Others stepped in to take their turns. Saleem was eager to let them take his place. He stood at the edge of the crowd. Akbar looked over and gave him an approving nod.
They lowered Naeem’s body into the trench they’d dug out with hands, scraps of metal, and a sense of brotherhood. There was no coffin, just two pieces of cardboard. It was the best they could do and the best any of them could hope for should they end up in Naeem’s place, a makeshift grave to mark the end of a makeshift life.
CHAPTER 44. Saleem
THOUGH IT TOOK LONGER THAN HE CARED TO ADMIT, SALEEM worked up the nerve to go back to the port. The others were equally apprehensive to try again. They’d learned, through the paramedics and aid workers in Patras, that no one at the port knew what had happened to Naeem. Some said the boy had walked away from the accident, and others claimed he’d been carried off by friends. It had not prompted many questions.
Saleem was demoralized but had no choice. He loitered about and watched the trucks and passengers from a distance. When he closed his eyes, he saw Naeem’s face. He was tempted to return to the camp but with only three hundred euros, Saleem needed to accept the risk if he was ever going to make it to Italy and have hope for the rest of his passage.
He watched and studied and tried to understand the schedule and pattern of the ferries and trucks. Opportunities could come at any time, he reminded himself. He kept his eyes open and replayed what he’d done in Izmir. It was possible.
When the opportunity came, it was a moment as ordinary as any other.
Saleem scaled the fence and crept closer and closer to the trucks. He was behind some cargo containers when he heard a truck pull up, brake, and release a thick plume of black smoke skyward. The burly driver, his forearms thick with hair, got out and rolled open the back door. Saleem crouched to the ground and watched intently.
The series of events that followed occurred in a matter of seconds, one privately cataclysmic moment. The driver’s cell phone rang, a high-pitched chime. He answered it with a lighthearted greeting, the pleasant conversation relaxing his step and leading him away. Saleem was no more than eight feet from the platform. He watched the driver, the phone to his ear and a can of soda to his lips, saunter around toward the truck’s cab.
Saleem did not stop to think. If he had, he never would have made it out of Patras. He pushed the truck door open wide enough to slip his slim frame through.
He was inside. It was dark, and he was tightly jammed against what felt like stacks of crates. He guided himself with his hands, waiting for his eyes to acclimate. No commotion outside. Not yet, anyway. Saleem slipped between two towers of crates and ducked low, pushing the crates in front of him to make a wall. Motionless and tense, he waited.
A trickle of sweat slid down his back.
He did not think about his mother or Samira or Aziz in these moments. If it occurred to him just how badly he wanted to be with them again, to have their arms around his neck and their eyes brighten at the sight of him, his nerves would have gotten the best of him. He focused on taking small, silent breaths.
The driver’s voice neared. He was back at the truck’s door, still on the phone. Saleem put his chin to his chest and crouched as low as he could.
The door opened wider. Light poured in and Saleem held his breath. The driver opened one of the crates, rifled through its contents, and then slapped it closed again. Glass bottles jangled against each other. The driver laughed, his fortuitously cheerful conversation continuing. The door came down hard and locked shut with a steely click.
Pitch-black.
He was alone.
He breathed.
CHAPTER 45. Fereiba
I LEFT AFGHANISTAN WITH THREE CHILDREN CLINGING TO ME. Right now, I hold my daughter’s hand. Samira and I cannot bear to look at each other, nor can we bear to let go. There is a cup of black tea on the table in front of me, along with some magazines and a box of tissues. The tea has gone from hot to cold without me taking a sip. The dog-eared magazines have pictures of smiling people who look nothing like me and know nothing of my life. That leaves only the box of tissues. One tissue has half freed itself from the box and dangles toward me as an offering.
But I refuse.
The walls are painted a light blue, the color of a burqa left out in the sun. I wonder if I’ll ever see this color and think of birds’ eggs or light-washed waters. For now, it still takes me back, and not forward.
Samira’s hands are warm. The sweater she’s wearing is one Najiba’s daughter has outgrown. My daughter looks like a new girl in it. Her face has already started to fill in. What a difference it makes to see her bangs drawn back with a new tortoiseshell barrette that her aunt brought for her. It is a luxury to think about hair and clothes. I remember the clothing I used to wear in my first years with Mahmood. Now, I think of just how unimportant clothes are. . and yet how life changing they can be.
Truths can be wholly contradictory, the blackest black and the whitest white all at once.
It’s now been two hours. The faces around us have been kind and unjudging. Their words slow and patient. The nurses smiled at Samira and she smiled back. It made it easier for me to see my youngest child led away. He watched me as he was rolled away, his fingers writhing, pulling at my heartstrings. The nurse put a hand on my arm and squeezed gently, saying wordlessly that she, too, was a mother and they would take good care of my son.
If they can mend his heart, there is hope for me.
In the few weeks since our arrival, much has happened. The hardest part was the first step — approaching the customs officer with nothing but the bare truth of why we were there, a white flag begging for mercy. The customs officer scowled and huffed and led us away as others watched, thankful not to be in our shoes and craning their necks to hear what was being said. We were a curiosity. I kept my eyes on the officer, unable to meet the onlookers’ stares.
We spent hours in one room before being shuttled off to another. At some point, they brought in an Iranian man. He translated my words into English, dryly and mechanically. Not once did he smile or offer a word other than what he was asked to say. He was not there to be our friend or advocate and made certain that point would not be misunderstood.
The process had begun. We were sent to a shelter, a building with small rooms and shared bathrooms. There were other refugees there, all in the same process. People of all different colors and tongues. Unable to communicate, we eyed one another with cautious distrust, as if we were vying against one another for a single opportunity, as if there could be only one winner among us. We wondered who had the most compelling story. Who among us was most worthy of this country’s sympathy? It was a disturbing, silent rivalry.
We were interviewed again. I gave every detail. I told them about my husband and the work he did and the enemies he’d somehow made. I told them of the night the men came to our home and took him away. Samira stared at the floor and listened. We’d not spoken of that night since it happened. The interpreter relayed our story to a woman who made notes, nodded her head, and moved on to the next page of questions. I told them about Saleem and how he disappeared along the way. I told them so they would have a record of my son for when he appears. They confirmed names and dates of birth and names of family members and addresses and all kinds of details. I was asked again and again for the same information, so many times that I thought I might trip over my answers, even though they were truths.