Saleem entered the old building. It was an uninviting warren of decay — cigarette butts scattered through the hallways, broken handrails on the stairs, and a flickering wall lamp. Radios and televisions buzzed behind closed doors, but there was not a person in sight.
He checked the apartment number, took a deep breath, and knocked. He took a nervous step back and waited. There was a click, and the eyehole cover slid open. After a moment, the door opened slightly, and a man stood before Saleem with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He wore an unbuttoned black shirt over jeans, his silver belt buckle a proud emblem on his waist. Somewhere in his late thirties, he looked the teenage Saleem over and concluded that he was unimpressed.
Saleem swallowed before speaking.
“I look for work, please.”
“Who are you?”
“I want to go to France. I can work.”
The man sucked on the cigarette he held with two fingers, then tossed it into the hallway. He squinted at Saleem as he exhaled.
“Who send you?”
“Mimi,” Saleem said quietly. She’d told him to use her name, afraid he would not get far without it.
“Mimi, eh?”
“Yes.” Saleem heeded her advice and kept his answers brief. The door opened a little wider and, with a nod, Saleem was invited in.
The apartment was larger than Mimi’s but much filthier. There were clothes everywhere, crumpled food wrappers, and a coffee table topped with plates of food and several mobile phones. The television blared. Saleem reminded himself not to stare. The door closed behind them.
“Where are you from?”
“Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan?” he said, thick eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Why you want work?”
“My family is in London. I want to go there.”
Saleem had second thoughts, his pulse racing. He had just caught a glimpse of a handgun tucked in between the cushions of the sofa. He stayed focused on the man before him.
“You have papers?”
“No papers.”
“You know Mimi?”
“Yes.”
“Every man knows Mimi.” He chuckled, his mood lightening. He pinched Saleem’s bicep between his thumb and forefinger and mumbled something to himself. His hands slid down, patting Saleem’s trunk and then around his waist. He paused when he felt the hard sheath of the knife. He looked at Saleem.
“It is a knife,” Saleem explained. He dared not move. He kept his arms extended. The man untwisted the sheath from the rope around Saleem’s waist. He hadn’t noticed the small pouch that bulged from Saleem’s underwear. The pouch was safe for now.
The man pulled the blade from the casing and whistled, impressed.
“Very nice. A gift for me, yes?”
Saleem opened his mouth to protest but caught himself.
“Yes,” he said.
The man smirked. He tossed the blade onto the sofa.
“This is problem,” he said coolly. “You want to go to London and you have no papers. You have money?”
Saleem shook his head.
“No money.” He grinned snidely. “And Mimi tell you come here.”
“Yes. I want to help you.”
“Oh, you want to help me?” he said facetiously, bowing his head in mock gratitude. Saleem shrank before him.
“You not help me. You work for me.”
Saleem nodded.
A second man emerged from the next room, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his inked forearms. He looked at Saleem curiously and said something to his roommate before taking a seat on the sofa.
“So you want to work for me, Mister Af-ghan-i-stan?” he asked, drawing out the syllables dramatically.
“Yes.”
“What do you think, Visar?” He turned to the man on the couch.
Visar shrugged his bulky shoulders. He noticed the knife on the sofa, picked it up, and turned it over, admiring the casing just as Saleem had when he first found it.
“You like, Visar? Gift from the boy.”
He motioned for Saleem to sit at the kitchen table. Saleem did so and waited. The man reached into a cabinet and tossed a square box onto the table.
“Open.”
Saleem peeled off the tape and opened the box. Inside was a large stuffed bear, a children’s toy about the size of a newborn. He turned it over, confused.
“You take this to France. I give you papers and train ticket from Rome to Paris. You talk to no one until you leave. In Paris, a man wait for you. You give him this. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Now look here.” He pointed to a small round lens sitting on the table and reached over for his laptop computer. Saleem stared at the ball, not sure what he was looking for or at. The man pressed a few buttons, grunted, and turned the lens away from Saleem.
“Train leave eight o’clock tonight from Termini. Change train in Milan and then go Paris. You have bags?”
Saleem shook his head. He had nothing.
The man stood and went into a hallway closet, dug out an empty backpack, and threw in three shirts, a pair of pants, and a magazine from the mess strewn about the apartment.
“Take. You must carry bag like tourist. Put inside,” he instructed, taking the bear from Saleem and stuffing it in. “You leave here now. Come back two hours for papers and the bag. Do not be late.”
Saleem took the bag.
“I said go now.”
Saleem obeyed. He made note of the time so he would know when to return — not wanting to be late or early. He walked outside and into the bright but chilly afternoon. Mimi was not on the bench as she’d promised. He walked around the block, peering down alleys and into the small Laundromat on the corner. She was gone.
Had she planned it? Saleem had to wonder. So much had happened between them in the last two days. She’d been distant since last night, silent about what had transpired. She seemed neither shocked nor distraught, a melancholy calm to her voice.
At least she has the money, he thought. When they had finally stopped running, Mimi had pulled the bills and gold chain from her bag. She counted out four hundred twenty euros. She looked at Saleem.
Take it, he had said. He took enough from you.
She looked him straight in the eye, as if to gauge his sincerity. When Saleem did not waver, she stuffed the money into the pocket of her bag and kept a protective hand over it. There was no family waiting on her return. There was no one to smile as she walked into a room. Where would she go? Saleem shook his head knowing, by now, that freedom and four hundred euros wouldn’t save her.
AS PROMISED, HE WENT BACK TO THE APARTMENT AT SEVEN thirty. Visar didn’t bother to invite him in. He handed Saleem a manila envelope and the backpack.
“Hey, boy! Your train leaves in thirty minutes. Do not be late.”
“Okay,” Saleem promised.
Visar was about to close the door when he grabbed Saleem by the nape of his neck, his fingers digging into Saleem’s flesh.
“If you not in Paris when the man wait for you, he find you and he kill you. You understand this?” His tone was icy.
Saleem swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded.
He was released.
Saleem made it two blocks down the street before realizing he was walking in the wrong direction. He checked his watch. He had twenty minutes to get on that train. He opened the envelope and pulled out an authentic-looking Greek passport with his picture and a false name. Saleem stuffed it back into the envelope quickly and looked to make sure no one was watching. Inside the envelope was also a train ticket. Saleem was on the move again, with no time to waste.
SALEEM ENTERED THE STATION WITH A NEW DREAD. TAKING INVENTORY, he had some valid-appearing papers to show any inquiring officer, a handful of clothes, and a toy stuffed with undoubtedly illegal contents. If he were stopped and searched, the bear would surely draw suspicion.