“Maybe I should. .” he mumbled.
“It’s all right. Just come in.”
She closed the door behind them, stealing one last peek into the hallway to be sure none of the other apartment doors were open. Satisfied, she led him from the foyer into the living room.
Saleem’s eyes swept across the room, taking it all in. Neat beige sofas huddled around a low, espresso-stained coffee table atop which sat a few books. Old, sepia-toned photographs hung on the walls. Backlit linen shades gave the room a soothing feel. Their apartment was probably the same size as the Waziri home in Kabul but looked much more modern and spacious to Saleem.
“My parents have just gone out for the afternoon so we should be quick. I just wanted you to get a proper bath to use.”
Her voice was different. She was not her usual cool self. She fidgeted and averted her eyes. Saleem was not sure if Roksana was uncomfortable to be alone with him or worried that her parents might return earlier than expected.
“Roksana, maybe I go. .”
“No,” she said, understanding how unwelcoming she’d sounded. She took a deep breath and started over. “Everything’s fine.” She smiled, her composure restored. Saleem was impressed and quietly envious. His anxieties had full rein over him, he thought.
From the living room, Roksana led Saleem down a narrow hallway and pointed at a door. “This is the washroom and here’s a towel. Shampoo and soap are there. I’ll wait for you in the other room, okay?”
It was more than okay. It was wonderful. The washroom was unlike any he had seen. Lemon yellow walls made the space bright and cheerful. The sink was a glass bowl anchored into the wall. A row of mint green miniature ceramic urns sat on a floating shelf, a wisp of baby’s breath propped in each. A frosted glass door slid open for the shower.
Saleem felt awkward and out of place in the most beautiful washroom he’d ever seen. He fumbled with the faucet. He took off his clothes and folded his knife and money sack into his jeans. He stepped into the shower and let hot water run over him, a murky swirl disappearing down the drain. Saleem scrubbed his body until the water ran clear, washed his hair three times, and then reluctantly turned the water off. He stood for a moment, the room steamy and warm.
Water, he thought with a new appreciation, is most certainly roshanee.
Saleem towel-dried, re-dressed, and stepped into the hallway. To his left, half-open French doors led to an office. In the center of the room was a heavily carved wooden desk. Three sides of the room were bookshelves made of the same cherry-colored wood. So many books! It reminded Saleem of the time his father had taken him to his office in the Ministry of Water and Electricity. They’d visited the ministry’s library and its stacks thick with texts, feathered pages, and dusty bindings. Saleem was keenly aware at the time that no other five-year-old would be allowed to wander through the rows, a fact that was more interesting than any of the books in the enormous room.
For years after, Saleem’s father would chuckle and remind him of the most memorable part of that day.
And then the chief engineer came in and asked if you would like to work in the same building one day and you said, “No, sir. My mother gets angry sometimes because she says Padar-jan gets lost in his books. I don’t want her angry with me too.”
Saleem wondered how Padar-jan had never tired of repeating such a simple childish comment. At the same time, part of him had never tired of hearing it either. With a sigh, he returned to the present.
This must be her father’s office, Saleem realized.
Saleem took three steps into the office to get a closer look at the shelves with books perfectly arranged by the height of their spines. He touched the glossy book jackets. Many of the books were in English, some in Greek. There were books about medicine and philosophy, from what Saleem could gather. He turned to the shelf behind the desk. On the bottom row, something caught his eye — Farsi lettering along the spines of one entire row of books.
Saleem hunched over to get a better look. Sure enough, the titles read, Afghanistan: A Nation’s History; Afghanistan: The Fallen Empire; and Collection of Afghan Poetry. Why would they have so many books on Afghanistan? Did Roksana’s father speak Dari?
Saleem thought back to days in Attiki when the guys would make snide and often lewd comments about her, the cold glares she would shoot their way, almost as if she understood. Saleem looked around the office, confused. On another shelf across the room sat a small statue, no taller than five inches. It was an eagle carved out of a brilliant chunk of lapis lazuli, a blue stone as unmistakably Afghan as the similarly colored burqas.
“You are finished?” Roksana was in the doorway.
Saleem turned around abruptly, ashamed to have overstepped his welcome.
“Sorry. I saw the books and I wanted to see. . there are so many but. . Roksana, your father, does he speak Dari?”
“What?” She stiffened visibly.
“There are many books on Afghanistan. And they are in Dari. And this bird, this stone is from Afghanistan. Why. .” Saleem’s half-formed thoughts stumbled out as he tried to make sense of it all. “My mother. You talked to my mother? Do you speak Dari? Your father. . did he work in Afghanistan?”
Roksana shook her head, sighed, and smiled coyly.
“Ela, Saleem, my father. . my father did not work in Afghanistan.” She spoke in a hushed tease.
“But then why—”
“He lived there. He was born there. My father is Afghan.”
Saleem’s jaw dropped. He looked at Roksana through narrowed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. If Roksana’s father was Afghan, then Roksana was. .
“Half Afghan and half Greek,” Roksana explained, with a hand on her chest. “My mother is Greek. My father came here as a young man to study medicine but ended up doing something different. He married my mother and has lived here ever since. I learned to speak some Dari from him. Not very much but enough that I can have a conversation.”
Saleem clapped his hands and broke into a grin.
“You are Afghan!” he cried in Dari, the words sliding effortlessly off his tongue. “I knew there was something about you! I just did not know what it was! Is that why you do what you do? But your father, he probably would not like to know that you are around Afghan boys, especially boys that. . boys like. .”
Roksana rescued him from having to say it.
“My father doesn’t know where I spend my time. He wouldn’t like it, but not exactly for the reasons that you think. It is more complicated than that. I don’t tell anyone because I know that it will cause problems. I want to help, but you can imagine how difficult it would be for me if those boys knew that my father is Afghan.”
Saleem understood this perfectly. As long as Roksana was Greek, she would be held only to Greek standards. The men in Attiki would not judge her clothing or her behaviors by Afghan standards. But if they knew she was Afghan, they may not be so forgiving. Or they might pursue her. She would have men approaching her for all the wrong reasons. Just imagining it made Saleem want to keep her away from Attiki.
“You are right. I will say nothing.”
“Thank you. Let’s eat something and then we should leave.”
Saleem followed her to the kitchen where she had warmed up a flaky spinach pie, roasted chicken, and something green and leafy. Saleem ate until he thought his belly might burst. Roksana laughed to see him lean back and groan in discomfort.