the highway, just a few meters from where Saleem stood. As he neared, Saleem could see a streak of blood from his hand. He did not appear to notice his own injury.

“Hey!” Saleem called out. “Hello!” The man looked over as he slowed down to catch his breath. He looked at Saleem with suspicion.

“Your hand!” The man was about twenty feet away now. His forehead glistened. The man looked startled but quickly recognized Saleem for what he was too.

“Your hand!” Saleem repeated, pointing to his own left palm.

The man looked down, unfazed. He nodded at Saleem and walked down the street, careful to keep his hand out of view.

Saleem’s trepidation increased. It was one thing to hear stories from the boys in Attiki but quite another to stand at the port and watch people being chased. He could imagine what might have happened if the African man had been caught.

TWO NIGHTS MORE, SALEEM SLEPT IN THE NEARBY CONSTRUCTION site and left before the work crews returned in the morning. He used as little money as he could for food, just enough to keep his energy up. He spent his days studying the port. Once, he’d even seen the African man return to survey the possibilities, his hand wrapped in a cloth bandage and held close to his body. He made no daring attempts and did not seem interested in talking to Saleem.

By the third day, Saleem decided to make his way onto the docks. A ferry for Athens was coming in at noon. Thirty minutes before the ship’s arrival time, three trucks pulled in and backed up toward the ramp in preparation. The drivers got out, chatted with others, and got some food.

Saleem began his dangerous flirtation. He tossed his backpack over his shoulder and walked casually toward the trucks. Passengers were just starting to file in, wheeling compact suitcases behind them or carrying duffel bags over their shoulders. Saleem hoped he was blending in.

Saleem broke away from the group and wandered over to the side where the trucks idled, thick plumes of smoke rising from their exhaust pipes. He moved in closer when he saw no one paying attention. Two drivers had their backs turned to him, standing just in front of a truck. Saleem was about thirty feet away. If he could get to the back of the cab, there was a chance he could slip into that gap and then get under the carriage of the truck. But he would have to be quick about it.

One driver pointed at something off in the distance. Saleem acted before he could give it a second thought. He made a dash for the truck, trying to keep his footsteps as light as possible. The drivers were on the opposite side, still engaged in conversation. Saleem looked for something to grab onto behind the cab. There were pipes and coiled wires but no place for him to slip under and clutch. He crouched down and grabbed at something so hot that his hand jerked back reflexively.

He found a rod that ran from behind the front wheels down the length of the chassis. It was thin but it might support him. Saleem had flipped his backpack so that it rested on his belly. As he grabbed at the rod, part of it dislodged and clanged against the ground. The drivers, alerted by the sound of metal on pavement, came around to the back of the truck just as Saleem was scrambling to his feet.

Run. Just run.

They were behind him, hollering and cursing.

Run.

The boys back home would have bet on Saleem. They would have bet that he could outrun the truck drivers and make it away without them ever getting close to laying a hand on him. He’d been that fast on the soccer field, so quick on his feet that he would have time to turn his head back and smile at the boy chasing behind him, panting and reaching with an outstretched hand.

But that was a different Saleem. That was a boy who had a mother and father to go home to. That was a boy whose belly was full of his mother’s cooking and new sneakers on his feet. That boy wasn’t here.

The boy who ran from the truckers was hungry and alone and had only the strength required to hunch over tomato vines or rake animal shit with someone standing over his shoulder.

This Saleem was much easier to catch.

They grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. His feet, still trying to propel forward, flew into the air as he was thrown to the ground. His face hit blacktop, and searing pain ripped through his jaw.

The rest Saleem would remember only in bits and pieces, in souvenirs left on his body by those men who were tired of being used by refugees and tired of having their trucks checked and rechecked by customs agents. Brown boots and angry words.

He had tried to get back on his feet. He staggered.

One burst of adrenaline.

Run.

They yelled behind him.

Their voices faded as Saleem managed to put some distance between them.

His backpack slapped against his chest violently. He leaned against a brick building, out of sight. The adrenaline gone, he began to feel again. His ribs throbbed, and his legs felt as if they might buckle. His shirt was torn and pants covered in dirt. His pulse pounded in his ears, not loud enough to drown the sound of their shouts.

His lip was bleeding. Saleem wandered in and out of narrow side streets, staying away from pedestrians. He wanted to be invisible.

Saleem stumbled into a vacant warehouse and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He crouched against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the hurt.

Please, God, let me rest here.

He was broken and did not know how much more he could take.

FOR TWO DAYS, SALEEM MOSTLY SLEPT. HE’D LOST TRACK OF DAY and night. Every time he started to wake, his mind coaxed him back, unable to muster the strength to face a new day and ignoring his hunger.

On the third day, his stomach argued for food, unsatisfied by the half bottle of juice he’d dug out of his backpack. He touched his lip and knew the swelling had improved. He could move about, not as sore as he had been. He changed his clothes and stood. His head spun.

He’d miscalculated. He didn’t know enough about trucks or their bodies and his ignorance had set him back. He felt like a failure.

Saleem wandered outside, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. He walked down into the market and bought a twist of bread and a bottle of milk from one of the corner shops. The owner watched with a raised eyebrow, but Saleem kept his head down and paid quietly for his purchase, eager to get out of sight.

His stomach cramped as he ate, but Saleem could feel himself recovering, his head clearing. As the sun sank into the horizon, he made his way back to the construction sites, purchased some more food along the way, and found a dusty, familiar shelter.

There were no options. Saleem would either persist or rot in this country, away from his family. His bruises would heal. He needed to learn from his mistakes.

He went back to watching the docks from enough distance that he was out of sight from the truckers. He stared at the ferries and tried to find an opening. There were blue-and-white-uniformed crew members guiding passengers onto the ship. There was no getting past them and onto the main deck.

He could try the trucks again. Maybe go around the back this time, though he remembered one of the boys in Attiki telling him about a friend who had died from inhaling the exhaust fumes for too long.

He turned his attention back to the containers, but they were daunting. Saleem’s hopes dwindled. He was beginning to think that he would have to seek out a smuggler, though he had no idea where to find one. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would stroll through the town and look for refugees. Someone had to know of a smuggler. Saleem returned to the docks to make one more scouting expedition before nightfall.