On Sunday, Baba and I decide to accept Mr. Farid’s invitation and join some of the mosque members for an afternoon at Kennedy Greenway, a park in central Boston. It’s definitely better than sitting at home, waiting for sunset to come so we can eat. Besides, Benj is going to be there, and he’ll bring the figurines. If I’m careful to keep it from Baba, I can work a trade into this afternoon.
Baba and I arrive at the State Street T station and follow a line of red brick cutting through the gray pavement. The trail brings us past the deepest parts of the city. When I tilt my head back, the blue skyscrapers seem to brush the scattered clouds above. The roads are all but empty of cars, which seems strange to me, but plenty of people are on foot. Music flits through the air, and street performers play, circled by onlookers. Smells grow stronger—pasta one moment, then burgers, then spices, then coffee. It’s so full, so alive, that it’s almost like I’m in an Istanbul bazaar.
But the nearby food makes my stomach clench, and I can hardly appreciate all the bustling because of my hunger.
“Perhaps we should hurry through,” Baba says, a knowing gleam in his eye. “It does not do to linger so near temptation.”
I smile and pick up the pace.
Baba doesn’t say much as we move past the street performers. I keep glancing at him, trying to read his face. At the sound of music, I feel an ache in my chest, and I’m sure he must feel it, too: the wish for the rebab, and a corner of our own to play on.
We go through a shopping center to another crosswalk. An abandoned carousel is on the far side, with sheets draped over to cover it. A man glides by on a scooter, using a huge plastic bag for a sail. A breeze smelling more of salt than food loosens the tight hunger in my stomach.
Finally, we’re in sight of a green park, where families picnic and couples walk their dogs. A group of people from our mosque chat and laugh under the trees. Some teenage boys are kicking around a soccer ball, while elderly men sit on blankets with chess boards. Hamida is bent over a sketch pad. An older boy plays the guitar beside her, and Benj crouches nearby, studying the boy’s fingers as he explains chords. Mr. Farid laughs at something the man next to him says, but when he spots us, he waves. Baba lifts his hand, turning toward them.
Beyond the gathering is the Charles River, deep blue under the clear sky, with white boats docked at the wharf.
To me, Baba says in Pashto, “I did not realize it would be so near the water. Will you be all right, Sami?”
“It’s fine,” I answer, my face heating. The spot is well away from the riverbank. Even though fear churns in my stomach, I know there’s no reason to be nervous. Water’s always had this effect on me, even before I stepped into the boat that took us from Turkey to Greece. But I don’t want to cause a problem. Not when the lines on Baba’s face have begun to relax. Not now that he stands straighter and his eyes move quickly to take in the surroundings.
He’s not smiling. But it’s still something. I don’t want to ruin it by drawing attention to the past.
“It’s fine,” I repeat, a little quieter, as we reach the group.
Mr. Farid rocks to his feet and shakes Baba’s hand. “Assalamu alaikum, friend. I’m so glad you have come.”
“Walaikum assalam. We are pleased to be here.”
While Mr. Farid introduces Baba to his companions, I edge toward Hamida. The boy strumming the guitar must be her brother—they have the same eyes—and his quick song plays along with the shimmering shadows of the leaves. Part of me wants to watch him, to study the chords and see how it’s different or similar to the rebab, but it’s clear he already has an all-absorbed fan in Benj. Instead, I try to get a look at Hamida’s drawing over her shoulder. She’s working with a pencil, sketching short, quick lines.
“Hi, Sami,” Hamida says, glancing up and covering her sketch with an embarrassed smile.
My neck heats, but I smile back. “Hi.”
One of the soccer players calls, “Hey, Omar, come take over for Omid!”
“Sorry, Benj,” says Hamida’s brother—Omar. He holds out his guitar. “Here, you can practice until I get back.”
“Wow, thanks!” Benj settles with the guitar in his lap while Omar goes to join the team. Carefully pressing down on the strings, Benj manages a wobbly chord. He grins at me. “Hey! How’s it going?”
“Good.” I sit beside him, folding my legs under me.
“I’ve got the things…” Benj looks around and then drags over a box about the size of my backpack. “Three creepy figurines, as ordered.”
I pull the iPod from my backpack and hold it out. “One fixed iPod, as agreed.”
We swap, and I can’t help smiling wider. Next step: get back to Cobwebs Antiques and sell the figurines.
Hamida leans over to peer at the box. “What’s in there?”
“Figurines.” I unzip my backpack to squeeze the box inside. “I need to sell them at Cobwebs—I’ll probably go tomorrow after school.”
“But then you’d miss practice!” Benj protests.
“Yeah, you can’t miss! Before you started coming, Layla would always take the game practically by herself.” Hamida snaps her fingers. “That’s it! Doesn’t Layla’s mom work at Cobwebs?”
“Yes…”
“Layla lives near you, Hamida—I mean, I’m pretty sure.” Benj frowns, thinking. “Do you have her number? I have it—in my phone—somewhere—” He swivels around, keeping the guitar on his lap while he pats the ground nearby.
Hamida tilts her head. “No, I don’t … But if I did, I could just take them over this afternoon. Then no one has to miss practice!”
And, I realize, I won’t have to hide the box from Baba. “I have her number,” I volunteer. “My phone’s right here. I could … ask for her address?”
“Good idea!” Hamida says.
I type out a message while Benj finds his phone (he was sitting on it) and Hamida sketches a bit more. After I send the message, I find myself watching her work. She keeps looking from her page to the harbor and back again. My stomach gets a weird knotted feeling, and suddenly I’m not so interested in her drawing anymore.
I turn my attention back to my phone at the same time that Layla’s reply pops up on the screen.
“Layla’s in if we can work out how to get the figurines to her. Here’s her address,” I say, and read it out loud.
Hamida starts nodding before I’m even done. “Yep, I live right down the street! Cool! So, I’ll take the box to Layla after the picnic.”
“Are you sure?” I make myself look her in the face. I want to be absolutely positive she doesn’t mind. “I don’t want to inconvenience you…”
She waves off my concern. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ve never been to her house before—I can’t believe she lives so close!”
“It would be an enormous favor, Hamida.”
Hamida pulls the box out of my backpack and sets it next to her. “Don’t even worry about it. Now, Benj—have you figured out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ yet?”
“Pfft, I’m a pro at that!” Benj starts playing a tune in stumbling strums. Omar, running past us with the game, gives him a thumbs-up.
Hamida sets aside her sketch and leans over to correct Benj’s position. I glance down at the open page—a near-perfect copy of our harbor view. I look at the docks to compare it with her drawing. But almost immediately my stomach begins to tighten, like I’m a string on a kite and someone’s winding me around the spool. Hamida and Benj’s conversation ebbs into a murmur. Excusing myself, I grab my backpack and sit down beside Baba, who’s taking a rest at the fringe of the men’s circle. Baba’s gaze catches on my bag, and he frowns at the empty zipper where my key chain used to hang.
“What happened to your Manchester United key chain?” he asks in quiet Pashto.
“Oh,” I stammer. “I—lost it.”
“Sami…” Baba sounds annoyed. “You know that was important. You are not so careless.”
I shrug and loop my arms around my knees and try not to feel like the ground’s sinking away from me.
Baba shakes his head slightly and turns to face the boats.
A flash draws my attention to the harbor. The ferry boat backs away from the dock, and the windows blink again with the sun’s reflection. People move around on the top deck, exposed to the open air.
Even though the day’s warm, my skin goes all sweaty and cold.
In my head, I’m on the plastic boat during our crossing three years ago. The sea tosses us up and down, up and down. Salt coats my skin and clothes and hair and mouth. We have no drinking water. There is water in every direction, but we have no water. Time has lengthened beyond measuring—I am too sick to think of it. There is only the rise and fall, rise and fall, and the whimpers of a child smaller than me and the occasional murmur of men. I have stopped asking Baba how far it is or when we will arrive.
“Sami.” Baba nudges my shoulder.
I look up at him, but my mouth is too dry for talk.
“Sami,” Baba says again. Baba is here, beside me, in Boston, on dry ground. He is not the Baba who stares out across the water, searching for land that never seems to come. “Sami, get up and walk around. We’ll go home, away from the river.”
The green grass feels like it’s rising and falling, rising and falling, but I climb to my feet. Sluggish and unsteady, I pace slowly while Baba rises. My face burns, but none of the others seem to notice. Baba takes my backpack, makes our excuses to Mr. Farid and the others, and starts walking me down the path toward the street. Before I turn, Hamida points to the box and gives me a thumbs-up. I can’t make my mouth smile back, but I nod to her.
As we walk back to the T stop, the wind pricks the sweat on my arms. My thoughts drag in my head, slurring one into the next.
I try to focus on when we finally saw land, and the strangers who rushed to pull the boat to the shallows, and the blankets they wrapped around us, and the priest who gave us scraps of carpet to kneel on as we prayed our gratitude.
But thinking of landing makes me remember the two people in the boat who did not move. How others dragged their bodies onto the sand.
With an effort, I force myself to look around. A mother with a stroller jogs past. Some young men play catch. Kids chase pigeons. Baba’s hand rests on my shoulder, and he rubs his thumb back and forth, back and forth. This is the world I live in now. This isn’t the Mediterranean Sea. The ferry boat in the harbor is well equipped. No one is in danger.
As the memory passes, I feel foolish. “Sorry,” I mutter to Baba.
“No,” Baba says, firm but quiet. “It is the way that it is. I know this. Khuday Pak mehriban dey.”
God is kind. I lean my head against his arm and close my eyes tightly.
TRADE LOG
Days: 23
THINGS TO TRADE:
Game Informer magazines (Dan)
PLANNED TRADES:
Figurines for money
COMPLETED TRADES:
1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod
2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines
3. iPod -> Figurines