“Where is the passport?”
Saleem reached into his back pocket and pulled out the booklet. The man took it, flipped it open to the identification page with Saleem’s picture. He threw the bag back onto Saleem’s lap. “You are finished. You can go.”
“But, the passport . . . please . . .” he began nervously.
“What?” he snapped. He was already up and ready to make a quick escape from the train station.
“I need the passport to go to England.”
“Passport?” His accent was as thick and heavy as that of his friends in Rome. A haughty laugh gave Saleem his answer. “You want to pay for passport?”
“I do not have money. But I need it to go to my family,” he pleaded. How could he negotiate with this man? The passport was in this man’s pocket now, so close that Saleem felt the urge to grab it.
“Eight hundred euro,” he said with a snide smile. “For eight hundred euro. Cheap price for you.”
Saleem’s depleted money pouch did not hold eight hundred euro. It did hold another purchase he’d made in Athens, but he was not willing to part with that.
“Please, mister, I have little money. Eight hundred is too much. Something smaller?”
“How much you have?”
Dare he admit how much was in his pouch? That small booklet with his picture and a false name could help carry him to London, to his family. It was worth everything he had, Saleem decided.
“One hundred fifty euro.”
“One hundred fifty?” the man scoffed. “You are crazy!”
The passport was gone. He had already turned and taken a few steps when Saleem called out once more.
“Mister, please, tell me how I go to London?” The man considered Saleem for a moment, then huffed and took a step in his direction.
“London?”
Saleem nodded.
“Go to Calais. All you people go to Calais. From Calais there is tunnel.” He chuckled, a hint that he was sending Saleem on a path with little hope for success. “Maybe you be lucky.”
CHAPTER 53
Saleem
WITH THE HELP OF A KIND-FACED ELDERLY WOMAN, SALEEM LOCATED Calais on a map. The city, perched on France’s northwest shore, sat directly across from England. A narrow channel of water ran between the two countries. He’d purchased a ticket immediately, having no desire to see any more of Paris and eager to continue on. By morning, uneventfully, he was in Calais.
Saleem wandered through Calais for hours, blending into its mixed crowds. He left the train station behind and explored the streets, eager to find his way to the port. On the way, he passed massive buildings with thick, tall pillars and balconied windows. Even the smaller buildings had ornate windows, chubby-faced figures draped beside the frames.
Familiar in Calais was the smell of seawater. Saleem followed the salted mist all the way to the port. The piers brought Saleem comfort, as he’d gotten to know the basic rhythm and culture that came from the slow moans of ship horns and the traffic of passengers and trucks.
This particular port was beautiful. Fingers of coastline jutted into the waters of the English Channel. Vertical sailboat masts intersected the horizontal expanse of water and sky. Farther along, giant ships were docked, preparing, like Saleem, for the next voyage.
Saleem left the street and walked through a gravel strip to get near the ships. He noticed two dark-haired men sauntering around in the distance—the thin, defeated refugee sulk.
I probably look the same. I just don’t want to admit it to myself.
His instincts were right. They were Afghans, happy to welcome him to the camp. Already, Saleem was beginning to feel at ease. He walked with them to find the refugee camp known in Calais as “the Jungle.”
The Jungle was Patras, transplanted. It was a wasteland within walking distance of the coast. From its limits, one could make out England, and its prehistoric-looking sheer, white cliffs.