‘Of course,’ he replied but continued to write.
‘I want to find a smuggler. I was wondering if you could help me. I had a feeling that that was where that couple were going yesterday.’
The man closed his book now and adjusted his position on the wall so that he was facing me. He smiled. ‘You’re very observant.’
‘So I’m right? You can help me?’
‘Most of the good ones live in the school,’ he said. ‘I can introduce you. Where do you want to go?’
‘England.’
He laughed, like everybody did. ‘Are you crazy? Or maybe very rich? It is the most expensive and most difficult place to get to.’
‘Why is it so expensive?’ I say.
‘Because it is more difficult to get to. Also, people think they will be safer there and there is a good chance of being helped, as long as you are granted asylum.’
I became aware of the money in my rucksack. If anyone knew about it, they would kill me for it.
‘My name is Baram,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Are you serious about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like me to set something up for you?’
‘Definitely.’
He took a phone out of his rucksack and walked several metres away, talking to someone for a few minutes before returning.
‘How many of you?’
‘Two.’
‘Can you meet tomorrow at 1 p.m. at a coffee shop in Acharnon?’
I nodded, but I was beginning to feel sick and my T-shirt was soaked through with sweat.
Baram put his phone back into his rucksack and sat down again beside me. ‘I will meet you here at twelve forty-five tomorrow and take you to the café. Make sure you bring your passports and please don’t be late – he won’t like that.’
‘Shall I bring money?’
‘Not yet.’
*
That night two women carrying many bags claimed the twins’ blankets and umbrella for themselves. I was about to stop these new refugees from sitting down, from making these blankets their new home, when it occurred to me that the twins were probably not returning. I’d been expecting them to reappear, to come and sit down again, laughing and fighting and playing on their phones. To my surprise, the women did not look nervous to be here; they glanced around with some satisfaction, as if they had just come from somewhere far worse. They took off their shoes before stepping onto the blanket, and after about half an hour, after making a few phone calls and eating some apples, they started to make something out of colourful threads. They sat opposite each other and one of the two began to weave, while the other held the ends.
Elsewhere, a few men were playing cards and laughing. Then they began to sing songs in Urdu, a few Arabic words thrown in. The wind blew and brought with it the smell of spices and warmth, the fire was crackling, and someone was cooking. Pedion tou Areos was becoming like a new home to people: shoes lined up next to the blankets and tents, clothes hanging from trees, games of cards and music and singing, and although I should have found some comfort in this, instead I felt suffocated by these glimmering remnants of an old life.
I pulled the rucksack close to my chest. This money was our only way out, and the next day we would be meeting the smuggler. Because of this I could not sleep. Instead I sat up all night beside Afra, listening to the sounds in the woods, waiting for the sun to rise and turn the leaves gold.
The following day Afra and I made our way to Victoria Square, and although we arrived half an hour early, Baram was already there, sitting on the bench, the notepad on his lap, writing. He stood up when he saw us and said that we should wait there for a while, so that we wouldn’t get to the café too early – the smuggler wouldn’t like that either. He sat back down and continued to write. I tried to read it, but his handwriting was too small. Tucked into the binding of the notebook was a photograph of a young woman in an army uniform.
‘Who is the woman in the picture?’ I said.
‘My girlfriend. She died. I am rewriting my diary.’
‘Rewriting?’
He didn’t speak for a very long time and I watched the half-dead dog, who was now looking up at me and moving his tail.
‘When I got to Turkey the army caught me,’ Baram said finally, releasing the words in one breath. ‘There were thirty-one of us altogether. They captured us and searched us all. They took three of us and let the rest of the people continue on their journey.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we are Kurdish. I was writing a diary. I had been writing it for two years, and they found it in my bag and they saw one word, only one word: “Kurdistan”。 They took me to jail and they said, “What is that word?” and I said, “Kurdistan.” I had to say it because they already knew. So they locked me up for one month and three days. Then they let me go. But they took my passport and nine hundred euros and they burned my notebook. The money and the passport were not important to me, but the notepad had my life in it, and I cried when they burned it. They took my fingerprints and scanned my eyes, and I paid two hundred euros for the guard to let me go, and I ran to a Kurdish town. And from there I called my father.’ He closed the notebook, resting a hand over it.