He put on the clothes Hayal had laid out for him, a pair of pants and a shirt her sons had outgrown and left behind. Hakan returned with good news. He’d been able to track down the phone number of the hotel on the Internet. Saleem, who’d been nodding off on their sofa, was suddenly awake and ecstatic.
“I must call! I must call now! Maybe they are there!”
“I know,” Hakan smiled, but he seemed hesitant. “I have a calling card. We can try the number now but. . but Saleem, you must remember it is possible that they have taken the train. They may not be there and that does not mean something bad.”
Saleem nodded. He was glad he was not making this call by himself. Whether or not he was able to reach them, he would need someone to turn to when he hung up the phone.
Hakan read the instructions on the back of the card and dialed the string of numbers until they were finally connected. He handed the phone to Saleem, whose knuckles blanched as he listened to the trill of the phone ringing on the other end.
A click, a throat cleared, and some mumbling.
Saleem recognized the old man’s voice.
“Please! I need to speak to my mother. Is my mother there?” His words were a jumble of English, Turkish, and Farsi, an emotional short circuit between his thoughts and his tongue.
“Who is this?” The voice on the line was confused, suspicious. Hakan put a hand on Saleem’s elbow. Slow down, he motioned. Saleem took a deep breath and focused his English.
“Please, my name is Saleem. I was staying at the hotel with my mother. I need to speak to my mother. She is there with my brother and sister!”
“Ah, the boy! Your mother looks for you. She is in room. Maybe you call back later. Now I am busy.”
“No, I cannot call later. Please, my mother. I must speak to her now!” The old man detected the desperation in his voice.
“Okay, okay.” He muttered something in Greek that Saleem did not understand.
The silence was interminable. Hakan and Hayal watched Saleem’s face anxiously.
Fereiba’s voice crackled through the receiver. Saleem leaped to his feet and, like a tethered animal, paced as far as the coiled line would allow.
“Saleem? Saleem, bachem? Is it you?” Her voice trembled.
“Yes, Madar-jan,” he said. “It is me.”
“Bachem, where are you? Oh, thank God! I’ve been so worried!”
“I’m in Intikal, Madar-jan, with Kaka Hakan and Khala-jan. The police caught me and sent me back to Turkey.”
“The police? Oh God, you are in Turkey!” Madar-jan’s mind was racing as she processed the implications of this news. “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”
“I’m all right, Madar-jan. I’ll find a way back to Greece, but I don’t know how long it will take.”
It was not so much that they needed to make a painful decision but rather that a painful decision had been made for them. Saleem spoke first.
“Madar-jan, you have the passports and the train tickets. Take Samira and Aziz and get yourselves to England as soon as possible. I have to find a way to get back and it may not be soon enough since I don’t have my papers. But if you wait for me, Aziz might get worse.”
“I can mail the passport to you. I can send it to Hayal-jan’s house.” Madar-jan’s voice was laden with guilt. “But, Saleem-jan, what about money? Did the police take everything from you?”
“No, I have the money from the pawnshop. If you can send me the passport, then I can take the same route and before you know it, I’ll meet you in England.” Part of him wanted Madar-jan to say no, to tell him that she would wait for him in Greece and that they would all go together to England. Surely, she wished for the same but their plan had to take Aziz’s broken heart into consideration.
“Oh, my son. God keep you safe from harm. Saleem-jan, give me their address. I’ll mail the passport. Your friend, Rokshaana, she came to the train station. She saw us. She knew who we were. She’s so kind and she said she’ll come again here later today. She can help me mail this passport to you.”
Madar-jan had met Roksana? Saleem slipped back into the chair and rested his forehead on his hand. His head hanging, he closed his eyes and let gratitude wash over him.
Thank you, Roksana. Thank you.
Hakan tapped on his watch. The calling card would soon run out of time.
“Madar-jan, I don’t have much time left on this card.” He turned to Hakan and asked for their address. He relayed it to Madar-jan as quickly as Hakan could scribble it on a scrap of paper.
“Saleem-jan, bachem, I’ll mail you the train ticket and the passport. Forgive me, we will take the train, maybe tomorrow. Aziz needs to see a doctor. But be very careful, please! Say a prayer with every step and keep your eyes open. Sweetheart, believe me, I wish I didn’t have to—”
The line went dead. Saleem cradled the receiver. As his mother’s voice vanished, Saleem’s journey changed. He was on his own now. Tonight would be the last night that the Waziri family could sleep in relative peace, aware of each other’s whereabouts and well-being. Saleem’s family had met Roksana and she would guide them through the next few steps. Fereiba was comforted knowing Saleem was with Hakan and Hayal. Tonight, if they could just keep their minds off tomorrow, they would all get some rest.
Saleem crawled onto the familiar mattress and fell asleep in seconds.
HE WOKE IN THE MORNING, HIS EYES OPENING TO THE SAME cracking plaster he’d watched for months. He returned to the fault lines, the places where the paint had chipped away and the ceiling peeked through, exposed for what it really was. Saleem ran his fingers through his hair and down his arms. He touched his side and winced when he reached his flank. He expected to feel the same fault lines on his own body, places where the weight of the load had started to break him open and expose him for what he was.
Early morning light drifted through the gauzy, cotton curtains. The fog was lifting. Saleem had slept more than half a day and woke with a renewed clarity.
He would wait for his passport. It could take two weeks for the passport to arrive. That would be two weeks without income. There was only one thing to do. Saleem got up and buttoned his shirt. He would go back to the farm.
MR. POLAT SMIRKED AND SPAT, BUT HE NEEDED THE HELP. HE told Saleem to go into the field and begin his work. The Armenian woman chuckled to see him as if she’d known all along he’d be back. She shook her head and resumed her work, muttering something under her breath that he would not have understood even if she’d yelled it out to the skies.
Saleem understood though.
What use was it? You packed your bags and sat on a boat and prayed and for what? Nothing has changed because nothing will. You tried to cut free of these vines, but they will only grow tighter around you.
Saleem said nothing to her but stood for a moment with his back to the sun, his shadow stocky and bold between the rows of tomato plants. She was wrong. Everything had changed since he’d last been on this farm. He was a true refugee now but one who had seen the ocean. He’d heard the sound of waves and smelled the salted ocean air. Every step of the journey had altered him, changed his very coding irreversibly. He had crossed the waters once and would cross them again — accompanied not by his family but by the tiny mutations in his being that gave him the strength to do it on his own.