Roksana shook her head, sighed, and smiled coyly.
“Ela, Saleem, my father . . . my father did not work in Afghanistan.” She spoke in a hushed tease.
“But then why—”
“He lived there. He was born there. My father is Afghan.”
Saleem’s jaw dropped. He looked at Roksana through narrowed eyes, as if seeing her for the first time. If Roksana’s father was Afghan, then Roksana was . . .
“Half Afghan and half Greek,” Roksana explained, with a hand on her chest. “My mother is Greek. My father came here as a young man to study medicine but ended up doing something different. He married my mother and has lived here ever since. I learned to speak some Dari from him. Not very much but enough that I can have a conversation.”
Saleem clapped his hands and broke into a grin.
“You are Afghan!” he cried in Dari, the words sliding effortlessly off his tongue. “I knew there was something about you! I just did not know what it was! Is that why you do what you do? But your father, he probably would not like to know that you are around Afghan boys, especially boys that . . . boys like . . .”
Roksana rescued him from having to say it.
“My father doesn’t know where I spend my time. He wouldn’t like it, but not exactly for the reasons that you think. It is more complicated than that. I don’t tell anyone because I know that it will cause problems. I want to help, but you can imagine how difficult it would be for me if those boys knew that my father is Afghan.”
Saleem understood this perfectly. As long as Roksana was Greek, she would be held only to Greek standards. The men in Attiki would not judge her clothing or her behaviors by Afghan standards. But if they knew she was Afghan, they may not be so forgiving. Or they might pursue her. She would have men approaching her for all the wrong reasons. Just imagining it made Saleem want to keep her away from Attiki.
“You are right. I will say nothing.”
“Thank you. Let’s eat something and then we should leave.”
Saleem followed her to the kitchen where she had warmed up a flaky spinach pie, roasted chicken, and something green and leafy. Saleem ate until he thought his belly might burst. Roksana laughed to see him lean back and groan in discomfort.
“How was it? Looks like you enjoyed it.”
“Oh yes, I like it very much! I had food for three days.” Saleem laughed, patting his flat stomach.
“Good. Now let me clean up and we can go. You can wait in the other room if you want,” she offered.
“No, I want to . . . I will stay with you. I can help,” he offered sheepishly. Roksana’s eyes brightened, and together they cleared away all evidence of their clandestine lunch. Roksana grabbed her sweater and they headed out the door.
“Today we will go to the Acropolis. Have you ever been there?”
“Acro—what did you say?”
“Acropolis,” she said slowly. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”
For this one day, Saleem was a tourist, one infatuated with his personal guide. They wandered through the bustling streets of Athens and its differently flavored neighborhoods and landed at the foot of the steps that led to the Acropolis, ancient ruins atop a hill with a majestic view of Athens. Saleem had seen the structures from a distance but had never ventured close. Today, Roksana told him about the temple dedicated to Athena, how it had changed hands many times over the course of history and was controlled by the Ottomans at one point. She showed him the amphitheater and explained how this was once a center for the community.
Saleem was fascinated. They sat down to rest along a low wall that formed a perimeter for the buildings. He kicked at a stone sullenly.
“What are you thinking, Saleem?”
“Hmm? Oh. I was thinking these buildings—they are so old, so many years. But they look better than the newest buildings in Kabul.”
What he wanted to say was that two thousand years of peace could be undone in a month of war. Roksana understood.