When the Moon Is Low (28 page)
Saleem recognized defeat.
“Afghanistan.”
“Ahh, Afghanistan. How did you come here?”
“I came from Turkey.”
“Boat?”
Saleem shook his head. “Airplane.”
“Without passport?”
“I have passport but my friend . . . he take it.”
“How long are you here?”
“One week,” Saleem lied insecurely. As best as he could figure, the longer the time he had illegally been in Greece, the angrier this man would become.
“You want to stay in Greece?”
Saleem shook his head.
“Where do you want to go?”
“I want to go England.”
“England.” He chewed on Saleem’s answer before asking his next question.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” Saleem said.
“Fifteen?” Officer G doubted this as much as his other answers.
“Yes.”
Thinking of the darkness they’d left behind in Kabul, Saleem convinced himself even the most stone-hearted officer would take pity on a lone adolescent. Officer G stepped out of the room and returned with a can of orange-flavored soda, the sort that universally appealed to children. He popped the tab and slid it across the table, then lit himself a cigarette.
“Your situation is bad,” he said simply. Saleem watched his face. There was no arguing that fact. “And if you do not tell us the truth, it will only get worse for you.”
Away from his family, Saleem had nothing to lose. Exhausted and desperate, Saleem heard a softening in the officer’s voice, the tone of a father chastising his son. He took a long sip from the orange can. The warm fizz tingled in his mouth and coated his throat with a reassuring sweetness. He felt his shoulders untense like the freshly popped soda can with its quiet hiss.
“I will tell you now,” Saleem said limply. “I will tell you my story.”
The officer leaned back in his chair, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and nodded as Saleem returned to the night that was blacker than sin.
“STAY HERE. DOCTOR COME NOW.” SALEEM WATCHED BLANKLY AS
Officer G exited the room. A doctor? His mind felt fogged from his sleepless night. It was difficult to focus.
An hour later, a man in a collared shirt and slacks entered the room. He had a white doctor’s coat slung over his arm and a tawny leather bag in his hand. He was heavyset, the buttons of his shirt looking ready to give way. His face was round with jowls that sagged despondently. He looked like a Russian cartoon character Saleem had once seen on a black market video.
The doctor muttered something as he entered the room. He dropped his bag and white coat on the table. From the leather case, he pulled out a stethoscope, a small penlight, and a pair of latex gloves. He sat in the chair that Officer G had occupied and motioned for Saleem to come over to him. Saleem slowly rose and walked over.
The doctor gave him a general once-over and then stood to begin his inspection. He shined his light into Saleem’s bloodshot eyes and dry mouth. He motioned for Saleem to remove his shirt. Saleem could
smell his own staleness as he lifted his arms. The doctor didn’t seem fazed. He brought his stethoscope to Saleem’s chest and listened while he stared blankly at the ground. He peered closely at Saleem’s underarms before slumping back into the chair. He tapped Saleem’s waistband.
“Take this off,” he said simply. Saleem felt blood rush to his face.
“No!” he blurted. He took a few steps back, putting the table between him and the doctor.
The doctor let out a tired sigh.
“Take off. I must check,” he said. He checked his watch and looked at Saleem expectantly. Saleem crossed his arms, his skin prickled with anger. The doctor waited a moment, his fingers tapping on the table. Quickly, his face grew serious and his eyes zeroed in on Saleem.
“Take . . . OFF.”
In his voice was the clear message that there would be no way out of this. Saleem felt incredibly alone and small. He took a few deep breaths before doing as instructed, his fingers fumbling nervously with the button and zipper before he slowly brought his pants down to his ankles. His briefs hung loosely on his hips. Saleem stared at the ceiling.
“Take off.” The doctor touched the waistband of his underwear as he snapped the gloves over his thick hands. Saleem felt a heat rush over him. What was this doctor looking for?
Saleem’s breath was a slow and bitter exhalation, an effort to expel his humiliation in a whistle of air. He pulled his briefs down to his knees. The doctor adjusted his lenses and peered interestedly at the area between Saleem’s legs. From his bag, he pulled out a paper tape measure and used it to assess whether Saleem’s body had a different answer to the age question.
Saleem hadn’t been naked in front of anyone since he was a small child. Part of him wanted to drive his fist through the doctor’s curious glasses while another part of him wanted to curl up into a ball and wail. The exam concluded before Saleem could act.
“Okay, finished.” He motioned for Saleem to pull up his underpants and jeans, as he jotted something into a notepad that fit in his palm. “Any health problems?” he asked as Saleem hurried to pull up his briefs and jeans.
“No. No problems.”
“How old?” The question resurfaced. It dawned on Saleem this was the reason for the doctor’s visit, explaining his focus between Saleem’s thighs, the part of him that had changed most in the last few years.
“Fifteen,” Saleem answered meekly.
“Hmph.” The doctor paused briefly to look at Saleem’s face and scribbled a few more notes. He packed up his tools, retrieved his white coat, and exited the room without any further conversation.
Alone, Saleem began to pace the room, his anger fanned by exhaustion. He let out a short yell that bounced from wall to wall. He yelled again—longer and louder.
Saleem put his palms and forehead against the wall. It felt cold and real, realer than the rest of his situation. He brought his right palm against the wall a second time, harder.
Again and again, harder and harder, Saleem slapped his palm against the cold wall as the past twenty-four hours spun through his head: the policeman grabbing his elbow as he exited the pawnshop, the cigarette smoke blown in his face, the doctor examining his genitals with more attention than the customs officer had paid to their travel documents, his mother frantic in the hotel or searching the streets, Samira frightened and silent, his father watching and shaking his head in disappointment, Aziz’s tiny chest heaving with discomfort. They exploded above him like a shower of rockets, raining down on his head and shoulders when there was nowhere to run and nothing that could be done.
Saleem was pounding the wall with two hands now, enraged and crying. He didn’t notice the door open behind him.
“Hey! Hey!” Saleem felt a hand pull his shoulder. It was Officer
G, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip. “You crazy?”
Saleem turned around and slumped to the floor, weakened by his outburst. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Almost as if the officer and Saleem realized this at the same time, he left the room and returned with a plate. There were a few pieces of chicken kebab and pita bread. He put the plate on the table unceremoniously.
“Eat something.”
Saleem’s breathing slowed. His palms stung, pulsing. He returned to the table in defeat. He took the food and chewed bite after bite, tasting nothing. He stared at the plate, letting his eyes gloss over and his muscles relax. The officer watched Saleem, a specimen in a jar. Captivating to his captors.
Saleem ate without looking up or saying a word. Maybe if his belly stopped growling, he could come up with a way to get out of this mess. Maybe he could figure a way to get back to his mother.
TWO TURKISH POLICE OFFICERS STARED DOWN AT SALEEM AND
the other refugees. Herded onto a boat like cattle, Saleem and a dozen similarly thwarted migrants had been returned to Izmir. The Turkish officials were not pleased to have to reclaim these refugees but those were the rules. Refugees were to be returned to the first country they entered and the burden was on that country to deal with them. It was a cause of persistent resentment between the Turks and the Greeks. The handoff had been terse.
Saleem watched the Greek officers smirk as they handed over a stack of papers and unloaded their cargo onto Turkish soil. Few words were exchanged between the two sides but their sentiments were clear.
Not our problem anymore,
the expressions on the Greek officers read.
Thanks for nothing,
the sarcastic reply on the faces of their Turkish counterparts.
They took their frustration out on the refugees, grabbing people by the arm and shoving them into a van waiting at the port. Thighs overlapping, shoulders pressed together. One small window in the
back did little to ventilate a van full of refugees who had been languishing in a Greek detainment cell for days, weeks, months.
Every step of the way, Saleem had promised that if released, he would leave Greece immediately. His pleas drowned in the sea of similar pleas authorities had heard before from so many others facing deportation.
Saleem wanted to be the one, the exception to the rule. He wanted to be able to look back at the moment and recall how close he had come to being deported, how close he had come to being separated completely from his family. But everything—the seat beneath him, the smells around him, the people standing over him—told him he was not in the least bit different from any other ragtag passenger in the van.
There were Africans, a few eastern Europeans (Saleem guessed by their appearance and their unfamiliar language), and even a few Turks. There were no other Afghans, which made Saleem feel both more alone and relieved at the same time. He was not in the mood to talk when he felt it would not help.
Where does Madar-
jan
think I am? Could she have found the pawnshop? Maybe they’ve gone to the train station to wait for me there. Maybe they even got on the train, thinking I would show up. They could be anywhere now. Madar-
jan,
how frantic you must be! How will I find you again? What can I do by myself?
Saleem’s mind was a thunderstorm, moments of peace interrupted by electrical flashes of dread and a flood of remorse.
So much for
roshanee.
His fingers toyed with his watch. It had been two days since his arrest.
I wish you would leave the pawnshop for tomorrow. We can stop by on the way to the train station. We could all go together.
If we hide in a room every time we are nervous, we will never make it to England, Madar-
jan.
Saleem’s head hung down. A thousand times the conversation had replayed itself in his mind.
Why did I have to snap at her? Please, God, do not let that be the last time I talk to her.
He thought of his last night with Padar-
jan
. Memories of the things he regretted saying collected like beads on a
tasbeh
.
The drive was long, jostling. It was a relief to be herded off the vehicles and into another grim-appearing building. Here they were led into a large room, and each immigrant tried to find a square of cement floor to claim as his own.
Saleem filed in with the others and slid up against a cinder-block wall. He touched his ankle, hoping no one was watching him. The wad of bills was still there, right where he had left it. He prayed he would not be searched. If they confiscated his money, he would have absolutely nothing.
Hours passed. A latrine in the corner collected their waste. The air burned with the sharp smell of ammonia. Two men sobbed, not bothering to hide their faces. Dignity had been lost long ago.
Saleem closed his eyes. One or two at a time, the refugees were taken out of the holding room and led into an interview room. Some people came back and others did not. Saleem was not sure which to hope for. When a guard pointed at Saleem, he stood and followed him down the hall. He was instructed to take a seat at a small table. The police officer in front of him looked from Saleem to the document on the table.
Keep your answers the same. Remember what you told them in Greece.
The questions started. Saleem was now familiar with the process.
Where did you come from? Why did you leave Turkey? What were you doing in Greece? Who was traveling with you? How old are you? The truth—what is your age?
I am from Afghanistan. I do not want to be refugee in Turkey or Greece. I am alone. I am fifteen.
For the most part he was able to respond to their questions in Turkish, the rest he filled in with English. This seemed to entertain the officer.
Fifteen? Hmph.
The same suspicious sneer.
Why did you leave your country?
Saleem decided to be forthright with them, selectively.
I want to go to England. My country, there are Taliban. They are dangerous. We had no money, no school, no work. They are killing people.
Were they thinking of sending him back? He could not go back. He would not survive there on his own.
Are you a soldier?
Soldier? No! I was a student. My father was engineer. They took my father and . . . they kill him.
Saleem’s heart broke to say the words. They looked dubious. He’d been herded and poked at like livestock and still they wanted more.
You do not want to be in Turkey?
Saleem shook his head.
But you speak some Turkish.
Saleem nodded, unsure if this would help or hurt him.
Do you know anyone here in Turkey? Did you live here?
These questions were trickier. Saleem told the officer he had met some boys, but he did not know where they were. He had lived in a small town and worked on a farm but he did not remember where that town was. He did not want to go back there, he assured the police.
