Deciding when to embark on the next leg of their journey was a difficult decision. It was a gamble either way.
“We need to find a way to get to England. I think the train would be best, as Hakan had told us. Airports are full of checkpoints. Perhaps if we stay on the ground, our chances at slipping through will be better.”
“I’ll go tomorrow to find the train station and I’ll see if the Afghans know anything about the trains.”
“There’s something else, Saleem. We’ve got to make some hard choices now, and I’ve been thinking about this a lot. We cannot stay here in this room any longer. Even the price they have given us is more than we can afford. Our money is running out faster than I had imagined it would.”
This simple room with its exposed wires and badly cracked plaster, the decrepit sink from which water trickled—all this was a palace to Saleem. When he left Attiki and walked into this space, when he lay on the bed and felt the coils dig into his back, when he looked over at the second bed and saw his mother and sister sleeping two feet off the floor instead of outside, he was a king. This room let him rise in the morning without the hopelessness the boys in Attiki felt. It gave him reason to believe that fate had something more in store for his family than a rickety ship that would capsize in open waters. To give up this room was to give up so much. But to stay—to stay was to choose to bleed slowly and have no strength left to reach the tomorrow they hoped for.
“It will not be easy. We will need a safe place, especially for the nights.” Saleem knew some of the boys in Attiki slept only a few hours a day, afraid to close their eyes after sunset when a new world of dangers emerged.
“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU COULD USE SOME WATER. HERE,” SHE SAID IN what sounded like perfect English. Roksana, a volunteer with the aid group, held out a plastic bottle. Saleem followed the hand up to a slim wrist, a graceful arm. It only got better from there.
She wore a purple T-shirt tucked loosely into a slim pair of jeans. Her dramatically straight, black hair, fell loosely to the side as she tilted her head. She looked about his age, maybe sixteen. Her eyes, rimmed in black pencil, caught his attention with a flutter of lashes. She did not smile nor did she look at him with sympathy.
“Thank you.” Saleem took the bottle from her.
“Of course. What is your name?” she asked. Though she had a face that would inspire an overly romantic Dari love ballad, her tone was all business. She was the kind of girl so striking that she’d hardened her demeanor out of necessity, especially in a place like Attiki.
“Saleem,” he answered. And that’s all you’ll tell her, he reminded himself. But Saleem felt his defenses coming down as he looked into her eyes.
“Okay, Saleem. I haven’t seen you here before. How long have you been here?” He wished her to say his name once more.
“A few weeks . . . but I am not staying here,” he said, suddenly feeling embarrassed that she might think he slept in the park. He took a casual swig of water.
“Oh? Where do you stay then?”
Another swig as his mind raced. Good question, he thought, and turned the conversation around.
“What is your name?” he asked gently. She paused and looked at her clipboard before responding. It was clear she was not happy with his question.
“Roksana.”
“Rokshaana?”
“No. It’s Rok-sa-na,” she repeated, emphasizing the pronunciation.
“But this is an Afghan name . . . Rokshaana!” he repeated with a smile.
“It is my name, my Greek name,” she said, her lips pulled together tightly.
“But you know Iskandar, er . . . Alexander. He married an Afghan woman. She was Rokshaana. It is the same name,” Saleem explained. It felt good to show her he knew a bit of history. She looked like she might have regretted approaching him but exercised patience.
“I am not her. My name is Roksana. And that is enough about my name,” she said. “Tell me, Saleem. Do you want to stay in Greece or do you want to leave?”