‘How come you are still here?’ I said.
‘I’m trying to make enough money to leave. My brother is in Germany. I want to get there before he gets married.’
At the entrance to the Metro, the man with the worry beads approached people as they came off the escalators.
‘I hope you will go to your brother’s wedding,’ Afra said.
The three of us walked together to Acharnon. When we got to the café, Baram discreetly pointed out a man sitting alone in the far-left corner. He was wearing a black polo-neck and a black leather jacket and drinking cold coffee from a plastic glass with a straw. There was something immediately ridiculous about this man, but when I looked back to ask Baram if this was the right person, he was no longer there, and that would be the last time I ever saw him.
Reluctantly I led Afra to the table where the man was now slurping the last of his coffee.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said in Arabic.
The man looked up as if he hadn’t been expecting anyone. Then without saying anything he took the lid off his coffee and stuck his fingers into the plastic cup, trying to get an ice cube.
‘I’m Nuri and this is Afra. You’re supposed to be expecting us.’
The man managed to get hold of the ice cube and threw it into his mouth, biting down on it.
‘Do you not speak Arabic?’ I said.
‘Sit down,’ he said in Arabic.
We both took a seat, and maybe I was nervous, or maybe there was something about this man’s silence, but I began to ramble. ‘We met Baram in the square, he said you could help us, he called you yesterday and he said to bring our passports, which I have done, they’re right here.’
‘Not yet,’ he said abruptly. His words stopped my hand in its tracks. He smiled, probably at my sudden obedience, then crunched harder into the ice cube, grimacing in a way that made his face take on the appearance of a nine-year-old boy. It was amazing how much power this man-child had; in normal life he would probably have been struggling to make ends meet in some back-alley greengrocer’s in Damascus. There was a glint of something dark and desperate in his eyes, like the men in the woods.
‘This is your wife?’ he said.
‘Yes, I am Afra.’
‘You’re blind?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply, but with a hint of sarcasm in her voice that only I could pick up on, and I could almost hear her follow it with: ‘Clever man.’
‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Poor blind woman – less suspicious. You’ll have to take off that hijab and dye your hair blonde. Not much we can do with you,’ he said to me, ‘but you’re not a complete lost cause. Good shave, clean shirt. Work on your expression.’
On the table the man’s phone vibrated and flashed. He glanced at the screen and his face changed, a twitch in his cheek, a clenched jaw. He turned the phone face down on the table.
‘So where is it you want to get to?’
‘England.’
‘Ha!’
‘Everybody laughs,’ I said.
‘Ambitious. Expensive.’
I lowered my face, the money in my rucksack making me nervous. It felt as if I was carrying a bag full of eggs.
‘Two thousand euros for Denmark. Three thousand for Germany,’ the smuggler said. Then he paused. ‘You’re much better off going to one of those.’
‘How much to England?’
‘Seven thousand for both of you.’
‘Seven thousand!’ Afra said. ‘That’s crazy! How much does it cost to get a flight from here to England?’
The man laughed again, and she scrunched up her face and turned away.
‘This isn’t a trip to England,’ he said. ‘You are paying for our services. England is a special place – you will be safer, and it’s harder for us to get you there; that’s the additional cost.’
Afra looked as if she wanted to spit on him. I nudged her foot with mine.
‘That’s why we want to go there,’ I said. ‘We’re tired, really tired now. But we just don’t have that kind of money.’
‘How much do you have?’
‘Five thousand.’
‘In cash?’
I looked over my shoulder.
The man raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re walking around with that amount of cash on you?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I have some in cash and the rest is in a private account. I’ll do anything, I’ll find work to make up the money. I’ll pick up rubbish, clean cars or windows or anything.’