When the Moon Is Low (43 page)
Paris. Gate four. Ten minutes.
Saleem ran. He was in front of gate seventeen now. He dodged in and out of passengers and rolling luggage. He prayed no one would stop him.
THE TRAIN PULLED TO A STOP IN PARIS IN THE MORNING HOURS
. Saleem had made it into France, but before he could continue on in his journey he needed to deliver this package to the right hands. He hoped it would be easy to find this man.
Up and down the tracks, his eyes were dually focused on spotting uniforms as well as anyone who resembled the Albanians he’d met in Rome.
A hand grabbed at his arm. Saleem tried to jerk away, but the grip was tight. He turned around, and with one look, he knew his contact had found him.
He had yellowed teeth and dark, piercing eyes. The man wore a black polyester jacket over a gunmetal T-shirt with slanted graffiti print across the chest. His jeans were acid washed and slim.
“You are the boy. You come from Rome.”
Saleem nodded. Same rules probably applied here, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Good. You bring something for me?”
He released his hold on Saleem’s arm. Saleem slid the backpack off his shoulder and started to unzip it.
“Not here! Idiot! Come.”
Saleem allowed himself to be led through the crowd, the overhead announcement system mumbling instructions to passengers scurrying in crisscrossing paths. They walked over to a bench near a bank of storage lockers. They sat side by side, as if they were waiting for a friend to arrive on the next train.
“Open the bag.” Saleem had the backpack on his lap. He unzipped it slowly and pulled out the ridiculous-looking stuffed bear. He handed it over.
The man squeezed roughly, feeling for its contents. He looked at the bear’s neck and legs to make sure no one had tampered with the seams. Satisfied, he took the backpack from Saleem’s lap and sifted through it.
“Where is the passport?”
Saleem reached into his back pocket and pulled out the booklet. The man took it, flipped it open to the identification page with Saleem’s picture. He threw the bag back onto Saleem’s lap. “You are finished. You can go.”
“But, the passport . . . please . . .” he began nervously.
“What?” he snapped. He was already up and ready to make a quick escape from the train station.
“I need the passport to go to England.”
“Passport?” His accent was as thick and heavy as that of his friends in Rome. A haughty laugh gave Saleem his answer. “You want to pay for passport?”
“I do not have money. But I need it to go to my family,” he pleaded. How could he negotiate with this man? The passport was in this man’s pocket now, so close that Saleem felt the urge to grab it.
“Eight hundred euro,” he said with a snide smile. “For eight hundred euro. Cheap price for you.”
Saleem’s depleted money pouch did not hold eight hundred euro.
It did hold another purchase he’d made in Athens, but he was not willing to part with that.
“Please, mister, I have little money. Eight hundred is too much. Something smaller?”
“How much you have?”
Dare he admit how much was in his pouch? That small booklet with his picture and a false name could help carry him to London, to his family. It was worth everything he had, Saleem decided.
“One hundred fifty euro.”
“One hundred fifty?” the man scoffed. “You are crazy!”
The passport was gone. He had already turned and taken a few steps when Saleem called out once more.
“Mister, please, tell me how I go to London?” The man considered Saleem for a moment, then huffed and took a step in his direction.
“London?”
Saleem nodded.
“Go to Calais. All you people go to Calais. From Calais there is tunnel.” He chuckled, a hint that he was sending Saleem on a path with little hope for success. “Maybe you be lucky.”
WITH THE HELP OF A KIND-FACED ELDERLY WOMAN, SALEEM LOCATED
Calais on a map. The city, perched on France’s northwest shore, sat directly across from England. A narrow channel of water ran between the two countries. He’d purchased a ticket immediately, having no desire to see any more of Paris and eager to continue on. By morning, uneventfully, he was in Calais.
Saleem wandered through Calais for hours, blending into its mixed crowds. He left the train station behind and explored the streets, eager to find his way to the port. On the way, he passed massive buildings with thick, tall pillars and balconied windows. Even the smaller buildings had ornate windows, chubby-faced figures draped beside the frames.
Familiar in Calais was the smell of seawater. Saleem followed the salted mist all the way to the port. The piers brought Saleem comfort, as he’d gotten to know the basic rhythm and culture that came from the slow moans of ship horns and the traffic of passengers and trucks.
This particular port was beautiful. Fingers of coastline jutted into
the waters of the English Channel. Vertical sailboat masts intersected the horizontal expanse of water and sky. Farther along, giant ships were docked, preparing, like Saleem, for the next voyage.
Saleem left the street and walked through a gravel strip to get near the ships. He noticed two dark-haired men sauntering around in the distance—the thin, defeated refugee sulk.
I probably look the same. I just don’t want to admit it to myself.
His instincts were right. They were Afghans, happy to welcome him to the camp. Already, Saleem was beginning to feel at ease. He walked with them to find the refugee camp known in Calais as “the Jungle.”
The Jungle was Patras, transplanted. It was a wasteland within walking distance of the coast. From its limits, one could make out England, and its prehistoric-looking sheer, white cliffs.
The refugees of the Jungle languished, their eyes fixed on the horizon and the promise of a better life. The Jungle was not a place to take root.
Surrounded by tall trees and bordered by metal fences, the camp was an open-air enclosure. Saleem entered via a dirt path guarded by three men. Though he was apprehensive, he noted that the other men were not. One of them, Ajmal, saw his curiosity and explained, with the satisfaction of one with wisdom to share.
“They won’t disturb you. They’re here only to watch for crime. We come and go as we please. But things are different at the port or at the tunnel. There, the officers are looking for us, and they won’t hesitate to grab you by the neck if they catch you.”
“The tunnel?” Saleem had set his eyes on the port but Ajmal spoke of a tunnel, the same tunnel that the man in Paris had mentioned.
“Yes, the tunnel. Oh, you are so new here!” He laughed. “The tunnel goes from here to England. It’s about fifty kilometers. Many people have passed through it, sometimes on trucks or in the trunks of cars or just walking. But there are lots of police. I know one man, he walked through the tunnel twice, and both times he was caught just
coming out of the other side! Can you imagine his bad luck? Twice!” The other man laughed with him.
Saleem could see the Jungle now. A colony of makeshift houses with sheets of metal as roofs and blue tarps for walls stood ahead, surrounded by a moat of refuse. The stench hit him as they drew close. Hundreds upon hundreds of Afghans lived here, along with some Iraqis and Iranians, Saleem was told. Aid workers came once a day to distribute a simple meal. Some of the men had constructed firepits though it was rare to be so fortunate to have anything to cook. It was worse than Patras.
The other man left, leaving Ajmal to introduce Saleem to the squalid conditions. Toilets, scattered here and there for the men to use, overflowed with human waste, and clouds of flies swarmed overhead. There were painted signs here and there in English.
WE WANT FREEDOM
NO LIFE IN THE JUNGLE
RESPECT FOR HUMANS
“The French government wants to close this camp, but most of the people here are seeking asylum. We are hoping they will not send us back. You have any family in England?”
“My aunt’s family. And my mother, sister, and brother are there now too. I mean, I hope they are.”
“You hope?”
“We were separated on our way from Greece to London.”
“Your mother went alone with two children?”
“Yes, but they had documents,” Saleem explained. “I’m hoping they didn’t get caught along the way.”
“So you came as the rest of us did.” Ajmal nodded in understanding. “Be thankful your family had papers. It’s an ugly road to get here and definitely no way for a mother to travel with her children. God save our mothers.”
Saleem let Ajmal’s last words linger before he spoke.
“Do you have anyone in England?”
“Yes, my sister lives there with her husband and their children. And a few cousins too. I’ve been here five months. I came through Iran and Turkey, but then I was caught in Greece and sent to a detention center. They told me they would send me back to Iran and that I had to leave in thirty days, but no way was I going back. After what I’d paid to get that far! But now I’m stuck here with all the others.”
“Have you tried to get across?” Saleem asked the obvious question.
“The port is surrounded by high metal fences. You saw today, didn’t you? The tunnel is the best way to go, but I’ve been caught twice. It’s not easy.”
Saleem understood. He had noticed the layers of fencing at the port. It was more heavily sectioned off than the other ports through which he had passed. He had to take the experience of Ajmal and the others into account. Only fifty kilometers of tunnel lay between him and England. Saleem smiled at the thought of being that close, finally.
“You can stay with me tonight. There are five of us living together, but we will make room for you. Tomorrow we can look to see who has more space. We all share here. That’s how we live. Welcome to the Jungle, my friend!” Ajmal’s outstretched arms facetiously presented the camp to Saleem in all its glory. Saleem laughed. He took his backpack and followed Ajmal to his hut.
Saleem was hungry, but there was nothing to eat, and he was too exhausted to look very far. Ajmal’s roommates were young and good-natured, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty-one. Ajmal fell somewhere in the middle, the link between adolescence and adulthood. They shifted and shuffled themselves to make space for Saleem, giving him a battered piece of cardboard to rest on. He was able to get a good night’s rest, lulled by the chorus of their snores.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE CAMP BUZZED WITH NEWS FROM THE
outside.
“They’re going to raze the camp. That’s what they are saying. They’re going to take everyone.”
“What can we do?”
“We should move. We should leave this camp before they come in and send us all back to Afghanistan.”
“Are you crazy? Where will we go?”
“We can all go through the tunnel. If we all go at once, they won’t be able to catch everyone. Our chances will be better. We should do it tonight, the night of the holiday. There will probably be fewer guards there.”
“As if one person does not draw enough attention! You think all of us should walk together into the police’s arms?”
The debate went on for two hours. Just as the city of Patras had grown weary of its blight, Calais had tired of the Jungle. As Saleem listened to the sounds of their banter, his eyes were drawn to the sidelines. A white-bearded man sat on an overturned bucket. He watched the mass as they debated, observing without participating. Strange, Saleem thought, as it was rare for a man of his age to make the journey out of Afghanistan. Unless they found a legitimate way out of the country, people like him were destined to be buried in Afghanistan’s blood-soaked earth.
The man looked oddly familiar, though Saleem could not place him. He stared, waiting for his mind to make the connection. He met Saleem’s gaze and tilted his head to the side. Saleem looked away for a second, but his eyes drifted back again and he offered a tight-lipped smile in return.
Does he know me? Or did he just catch me staring at him?
Saleem kept his head bowed, and when he looked up again, the old man had vanished.
Several of the men went to explore a new part of town. The Jungle might close down, but that did not mean the displaced would be offered any alternative place to set up shelter. Some said the police were
waiting for the right moment to storm in and sweep up the refugees. Saleem could not have arrived at a worse time.
They ate boiled rice with tomatoes. It didn’t taste like much, but it was warm going down.
IN THE EARLY EVENING, TWO OF AJMAL’S ROOMMATES DECIDED
to leave the Jungle and set up camp elsewhere. They believed those who said the Jungle’s days were numbered. They packed their rusted frying pans, their mugs, and their spare clothes into plastic bags and headed off. Ajmal was disappointed to see them go but offered their space to Saleem, who gratefully accepted.
The following morning, Saleem walked to the fly-infested latrines. The camp was quiet. It was just after sunrise and only a handful of men were awake. As he came around a cluster of tents, Saleem nearly walked straight into the old man he’d seen yesterday. The man smiled.
“Sohb-bakhair, bachem.”
“Good morning to you, too. Pardon me—I hadn’t seen you standing here.”
“The elderly become invisible sooner than we would hope,” he said, smiling.
“God forbid. It was my oversight,” Saleem said meekly. The man had to be in his seventies, at least, with thin, olive skin and a full white beard and mustache. The corners of his eyes crinkled under heavy, snowy brows. He wore a long beige tunic and pantaloons of a slightly darker shade.
“You have come recently,” he said. “What is your name and where are you from?”
“My name is Saleem Waziri. My family lived in Kabul.”
“Everyone here says they are from Kabul. But I can hear in your accent that you were raised there. Walk with me. I want to know more about you.”
Saleem followed, mesmerized by the soft rasp of the man’s voice. They strolled away from Ajmal’s hut and toward the far end of the camp, the side from which England’s chalky cliffs could be seen.