He touched the face of his watch nervously. From a large gray building to his right, people emerged carrying heavy plastic bags. He saw loaves of bread sticking out from some of the satchels. Saleem followed the crowd through the glass double doors.
The building was shaped like a hangar, deep enough that he could not see the end and had to tilt his head back to get a glimpse of the ceiling. Three long lines of stalls split the room into rows. Saleem’s nostrils flared. He smelled brine, fish, and onions. He turned to the left and walked ahead. The concentrated smell of sugar made his mouth pucker. Saleem dove in.
He walked up and down the rows. His eyes bulged to see the fruits, vegetables, cheeses, pastries, and olives. Stickers told him he had little hope of affording most of what he was seeing.
Saleem’s heart pounded as part of him began to plot.
No one is watching you. Just like Intikal. Choose carefully and quietly and look for an exit.
Saleem sauntered to a stand in the first row. The man behind the table laughed, explaining something passionately to two customers considering his dried fruits carefully. Saleem picked up two packets of dried apricots and turned them over slowly. He had dropped his knapsack from his shoulder to his elbow, where its unzippered mouth begged for loot. Saleem’s downcast eyes surreptitiously moved left and right.
No one is watching you.
Quietly he dropped one bag of apricots into the knapsack while he leaned over to place the other back on the stand. The owner looked over momentarily, saw Saleem replacing the apricots, and turned his attention back to the Greek couple.
Saleem walked away slowly and tensely, ready to bolt at any hint his actions had been noted. Nothing. He looked around some more. There were loaves of flatbreads, round breads, and cheese wedges on a corner stand, not ten yards from the door. Saleem’s stomach grumbled in encouragement, his mind calculating the shared portions. From where he stood, he could read the price on the toothpick flag sticking out of one of the cheese wedges. Far too many euros. Saleem moved in closer. The thick braid of dough was topped with a heavy sprinkle of sesame seeds.
Saleem took one more look at the distance between the stand and the door. Once outside those glass doors, he would make a quick left and head back in the direction of the hotel.
Six or seven people crowded around the bread table, but mostly on the adjacent side with the cakes and pastries. Saleem casually picked up one of the fat, braided loaves and considered it. Next, he picked up a large, round flatbread and peered at it, covering the braided loaf that hung directly over the open mouth of his knapsack. Holding the two loaves in his left hand, he reached over with his right and picked up a large cheese wedge.
Suddenly, the vendor’s voice boomed out over the crowd and customers pushed closer to the table. Saleem felt a rush in his cheeks. He looked up and saw that the man, an older gentleman with gray hair and a white apron, had sliced up one of his pastries, a long syrup-drenched doughnut. He offered the bite-size samples to the customers, none of whom had noticed Saleem’s sleight of hand.
“Ela, ela!” Saleem had just turned his back to the stand. He froze in place and debated whether to turn or simply run, his mouth as dry as sawdust.
The aproned man barked something in Greek as he pushed the metal tray of doughnut samples in Saleem’s direction.
Is this a test?
The baker gave an eager nod. Saleem positioned himself in front of his knapsack, afraid its bulkiness would give him away.
“Dokimase!” The baker winked. Saleem took a sticky piece of doughnut from the tray and the man nodded in approval, turning his attention to a middle-aged woman and her husband who had smudged the glass display case to point out their order. Saleem picked up the knapsack and walked as evenly as he could to the exit, his weighted bag bouncing against his back with every step.
A breeze chilled the perspiration on the nape of his neck.
Chew, he told himself. The syrup made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed without tasting anything. He moved absently through the winding streets, accusing eyes all around him. He made several turns to put the market and its customers behind him. Within minutes, he’d lost track of his lefts and rights. He was panting and lost.
With his back against a stucco wall, he looked across the street and saw a sign for the metro. The bread vendor’s eager smile toyed with his conscience.
I’m sorry, he thought. He truly was.
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.
CHAPTER 27. Saleem
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.