“Yes, well, people are very good at destroying things, good things.”
“Things look really bad in Kabul. Everyone is leaving. Even in Kabul, Afghans are living like refugees.” He looked at Roksana quickly and then turned his eyes back to the ground. “That’s all people will see when they look at Afghans.”
“Saleem,” she said gently. “I don’t see a refugee when I look at you. I see someone who should be in my class, sharing books and playing sports, sitting in cafés. I see you.”
Her fingers touched his hand and squeezed briefly before letting go.
“Does your father miss Afghanistan? He is away from home so long. I do not know. Maybe I go back one day. Sometimes I miss my home.”
“No, my father doesn’t miss it. He loves his country, but he says Afghanistan is like a woman too beautiful for her own good. She will never be safe, even from her own people. He left the country when life was still normal, but he is different, I think. After the wars, he said it was not the same country. He listens to the news and talks to his family there, but it only makes him more upset.”
“But to live for so long in a different country . . . no one here speaks Dari, the food is different, there is no masjid to go for praying—”
“Masjid? My father is not a man of religion. He believes that people have destroyed religion and religion has destroyed people. He says he believes in God, but he doesn’t believe in people.”
Maybe he was right, but Saleem had never before heard an Afghan who did not consider himself a Muslim.
Saleem asked her how she’d learned to speak Dari.
“From my father. And my grandmother. She lived with us for a few years before she died. My father loves the language, the poetry. It’s the rest that breaks his heart. I think he is happy here in Greece but sometimes . . . sometimes I find him reading his books or looking at old photographs. I think there is a piece of Afghanistan still in his heart and it makes him sad.”
She stood up and dusted off the seat of her jeans. She felt uncomfortable discussing her father’s thoughts with Saleem. “It is late,” she said, changing the subject. “I should go home.”
Saleem had dreaded this, the moment when she would leave him.
“Roksana, thank you . . . for everything. Today was a nice day.” He stood up and slung his knapsack over his shoulder.
“You are welcome.” They headed back down the steps, trying not to lose each other amid the hordes of guided tours each speaking a different language. At the foot of the hill, Roksana turned quickly.
“Oh, one more thing . . . I almost forgot! Good news for you,” she said as she reached into her bag for a scrap of paper. “I think I found your uncle’s address in London!”
Saleem’s eyes widened.
“I found his name on the Internet. I think this is the address. I could not find the telephone number, but at least when you get there, you will know where to go.”
Saleem took the scrap of paper and stared incredulously at the numbers and street name scribbled on it. He felt infinitely closer to reuniting with his family. Roksana had given him a real destination.
“Roksana, you helped me. You helped my mother. I really . . . thank you.”
Saleem looked close to tears. Roksana shifted her weight and looked away, uncomfortable.
“I’ll see you around.” She gave his arm a light squeeze. “Be careful, Saleem.”
SALEEM RETURNED TO THE SQUARE EXHAUSTED FROM HIS DAY AS A tourist. Abdullah had teased him when he returned. Despite having put on the same worn clothing, Saleem did look much refreshed from his shower.
“Well, well, well, is this Saleem or some movie star? Is it your wedding day? How did you manage to get your hair so clean?” He ruffled Saleem’s hair for good measure. Saleem ducked and grinned.
“I found a bottle of shampoo. Took it to one of the public rest-rooms and stuck my head in the sink. You should have seen the way people looked at me,” he fibbed.