“Fereiba.”
“Ah, yes, Fereiba-jan,” he said. But to Saleem it sounded like he knew her name all along. “A delightful woman. As I said, I remember when she was a teacher. She made each student and each lesson important. You know, when she was young, the world treated her callously. But she did not let an unjust beginning spoil her. If you ever meet a former student of hers, you will be honored to hear what kind of teacher she was.”
“How did you know her?”
“I guess you could say I was a friend of her grandfather’s. He had a beautiful, bountiful orchard that was the envy of all in Kabul. But as she became a young woman, I saw her less and less. I was pleased to hear of her happy marriage to your father. Their success made me proud. You know, my son, you’re fortunate. I see both your parents in you.”
“Fortunate” was not the word Saleem would have chosen if asked to describe himself. He had felt anything but fortunate in the last year.
“So, my boy, I can see in your face that you’ve traveled a rough road. But how will you get to England?”
“I don’t know exactly, but this tunnel is probably the best route. I’ve been to the port and the fences are too thick. I just don’t see how it’s possible. Nearly everyone’s been caught trying to get across there.”
The old man stood up and stared off into the channel. From here it was easy to see the currents, linear streams of water a shade different from the rest of the ocean, like secret passages within the depths.
“However tall the mountain, my son,” the old man said. “There is a way to the other side.”
CHAPTER 54
Saleem
FOR TWO WEEKS, THE JUNGLE BOYS LINGERED IN THE UNKNOWN, a more tightly wound time than the years they’d passed in covert transit. In those two weeks, the old man seemed to have vanished. Saleem asked Ajmal about him, but his roommate only shrugged his shoulders and said he did not know every one of the hundreds of Afghans in their settlement.
Every day, men in wind jackets and neatly pressed slacks came to the camp. From a distance, they pointed, made notes on clipboards, and snapped photos before they would shake hands with one another and head off in different directions. Something was in the works.
One group of boys had hatched a plan. A holiday was coming up in a few days. Two men had amassed quite a following of about two hundred refugees. The idea was to take advantage of the day. The skeleton crew on duty would be distracted, with conciliatory festive meals and a few libations on the job. No one in the camp knew exactly what the holiday signified, and no one really cared. All that mattered was that while the French guards were observing the holiday, they would be observing little else.
They talked about it every day, churning the theory into a hard plan.
“If we all go through at once, how many could they possibly catch? Maybe a few, but most of us will make it.”
“You see! Even you say a few will get caught.”
“Every day a few try to get through and how many actually succeed? Our chances will be much better. The Jungle is about to disappear. This may be our best chance.”
Saleem debated the idea himself. It was a decent plan, he decided. But to brave the tunnel with hundreds of refugees seemed counterintuitive. All his other passages had been done alone, attracting as little attention as possible.
Saleem listened from afar, wishing for an opinion from someone he could trust, but the voices he most wanted to hear were too distant to be audible.
Make up your mind. Time is running out. This money won’t last much longer.
WITH SUNSET, THE BUZZ BEGAN. PEOPLE FIDGETED, LEGS WERE restless. Saleem and Ajmal watched from a distance.
“They look like they’re going to mess themselves already,” Ajmal said. “They’re crazy to do this.”