Nadia Hashimi - When the Moon Is Low

He handed the conductor his ticket and waited for an accusing look or at least a question. But Saleem, with his backpack, looked very much like one of the many students aboard this car of the train. The others sat in the seats behind him, laughing loudly and swapping magazines. The conductor moved to the next car, and the students, one by one, tucked headphones into their ears or fell asleep against a neighbor’s shoulder, leaving nothing but the hum of the train.

Saleem thought of his childhood friends from Afghanistan. Had they been allowed to grow up together without rocket-rain, surely they would have been just as jovial and rowdy. But war had a taming effect. Kabul’s children were not children for long.

Roksana was not like this group. She seemed to have absorbed some of the solemnity of her fellow Afghans without ever having stepped foot in the country. Her father’s aloofness had sparked in her an obligation to delve into the struggles of her own people. He admired her for it, doubtful he would have had the same inclination.

Saleem wasn’t sure what he would have been had he had a life like Roksana’s. Two parents, school, a peaceful country. He would not have been this Saleem. This Saleem was the sum of a series of dreadful moments.

He turned the watch on his wrist. A few more scratches on the glass, probably from the night before.

Look what’s happened to us, Padar- jan.

Had Saleem and his family left Kabul earlier, they could have had a better chance. They could have had a peaceful life in London, maybe near Khala Najiba’s family. Saleem and Samira would be in school now, attending classes and struggling with homework assignments, learning a new language. It was an image so perfect, so imaginary that it played like a cartoon in Saleem’s mind.

But Padar- jan had instead chosen to keep his family in Kabul and hope for better days — despite the growing unrest, the killings, the droughts.

Why did you choose this for us? What good came from us being there so long after everyone else left?

SALEEM AWOKE WITH A JOLT. THE TRAIN HAD STOPPED. HE looked around and saw new passengers boarding; others had already disembarked. A man was loading his bag into the overhead area.

“Excuse me — Milan?” Saleem pointed out the window.

“ Si, ” he answered with a nod.

Saleem grabbed the backpack and bolted out the train door, nearly knocking over an elderly couple. He threw his hands up in a quick gesture of apology. He had only thirty minutes, he had been told, to find the connecting train that would take him to Paris. He hoped the train hadn’t been stopped long. He dug the tickets out of the envelope and again tried to match it up with the information screens that flashed overhead.

Paris. Gate four. Ten minutes.

Saleem ran. He was in front of gate seventeen now. He dodged in and out of passengers and rolling luggage. He prayed no one would stop him.

THE TRAIN PULLED TO A STOP IN PARIS IN THE MORNING HOURS. Saleem had made it into France, but before he could continue on in his journey he needed to deliver this package to the right hands. He hoped it would be easy to find this man.

Up and down the tracks, his eyes were dually focused on spotting uniforms as well as anyone who resembled the Albanians he’d met in Rome.

A hand grabbed at his arm. Saleem tried to jerk away, but the grip was tight. He turned around, and with one look, he knew his contact had found him.

He had yellowed teeth and dark, piercing eyes. The man wore a black polyester jacket over a gunmetal T-shirt with slanted graffiti print across the chest. His jeans were acid washed and slim.

“You are the boy. You come from Rome.”

Saleem nodded. Same rules probably applied here, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Good. You bring something for me?”

He released his hold on Saleem’s arm. Saleem slid the backpack off his shoulder and started to unzip it.

“Not here! Idiot! Come.”

Saleem allowed himself to be led through the crowd, the overhead announcement system mumbling instructions to passengers scurrying in crisscrossing paths. They walked over to a bench near a bank of storage lockers. They sat side by side, as if they were waiting for a friend to arrive on the next train.

“Open the bag.” Saleem had the backpack on his lap. He unzipped it slowly and pulled out the ridiculous-looking stuffed bear. He handed it over.

The man squeezed roughly, feeling for its contents. He looked at the bear’s neck and legs to make sure no one had tampered with the seams. Satisfied, he took the backpack from Saleem’s lap and sifted through it.

“Where is the passport?”

Saleem reached into his back pocket and pulled out the booklet. The man took it, flipped it open to the identification page with Saleem’s picture. He threw the bag back onto Saleem’s lap. “You are finished. You can go.”

“But, the passport. . please. .” he began nervously.

“What?” he snapped. He was already up and ready to make a quick escape from the train station.

“I need the passport to go to England.”

“Passport?” His accent was as thick and heavy as that of his friends in Rome. A haughty laugh gave Saleem his answer. “You want to pay for passport?”

“I do not have money. But I need it to go to my family,” he pleaded. How could he negotiate with this man? The passport was in this man’s pocket now, so close that Saleem felt the urge to grab it.

“Eight hundred euro,” he said with a snide smile. “For eight hundred euro. Cheap price for you.”

Saleem’s depleted money pouch did not hold eight hundred euro. It did hold another purchase he’d made in Athens, but he was not willing to part with that.

“Please, mister, I have little money. Eight hundred is too much. Something smaller?”

“How much you have?”

Dare he admit how much was in his pouch? That small booklet with his picture and a false name could help carry him to London, to his family. It was worth everything he had, Saleem decided.

“One hundred fifty euro.”

“One hundred fifty?” the man scoffed. “You are crazy!”

The passport was gone. He had already turned and taken a few steps when Saleem called out once more.

“Mister, please, tell me how I go to London?” The man considered Saleem for a moment, then huffed and took a step in his direction.

“London?”

Saleem nodded.

“Go to Calais. All you people go to Calais. From Calais there is tunnel.” He chuckled, a hint that he was sending Saleem on a path with little hope for success. “Maybe you be lucky.”

WITH THE HELP OF A KIND-FACED ELDERLY WOMAN, SALEEM LOCATED Calais on a map. The city, perched on France’s northwest shore, sat directly across from England. A narrow channel of water ran between the two countries. He’d purchased a ticket immediately, having no desire to see any more of Paris and eager to continue on. By morning, uneventfully, he was in Calais.

Saleem wandered through Calais for hours, blending into its mixed crowds. He left the train station behind and explored the streets, eager to find his way to the port. On the way, he passed massive buildings with thick, tall pillars and balconied windows. Even the smaller buildings had ornate windows, chubby-faced figures draped beside the frames.

Familiar in Calais was the smell of seawater. Saleem followed the salted mist all the way to the port. The piers brought Saleem comfort, as he’d gotten to know the basic rhythm and culture that came from the slow moans of ship horns and the traffic of passengers and trucks.

This particular port was beautiful. Fingers of coastline jutted into the waters of the English Channel. Vertical sailboat masts intersected the horizontal expanse of water and sky. Farther along, giant ships were docked, preparing, like Saleem, for the next voyage.