Saleem scaled the fence and crept closer and closer to the trucks. He was behind some cargo containers when he heard a truck pull up, brake, and release a thick plume of black smoke skyward. The burly driver, his forearms thick with hair, got out and rolled open the back door. Saleem crouched to the ground and watched intently.
The series of events that followed occurred in a matter of seconds, one privately cataclysmic moment. The driver’s cell phone rang, a high-pitched chime. He answered it with a lighthearted greeting, the pleasant conversation relaxing his step and leading him away. Saleem was no more than eight feet from the platform. He watched the driver, the phone to his ear and a can of soda to his lips, saunter around toward the truck’s cab.
Saleem did not stop to think. If he had, he never would have made it out of Patras. He pushed the truck door open wide enough to slip his slim frame through.
He was inside. It was dark, and he was tightly jammed against what felt like stacks of crates. He guided himself with his hands, waiting for his eyes to acclimate. No commotion outside. Not yet, anyway. Saleem slipped between two towers of crates and ducked low, pushing the crates in front of him to make a wall. Motionless and tense, he waited.
A trickle of sweat slid down his back.
He did not think about his mother or Samira or Aziz in these moments. If it occurred to him just how badly he wanted to be with them again, to have their arms around his neck and their eyes brighten at the sight of him, his nerves would have gotten the best of him. He focused on taking small, silent breaths.
The driver’s voice neared. He was back at the truck’s door, still on the phone. Saleem put his chin to his chest and crouched as low as he could.
The door opened wider. Light poured in and Saleem held his breath. The driver opened one of the crates, rifled through its contents, and then slapped it closed again. Glass bottles jangled against each other. The driver laughed, his fortuitously cheerful conversation continuing. The door came down hard and locked shut with a steely click.
Pitch-black.
He was alone.
He breathed.
CHAPTER 45
Fereiba
I LEFT AFGHANISTAN WITH THREE CHILDREN CLINGING TO ME. Right now, I hold my daughter’s hand. Samira and I cannot bear to look at each other, nor can we bear to let go. There is a cup of black tea on the table in front of me, along with some magazines and a box of tissues. The tea has gone from hot to cold without me taking a sip. The dog-eared magazines have pictures of smiling people who look nothing like me and know nothing of my life. That leaves only the box of tissues. One tissue has half freed itself from the box and dangles toward me as an offering.
But I refuse.
The walls are painted a light blue, the color of a burqa left out in the sun. I wonder if I’ll ever see this color and think of birds’ eggs or light-washed waters. For now, it still takes me back, and not forward.
Samira’s hands are warm. The sweater she’s wearing is one Najiba’s daughter has outgrown. My daughter looks like a new girl in it. Her face has already started to fill in. What a difference it makes to see her bangs drawn back with a new tortoiseshell barrette that her aunt brought for her. It is a luxury to think about hair and clothes. I remember the clothing I used to wear in my first years with Mahmood. Now, I think of just how unimportant clothes are . . . and yet how life changing they can be.
Truths can be wholly contradictory, the blackest black and the whitest white all at once.
It’s now been two hours. The faces around us have been kind and unjudging. Their words slow and patient. The nurses smiled at Samira and she smiled back. It made it easier for me to see my youngest child led away. He watched me as he was rolled away, his fingers writhing, pulling at my heartstrings. The nurse put a hand on my arm and squeezed gently, saying wordlessly that she, too, was a mother and they would take good care of my son.