ROKSANA. HE NEEDED TO FIND HER. SHE WAS THE ONLY PERSON who could tell him where his family might be and what may have happened to his passport. But he didn’t want to face her looking the way he did. He hadn’t had a proper bath in a week. His hair was matted to his head and his clothes were dusty and tattered. The construction sites and the docks had not been easy on him. Saleem used the morning to find a public restroom. He washed as best he could and changed into a fresh pair of clothes.
He took the metro into Athens. It was a weekday and there was a chance that Roksana would drop by Attiki after school. Saleem had no other way of contacting her.
Back at Attiki Square, he told Jamal and Abdullah about being sent back to Turkey and being separated from his family. They shook their heads in disappointment, but not surprise. When he was last here, he’d felt different from these men. He’d felt above them. All that was gone. Alone, he was one of them now. He saw himself in their faces now, in their ragged clothes and in the plastic bags that held all their worldly possessions.
He slept in Attiki that night, but remembering that he would be within yards of the infamous Saboor, he stuffed his cash into his underwear and wound the strap of his backpack around his wrist. After the many lonely days and nights in Izmir, it felt good to be around people he knew and to hear the boys teasing and joking with one another.
IT WAS HIS SECOND DAY BACK. SALEEM WANTED TO SEARCH FOR food but was afraid he would miss Roksana. He sat with his back against a tree and listened to Abdullah tell stories of his childhood—spitting watermelon seeds into the stream behind his home, scaring his younger cousins with stories of djinns. Abdullah painted a picture of an Afghanistan no one would ever leave. He was only reliving the good but Saleem knew better. They all did.
And then she came. Saleem leaped to his feet at the sight of the familiar purple shirts. Abdullah burst out laughing and slapped his calves.
“Ah, the real reason you’ve come back! You think she’ll take you in and give you asylum, eh?”
“Abdullah, don’t say that. It’s nothing like that.”
Saleem was nervous. Four figures approached and Saleem held his breath. He spied Roksana, carrying a large box. Saleem walked over, when he wanted to run. He did not want to bring any more attention to Roksana for both their sakes.
He called her name softly.
Roksana’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Saleem?”
She put the box down on a bench and put a hand on his arm.
“Saleem, where have you been? What happened to you?” She looked him over. He had lost weight in the last week alone. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Saleem said, conscious of her touch. His body tensed and she pulled back. Roksana’s edge had softened. He resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her.
“Tell me,” Roksana said as she sat on a cement step. She looked up at Saleem and he took a seat beside her. His questions came first.
“Roksana—my mother. Where did she go? Did they take the train?”
They’d left the day after Saleem had spoken with his mother. Roksana had gone to the train station and recognized them, though she’d never seen them and though Saleem was not there. She’d guessed, she’d said, by the look on their faces. They looked like they were missing something . . . someone. She didn’t tell him much about his mother, hiding how Madar-jan had really looked behind simple words. Roksana had helped them get onto the train to Patras, though she didn’t know anything about their journey after that. They’d left over a month ago.
“You have not heard from them?” Roksana asked.
“No. I hope they’re in England with my aunt.” He sighed.
“Can you call your aunt?”
Saleem did not have her phone number. There hadn’t been enough time or levelheaded thinking in their brief conversation for Saleem to ask his mother for the number. He had no way of contacting them, nor did he have a way of finding his family once he got to London.