Most of the people in the group were older. They smoked cigarettes and squinted under the bright, morning sun. There were about thirty people in all. The women kept to themselves and formed a loose mass off to the side. Some wore colorful triangles of cloth as head scarves, tied primly under the chin, with modest long-sleeved shirts and calf-length skirts. Taken together, they were an eclectic bunch, with a mosaic of patterns that dizzied the eye.
Saleem wanted to approach the women but refrained. If he wanted to be treated as a man, he would have to act like one. He took a deep breath and sat on the curb beside a man who looked to be in his forties. Saleem rubbed his palms on his thighs, trying to think of how to strike up a conversation. The man cleared his throat roughly and spat a thick, yellow glob onto the sidewalk. A slammed door would have been more inviting.
Saleem’s stomach turned. He stood and looked at his watch, touched its face, and ran his fingers over the worn leather band. Toward the back of the crowd stood three men in their late thirties, chatting casually. Saleem took a chance. He walked over, but just as he neared, they stopped speaking.
“Hello. You are working on farm?” he asked, his voice crossing an octave. Saleem felt his face warm with embarrassment.
The men watched him inquisitively. One nodded, a man dressed in a lime green shirt and loose navy slacks, who looked to be the eldest of the three. Saleem was surprised to hear him speak in Pashto.
“Are you Afghan?”
The Waziri family spoke Dari, but Saleem was able to recognize and understand basic conversation in Pashto as well. He nodded emphatically.
“Yes, yes I am!” he affirmed in Dari.
“You have come to work?” one of them asked in amusement.
“Yes, we’ve been here only a few days.” Saleem combined Dari with Pashto. The men seemed to understand.
“So you are traveling with people?”
“Yes, with my family. My mother, my sister, and my brother.” One of the men took out a half-smoked cigarette and relit it. His brows perked at the family inventory.
“Where did you come from?”
“From Kabul. We went to Herat and then to Iran. From Iran we came to Turkey, but we are trying to get to England.” Saleem was relieved to have found Afghans, as if he’d come upon a street sign confirming his route.
“England, huh?” They all chuckled. “With a mother, and two more kids? Hard enough to travel alone. If you’re smart, you’ll stay here and find a way to make money without getting arrested. That’s all you can hope for.”
Saleem did not appreciate their pessimism. He decided to shift the conversation.
“How do you find work at the farms?”
“You’ll see, and you’ll wish you never asked. Trucks come and take you to farms bigger than you’ve ever seen. You go to the farmhouses and see which farmer will pay for a day’s work. They’ll offer you pay that will stink worse than the animal dung you’ll clean.”
“How much will they pay?”
“Does it matter? You’re not in any position to negotiate. If you can get something to eat from them, do it. It’s the next best thing to money.”
The man with the cigarette finally spoke. He’d been wanting to ask something.
“Where is the rest of your family now? Are they here?”
“Yes, we’re staying with a Turkish family—a husband and wife. They’ve given us a small room, but I don’t know for how long.”
“And you have a brother and a sister?”
“Yes, and my mother.”
“My friend, what is your dear sister’s name?” he said with a wink.
Saleem clenched his teeth. “Thanks for the information,” he muttered. He gave a nod to the man in green and ignored the other two. Saleem walked away and fumed at the way his own people would treat him, as if he was incapable of defending his family’s honor. He cursed his stupidity for being so loose lipped with strangers.
Saleem turned the corner and found himself staring through the window of a ceramics store, the glass so smudged it felt as if he were gazing into a different time. Inside, a man in his forties swept the floor slowly.
Everywhere he turned, Saleem saw his father.