THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SALEEM HEADED OUT WITH A CONFIDENCE spurred by the previous day’s success. The hotel owner had agreed to let the family stay on through the week at a lower rate in exchange for Madar-jan helping out with cleaning and kitchen work. Samira stayed in the room and watched over Aziz while Madar-jan did chores downstairs.
Saleem had directions for Attiki Square, which was much closer than the Bangladeshi man had implied. He wound his way through streets and shops. Today was quieter than yesterday but it was early yet.
He approached a kiosk. The woman inside the booth was busy stocking shelves with packages of cigarettes. Saleem looked at the newspapers, thumbing the first pages as if any of it was decipherable.
Bottles of soda sat next to the rack of newspapers. With no one else on the cobblestoned street, Saleem slipped a bottle into his knapsack, his eyes on the woman’s back. When she turned, he picked up a package of chewing gum and placed it on the counter. He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and she took what was due. He nodded in thanks, slung his bag over his shoulder, and continued on down the sidewalk.
Once he had made a few turns, he took the soda out and took a big gulp. The sweet syrup fizzed on his tongue. It did not taste as good as he thought it would, nor did he feel the thrill he’d felt the day before. He drank it as quickly as he could, eager to be rid of it.
Saleem walked under clear skies, admiring the tall buildings around him, scrollings and curls carved into their fa?ades and a rainbow of rooftop colors. This city was vibrant and nothing like the monochromatic Mashhad or even Intikal. Bare-legged women laughed, flirted, and smiled in the streets. Some had painted eyelids or lips and looked like the women Saleem and the boys had ogled in the magazines of Intikal’s newsstands. Here they were, close enough to talk to. Young men and young women walked together unabashedly. Saleem found himself staring outright. Few people noticed. Some quickened their step to put distance between them. Most were too wrapped up in their own conversations.
Farther down the road, Saleem saw three men, probably in their early twenties, leaning against a sculpture and chatting amicably. They had dark eyes and thick brows with thin features. Refugees were much like their clothing—tired, frayed versions of their former selves. Saleem had learned to spot them from a distance.
“Hello,” Saleem called out hesitantly. He was certain they were Afghan.
The men looked over, brows raised in curiosity. They were equally trained in recognizing people on the run. They waited to hear from him.
“You’re Afghans, aren’t you?” he asked.
The three men broke into wide grins.
“What gave us away, huh? Our empty stomachs or our shamelessly handsome faces?” Belly laughs. Saleem felt himself relax. He had a good feeling about these guys.
“It is nice to be able to speak to a fellow countryman. I feel as if my tongue has been tied for months,” Saleem admitted.
“Really? Well, release the beast, my friend. Set your tongue free!”
“We have not seen you around,” said one of the men, the shortest of the group. “My name is Abdullah. Where have you come from?”
“From Turkey.”
“Oh, good for you! You survived those waters! We heard a few people weren’t so lucky last week. They drowned on their way here. God must have saved you,” Abdullah said.
“Lucky you, for sure. I nearly drowned when I came over,” his friend added. This man was taller, with a round face and scant mustache. “The one I came on . . .”
His friends groaned good-naturedly. They prepared themselves to hear his story again.