He found a dimly lit children’s park. He walked past the swings and the slide and the sandbox. He walked over to the carousel, a disk painted in primary colors. Saleem pushed the metal rail of the carousel and gave it a spin. It wobbled with a slow, hair-raising squeak. Night transformed playgrounds into ghost towns, empty of the redeeming sound of children laughing and giving chase.
Saleem lived in those voids. He lived in the uninhabited spaces of night, the places where bright, cheerful faces would not be. He lived in the corners that went unnoticed, among the things people swept out the back door.
With his knees tucked in, he slept the night behind the carousel and woke just as the sun came up. Horns were honking and the city was stirring to life again. Saleem made his way to the sidewalk. Today, he would plan.
Women with grocery bags and small children walked by. The shops looked familiar. The language sounded foreign. Things were different but the same. Saleem stayed alert for uniforms. With England as his destination, he needed to find the best route to get there. He’d managed to get by on buses in Turkey and thought he could try for the same here. He worked up the nerve to approach an elderly woman, her back hunched with age. He asked in a mesh of Greek and English for the bus station. The woman looked annoyed and waved him off, tapping down the road with her cane. Saleem continued down the block, his hands in his pockets.
He spotted a gray-haired man sitting alone outside a café. He had just folded his newspaper and was tucking it under his arm when Saleem approached and did his best to articulate his question again.
The man nodded, his face mostly covered by the wide brim of his hat. His voice had a soft rasp, weathered by the years.
“Dov’e’ la stazione? Si, si.”
With a series of hand gestures, the man pointed to a main road and a turn to the left. He repeated himself, speaking slowly and patiently until he was certain Saleem had a general sense of the direction he was to take.
Saleem put his hand over his chest and lowered his head in thanks, feeling much like Padar-jan in this gesture.
Street signs were not helpful. Saleem came to an intersection and wondered if this was where he was supposed to turn to the left. He walked for a few more moments and saw a wide structure, its entire fa?ade a series of arched entryways and ornate windows. Two buses turned in to the road that curled around the building. Seeing a police officer sipping coffee up ahead, Saleem made a subtle, panic-stricken shift and veered off a side street. Two blocks later, he returned to the main road and, with the police officer well behind him, headed straight for the station.
Inside, the station was a bustling metropolis of its own. Saleem dodged travelers and meandered through until he found a wall of maps. There were four large posters of various scales on the wall. Saleem looked at the local bus routes and moved on. Next was a map of Italy.
But where am I now?
Somewhere close to water. Somewhere close to Greece. His eyes zeroed in on the red dot on Italy’s eastern shore.
Okay, so I am here. How will I get to England?
Saleem turned around to make sure he hadn’t attracted any attention. Back to the map. To get to England, passing France would be the most direct route. But how to do it?
Saleem considered his journey thus far.
One step at a time. Major cities are easier to hide in. Don’t get trapped in small towns.
Roma. Northwest from where he stood, it was the city labeled in the largest letters, and it looked like a series of paths led there and out. From Roma, he would have to make his way north to cross France and then the English Channel.
Saleem felt for the rope at his waist, his money pouch. Within it, he had tucked away the slip of paper with the address Roksana had found for him. A destination. That was all he had. No phone number, no map, no pictures. Just an address.
Saleem cautiously walked over to the row of desks with clerks sitting behind plexiglass windows. He stepped in front of an older woman who barely looked up. Saleem didn’t understand a bit of what she said.
“Please? Bus ticket for Roma?” he asked, praying the woman spoke English.
“Roma?” she asked, looking up from her computer. She peered over the top of her lenses.