Saleem understood. He had noticed the layers of fencing at the port. It was more heavily sectioned off than the other ports through which he had passed. He had to take the experience of Ajmal and the others into account. Only fifty kilometers of tunnel lay between him and England. Saleem smiled at the thought of being that close, finally.
“You can stay with me tonight. There are five of us living together, but we will make room for you. Tomorrow we can look to see who has more space. We all share here. That’s how we live. Welcome to the Jungle, my friend!” Ajmal’s outstretched arms facetiously presented the camp to Saleem in all its glory. Saleem laughed. He took his backpack and followed Ajmal to his hut.
Saleem was hungry, but there was nothing to eat, and he was too exhausted to look very far. Ajmal’s roommates were young and good-natured, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty-one. Ajmal fell somewhere in the middle, the link between adolescence and adulthood. They shifted and shuffled themselves to make space for Saleem, giving him a battered piece of cardboard to rest on. He was able to get a good night’s rest, lulled by the chorus of their snores.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE CAMP BUZZED WITH NEWS FROM THE outside.
“They’re going to raze the camp. That’s what they are saying. They’re going to take everyone.”
“What can we do?”
“We should move. We should leave this camp before they come in and send us all back to Afghanistan.”
“Are you crazy? Where will we go?”
“We can all go through the tunnel. If we all go at once, they won’t be able to catch everyone. Our chances will be better. We should do it tonight, the night of the holiday. There will probably be fewer guards there.”
“As if one person does not draw enough attention! You think all of us should walk together into the police’s arms?”
The debate went on for two hours. Just as the city of Patras had grown weary of its blight, Calais had tired of the Jungle. As Saleem listened to the sounds of their banter, his eyes were drawn to the sidelines. A white-bearded man sat on an overturned bucket. He watched the mass as they debated, observing without participating. Strange, Saleem thought, as it was rare for a man of his age to make the journey out of Afghanistan. Unless they found a legitimate way out of the country, people like him were destined to be buried in Afghanistan’s blood-soaked earth.
The man looked oddly familiar, though Saleem could not place him. He stared, waiting for his mind to make the connection. He met Saleem’s gaze and tilted his head to the side. Saleem looked away for a second, but his eyes drifted back again and he offered a tight-lipped smile in return.
Does he know me? Or did he just catch me staring at him?
Saleem kept his head bowed, and when he looked up again, the old man had vanished.
Several of the men went to explore a new part of town. The Jungle might close down, but that did not mean the displaced would be offered any alternative place to set up shelter. Some said the police were waiting for the right moment to storm in and sweep up the refugees. Saleem could not have arrived at a worse time.
They ate boiled rice with tomatoes. It didn’t taste like much, but it was warm going down.
IN THE EARLY EVENING, TWO OF AJMAL’S ROOMMATES DECIDED to leave the Jungle and set up camp elsewhere. They believed those who said the Jungle’s days were numbered. They packed their rusted frying pans, their mugs, and their spare clothes into plastic bags and headed off. Ajmal was disappointed to see them go but offered their space to Saleem, who gratefully accepted.
The following morning, Saleem walked to the fly-infested latrines. The camp was quiet. It was just after sunrise and only a handful of men were awake. As he came around a cluster of tents, Saleem nearly walked straight into the old man he’d seen yesterday. The man smiled.
“Sohb-bakhair, bachem.”
“Good morning to you, too. Pardon me—I hadn’t seen you standing here.”