She led him back to a dimly lit, one-room apartment in a building not far from where she’d found him. A simple sheet covered a twin-size mattress on a metal bed frame. A lamp sat on a wooden chair, and two other chairs were up against the opposite wall. The walls, painted what was surely once an inspiring red, had cracked with time. The galley kitchen was a few feet away, divided from the main room by a half wall. The appliances looked rusted and unused. The door to the bathroom was half open, and Saleem could see a chipped porcelain sink and a narrow shower stall with blackened grout.
The apartment was in miserable condition and if Saleem had seen it before he’d left Kabul, he would have turned up his nose at it. But his perspective had changed. As Padar-jan often said, in the valley of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
Saleem’s more pressing concern was whether it was a good idea for him to be here. Mimi looked over and read his thoughts.
“He will not come. Burim has new girl. He stay with her and come back in morning. The first night is very, very bad.” Mimi sat on the bed, and Saleem pulled a chair to sit across from her. He took the flattened sandwich from his pocket, unwrapped it, and offered her half. She took it from him with a soft thanks.
“You live here?” he asked.
She did. Her skimpy dresses and mesh shirts hung limply in the closet, looking as tired as she did. Mimi filled a glass of water from the kitchen tap, took a sip, and passed it to him.
The lamp did not provide much light, and the one window faced another building, not allowing for much street light to come in. Saleem sat forward in his chair. His knee grazed Mimi’s.
“I am sorry, Mimi. Burim hurt you too. You ask me to leave but I . . . I am sorry.”
Mimi stared at the floor.
“Is okay. Forget it. He not change. He tell me I go free if I make money. I make money for ticket to Albania and I can go home. But now seven months and nothing. Other girls, they work two, three years. Nobody make enough money to be free. This is my life now. If you are here, if you are not here . . . it is same.”
She looked up. Like the raindrops he’d watched on the car window, two tears slid down Mimi’s makeup-covered cheeks.
“But you . . . you can go from here. Your family is wait for you and when they see you they will be happy.” Her eyes widened as she pictured open arms welcoming Saleem. She wiped away her tears and smiled weakly.
Saleem wanted to offer her the same encouragement. He wanted to give her the same kindness. He faltered, then reached out and put a hand on her knee.
“You are strong, Mimi. You’ll find a way. Something good come for you too. People help me to come here. You help me. God give the same help for you. Somebody will help you.” Saleem heard the hollowness of his words.
“There is no one to help me. He take my money. I know he never let me go. He control everything.”
Saleem felt his body tighten. Mimi, in all her frailty, still found a way to share. He could be more than what he was. Empty pockets did not mean an empty soul.
“He does not control me,” Saleem said. “Help me find Burim, Mimi.”
She covered his hand with her own and looked at him. She wanted to believe him, to believe every word of what he was saying even if only for a moment. She touched Saleem’s cheek. His stomach dropped to feel her cool, thin fingers on his face. She touched his other cheek and his eyes closed. He imagined Mimi of long ago, a young girl who smiled and laughed with her sisters. He pictured a girl unsullied. He pictured the girl she’d been before the world had crushed her.
Mimi took his hands. Saleem sat on the bed beside her. He let his fingers intertwine with hers before sliding up her arms. He found her shoulders, the milky skin of her neck. Her hands pulled his face to hers, her breath teasing his cheeks. She brought her mouth to his.