But that was a different time, a different Saleem. This Saleem longed for a school with classmates, with friends. He longed for a normal life. More painful than Kabul, the normal life was now touchably close and yet unreachable. The longing brought him here, to the shaded, grassy field of the schoolyard. He passed the school every day on his way to the truck stop. It was a constant reminder of how things could have been different.
Saleem had arrived at the farm earlier in the day and let Polat know he would need to leave early. He mumbled a half-truth about his brother. The farm owner had grumbled, and Saleem knew to expect a cut in his wages. But Polat had few options for labor, and Saleem knew he would be welcomed back tomorrow.
If he couldn’t live a normal life, he would watch it. He wanted just a few hours with his feet cooled by the grass. He wanted an afternoon just for himself, away from the backbreaking work.
SALEEM TRIED TO PICTURE AZIZ’S HEART. HE COULD FEEL HIS own beating, pounding sometimes, in his chest. Saleem had seen an animal heart once. He had gone with his father to the butcher shop for chicken, a rare treat to mark the Eid holiday and the culmination of a long month of fasting. Their household budget had tightened when Padar-jan’s wages became inconsistent.
Saleem had watched as the butcher wiped his bloodied hands on a cloth and came over to speak with his father. They exchanged pleasantries before Padar-jan asked to see what chickens the butcher had. The butcher raised an eyebrow, and Saleem, the young son, felt his chest swell with pride. The Waziris were not the average customers asking for the cheapest cut of meat. They were here for the best.
While his father and the butcher haggled over the price, Saleem looked to see what the butcher had laid out on display. A skinned lamb was strung up on a hook. Chunks of meat and shiny organs were lined up in short rows. They fascinated and nauseated Saleem. He remembered tugging on his father’s sleeve.
“Padar-jan, what are those?” he had whispered, not wanting to draw the butcher’s attention but unable to stifle his curiosity.
“Those are chicken hearts.”
Padar-jan and the butcher chuckled to see Saleem with one hand to his chest, trying to feel his own heart beating, his eyes glued to the apricot-sized hearts on the block.
THE SCHOOL DOORS OPENED AND THE STUDENTS SQUEEZED out in a boisterous flood. Saleem envied their schoolbags, their notebooks, their lack of responsibility.
Boys his age headed onto the field, a group of about eight or nine. Saleem looked down at his watch as they neared. He did not want to be caught gawking. The watch hands had stopped turning last night. Saleem tried winding it again though he did not expect it to help. It was an engineer’s watch, an uninterpretable dial within the dial. Padar-jan probably would have been able to repair it. Saleem kept it on, hoping it would spring back to life spontaneously.
One of the boys on the field, the lankiest in the group, pulled a soccer ball out of a satchel. Saleem felt his feet fidget for the feel of the leather. He couldn’t bring himself to get up and walk away.
They probably won’t even notice me, he reasoned. He turned so that he was only half facing the boys who had begun to pass the ball around, their feet tapping as they crisscrossed the field. Their voices rang out, undoubtedly shouting obnoxious comments to one another in Turkish slang that Saleem did not understand.
They came together in a loose huddle for a moment, two boys shooting glances in Saleem’s direction. Feeling like a trespasser, Saleem brought himself to standing, brushing his backside. He was about to walk away when he heard a yell in his direction. He turned reluctantly. The lanky ringleader repeated himself loudly. Saleem did not know how to respond and simply shrugged his shoulders.
“No Turkish.”
“No Turkish?” The boy laughed and switched into English. “You like to play football or you like to sleep in grass?”
Saleem felt a rush. He followed the boy over to the others who had already broken into two teams. One team was short a player.
“You play with them,” the lanky boy declared. He paused and looked Saleem up and down. “You have a name?”
Saleem paused, wanting to be sure he was not being mocked.
“Saleem,” he finally answered, taking his watch off and placing it in his pocket.