“Ela, ela!” Saleem had just turned his back to the stand. He froze in place and debated whether to turn or simply run, his mouth as dry as sawdust.
The aproned man barked something in Greek as he pushed the metal tray of doughnut samples in Saleem’s direction.
Is this a test?
The baker gave an eager nod. Saleem positioned himself in front of his knapsack, afraid its bulkiness would give him away.
“Dokimase!” The baker winked. Saleem took a sticky piece of doughnut from the tray and the man nodded in approval, turning his attention to a middle-aged woman and her husband who had smudged the glass display case to point out their order. Saleem picked up the knapsack and walked as evenly as he could to the exit, his weighted bag bouncing against his back with every step.
A breeze chilled the perspiration on the nape of his neck.
Chew, he told himself. The syrup made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed without tasting anything. He moved absently through the winding streets, accusing eyes all around him. He made several turns to put the market and its customers behind him. Within minutes, he’d lost track of his lefts and rights. He was panting and lost.
With his back against a stucco wall, he looked across the street and saw a sign for the metro. The bread vendor’s eager smile toyed with his conscience.
I’m sorry, he thought. He truly was.
But he felt something else too—something he didn’t intend to feel. He lifted his bag and felt its bulk, pounds of success. He would feed his family for a couple days without costing them precious euros. Every bite they ate, everything they did was measured in days of tomato picking or housecleaning.
Something—fate, the universe, God—something owed the Waziri family a break, Saleem rationalized. Abdul Rahim’s hand was on one shoulder. Hakan before him. Padar-jan’s voice rang through his head.
Saleem-jan, my son, reap a noble harvest.
IN THE HOTEL ROOM, SALEEM SPREAD THE BOUNTY ON NEWSPAPERS.
“If your father were with us, he would be so proud,” Madar-jan said, sighing as she broke the bread and cheese into pieces. “God bless you for what you do to keep this family alive. So much food! How much did all this cost?”
Saleem replied with a number so unreasonable, it made him angry that his mother did not question it.
They ate in the silence that filled most of their days. It was easier not to say the things they were thinking. Samira chewed slowly, sesame seeds crunching between her teeth. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear and looked at her brother. Saleem turned away quickly. She had spent enough nights sleeping within arm’s reach of her brother to know when he was hiding something.
“There’s a part of town where all the Afghans live,” he announced. “I’ll go there tomorrow morning and talk to people. Maybe they’ll have something useful to say.”
“A whole Afghan neighborhood so far from home! God bless them . . .”
While she prayed for others, Saleem doubted anyone prayed for them.
“I’ll try to find out how people travel out of Greece and into Europe. Maybe they can tell me how people earn some money here.” He told her about the Bangladeshi man selling dancing stick figures. He told her about the metro and how he’d paid for his ride. He described the market and the streets, the roundabout that reminded him of Kabul. Samira and Aziz listened in. He exaggerated his story, made the buildings taller, the train faster, and the people friendlier. He created a caricature of his day, mostly for Samira’s benefit. It was more interesting, he thought.
As their stomachs filled, their confidence grew. They could make plans for tomorrow and the days after.
“You will have to be persistent and determined. And I believe you will. Inshallah, bachem.” Madar-jan sighed again, chewing the stolen food gratefully. God willing.
CHAPTER 27
Saleem