He had lost his place. He strained his ears to hear his neighbor’s whisper over Ali’s sniffles.
My father did not get even this much of a funeral. God alone knows how his body was treated. Not a soul to wash him, pray over him, carry him to a resting place and bury him with a bit of ceremony. I should have carried him. I would have done these things for him if I’d known. I should have looked for his body. I’ll never pray over his grave.
Saleem could not focus. His mind ran off in desperate directions, thinking about the war, his father, his family, and how long he could live with his feet flailing in the air. At some point, he would come crashing down.
Ali began to wail. He called out Naeem’s name and covered his face with his hands. He spoke in sobs. The sound of him made Saleem’s whole body tense. He shifted his weight and tried to block Ali’s voice, tried to hear himself pray.
Hakeem and his cousin stepped out of the line of men and took Ali by the elbows. They quietly led him away so the jenaaza prayers could continue without distraction. His voice faded as they walked off. Saleem understood this now. Sometimes the storm in a person’s mind raged too strongly.
They carried Naeem’s body as one. All the men wanted to help shoulder his weight. Akbar noticed Saleem standing back and called him to join in.
“It is our duty to carry our brother, bachem. Come and take part.”
Bachem, Saleem heard. My son. His shoulders relaxed. He had not been called bachem in months. His soul must have been hungry for it.
“There is sawaab in these deeds.”
Saleem stepped forward. Maybe the blessings of a good deed would be useful to him. He did as Akbar said. Naeem’s body was hoisted up by two rows of men. Saleem squeezed in and reached up with his right hand. He was touching Naeem’s knee. His hand trembled, and he focused his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him.
Don’t think. Just follow.
But it was hard not to think. Saleem felt suffocated as the men jammed together to carry the body. Saleem’s chest grew tight, as if the men had squeezed all the air from the small space. One breath. One breath separated him from Naeem.
Others stepped in to take their turns. Saleem was eager to let them take his place. He stood at the edge of the crowd. Akbar looked over and gave him an approving nod.
They lowered Naeem’s body into the trench they’d dug out with hands, scraps of metal, and a sense of brotherhood. There was no coffin, just two pieces of cardboard. It was the best they could do and the best any of them could hope for should they end up in Naeem’s place, a makeshift grave to mark the end of a makeshift life.
CHAPTER 44
Saleem
THOUGH IT TOOK LONGER THAN HE CARED TO ADMIT, SALEEM worked up the nerve to go back to the port. The others were equally apprehensive to try again. They’d learned, through the paramedics and aid workers in Patras, that no one at the port knew what had happened to Naeem. Some said the boy had walked away from the accident, and others claimed he’d been carried off by friends. It had not prompted many questions.
Saleem was demoralized but had no choice. He loitered about and watched the trucks and passengers from a distance. When he closed his eyes, he saw Naeem’s face. He was tempted to return to the camp but with only three hundred euros, Saleem needed to accept the risk if he was ever going to make it to Italy and have hope for the rest of his passage.
He watched and studied and tried to understand the schedule and pattern of the ferries and trucks. Opportunities could come at any time, he reminded himself. He kept his eyes open and replayed what he’d done in Izmir. It was possible.
When the opportunity came, it was a moment as ordinary as any other.