Saleem thought of his childhood friends from Afghanistan. Had they been allowed to grow up together without rocket-rain, surely they would have been just as jovial and rowdy. But war had a taming effect. Kabul’s children were not children for long.
Roksana was not like this group. She seemed to have absorbed some of the solemnity of her fellow Afghans without ever having stepped foot in the country. Her father’s aloofness had sparked in her an obligation to delve into the struggles of her own people. He admired her for it, doubtful he would have had the same inclination.
Saleem wasn’t sure what he would have been had he had a life like Roksana’s. Two parents, school, a peaceful country. He would not have been this Saleem. This Saleem was the sum of a series of dreadful moments.
He turned the watch on his wrist. A few more scratches on the glass, probably from the night before.
Look what’s happened to us, Padar-jan.
Had Saleem and his family left Kabul earlier, they could have had a better chance. They could have had a peaceful life in London, maybe near Khala Najiba’s family. Saleem and Samira would be in school now, attending classes and struggling with homework assignments, learning a new language. It was an image so perfect, so imaginary that it played like a cartoon in Saleem’s mind.
But Padar-jan had instead chosen to keep his family in Kabul and hope for better days—despite the growing unrest, the killings, the droughts.
Why did you choose this for us? What good came from us being there so long after everyone else left?
SALEEM AWOKE WITH A JOLT. THE TRAIN HAD STOPPED. HE looked around and saw new passengers boarding; others had already disembarked. A man was loading his bag into the overhead area.
“Excuse me—Milan?” Saleem pointed out the window.
“Si,” he answered with a nod.
Saleem grabbed the backpack and bolted out the train door, nearly knocking over an elderly couple. He threw his hands up in a quick gesture of apology. He had only thirty minutes, he had been told, to find the connecting train that would take him to Paris. He hoped the train hadn’t been stopped long. He dug the tickets out of the envelope and again tried to match it up with the information screens that flashed overhead.
Paris. Gate four. Ten minutes.
Saleem ran. He was in front of gate seventeen now. He dodged in and out of passengers and rolling luggage. He prayed no one would stop him.
CHAPTER 52
Saleem
THE TRAIN PULLED TO A STOP IN PARIS IN THE MORNING HOURS. Saleem had made it into France, but before he could continue on in his journey he needed to deliver this package to the right hands. He hoped it would be easy to find this man.
Up and down the tracks, his eyes were dually focused on spotting uniforms as well as anyone who resembled the Albanians he’d met in Rome.
A hand grabbed at his arm. Saleem tried to jerk away, but the grip was tight. He turned around, and with one look, he knew his contact had found him.
He had yellowed teeth and dark, piercing eyes. The man wore a black polyester jacket over a gunmetal T-shirt with slanted graffiti print across the chest. His jeans were acid washed and slim.
“You are the boy. You come from Rome.”
Saleem nodded. Same rules probably applied here, so he kept his mouth shut.
“Good. You bring something for me?”
He released his hold on Saleem’s arm. Saleem slid the backpack off his shoulder and started to unzip it.
“Not here! Idiot! Come.”
Saleem allowed himself to be led through the crowd, the overhead announcement system mumbling instructions to passengers scurrying in crisscrossing paths. They walked over to a bench near a bank of storage lockers. They sat side by side, as if they were waiting for a friend to arrive on the next train.
“Open the bag.” Saleem had the backpack on his lap. He unzipped it slowly and pulled out the ridiculous-looking stuffed bear. He handed it over.
The man squeezed roughly, feeling for its contents. He looked at the bear’s neck and legs to make sure no one had tampered with the seams. Satisfied, he took the backpack from Saleem’s lap and sifted through it.