“I can mail the passport to you. I can send it to Hayal-jan’s house.” Madar-jan’s voice was laden with guilt. “But, Saleem-jan, what about money? Did the police take everything from you?”
“No, I have the money from the pawnshop. If you can send me the passport, then I can take the same route and before you know it, I’ll meet you in England.” Part of him wanted Madar-jan to say no, to tell him that she would wait for him in Greece and that they would all go together to England. Surely, she wished for the same but their plan had to take Aziz’s broken heart into consideration.
“Oh, my son. God keep you safe from harm. Saleem-jan, give me their address. I’ll mail the passport. Your friend, Rokshaana, she came to the train station. She saw us. She knew who we were. She’s so kind and she said she’ll come again here later today. She can help me mail this passport to you.”
Madar-jan had met Roksana? Saleem slipped back into the chair and rested his forehead on his hand. His head hanging, he closed his eyes and let gratitude wash over him.
Thank you, Roksana. Thank you.
Hakan tapped on his watch. The calling card would soon run out of time.
“Madar-jan, I don’t have much time left on this card.” He turned to Hakan and asked for their address. He relayed it to Madar-jan as quickly as Hakan could scribble it on a scrap of paper.
“Saleem-jan, bachem, I’ll mail you the train ticket and the passport. Forgive me, we will take the train, maybe tomorrow. Aziz needs to see a doctor. But be very careful, please! Say a prayer with every step and keep your eyes open. Sweetheart, believe me, I wish I didn’t have to—”
The line went dead. Saleem cradled the receiver. As his mother’s voice vanished, Saleem’s journey changed. He was on his own now. Tonight would be the last night that the Waziri family could sleep in relative peace, aware of each other’s whereabouts and well-being. Saleem’s family had met Roksana and she would guide them through the next few steps. Fereiba was comforted knowing Saleem was with Hakan and Hayal. Tonight, if they could just keep their minds off tomorrow, they would all get some rest.
Saleem crawled onto the familiar mattress and fell asleep in seconds.
HE WOKE IN THE MORNING, HIS EYES OPENING TO THE SAME cracking plaster he’d watched for months. He returned to the fault lines, the places where the paint had chipped away and the ceiling peeked through, exposed for what it really was. Saleem ran his fingers through his hair and down his arms. He touched his side and winced when he reached his flank. He expected to feel the same fault lines on his own body, places where the weight of the load had started to break him open and expose him for what he was.
Early morning light drifted through the gauzy, cotton curtains. The fog was lifting. Saleem had slept more than half a day and woke with a renewed clarity.
He would wait for his passport. It could take two weeks for the passport to arrive. That would be two weeks without income. There was only one thing to do. Saleem got up and buttoned his shirt. He would go back to the farm.
MR. POLAT SMIRKED AND SPAT, BUT HE NEEDED THE HELP. HE told Saleem to go into the field and begin his work. The Armenian woman chuckled to see him as if she’d known all along he’d be back. She shook her head and resumed her work, muttering something under her breath that he would not have understood even if she’d yelled it out to the skies.
Saleem understood though.