think
.
And when you were in Iran?
As tall as a child often or eleven. How tall are they? I don’t know
.
How much time had passed by then, since you’d started your journey?
Since I’d left Nava, you mean?
Yes
.
Eighteen months. Yes, I’d say about eighteen months
.
And we said you left at the age often
.
That’s what we said, Fabio. Although we don’t know
.
Although we don’t know, of course. Right
.
And what time of year did you arrive in Iran?
In spring
.
Good. At least time is certain
.
No, Fabio. Nothing’s certain
.
Time is, Enaiat. It runs at the same speed in every part of the world
.
Do you think so? You know something, Fabio? I wouldn’t be so sure
.
On the way to Qom. Speeding on a top-notch train across Iran. Seen from a distance, through the windows, Iran looked much greener than either Pakistan or Afghanistan. It was a wonderful journey, I remember: sitting comfortably, together with dozens of local passengers, the smell of eau de cologne, the dining car, clean seats soft enough to sleep in.
Our trafficker and his partners sat three or four rows from me and Sufi and all the other Afghans, so they could stay hidden among the passengers and still keep an eye on us. At the station in Kerman, before the train doors closed, they had said, Whatever happens, we don’t know each other. Is that clear? You must never ever say you’re with us. If the police get on the train and check you out and then tell you to follow them, do as they say. If they take you to the border, don’t worry, we’ll come and get you. Is that understood?
We nodded and said yes. They looked at us and asked us again if we’d understood correctly, and we said yes asecond time, all in unison. Then, just to be sure and to do things properly, they asked us a third time.
I think they were a little nervous. When the ticket inspector got on, they immediately went and talked to him and showed him some papers. I think they even gave him some money.
We got off the train at Qom. For some the journey ended there—the traffickers phoned some people to come and pick them up—but Sufi and I and a few others got on a bus to take us from Qom to Isfahan. Our trafficker and the bus driver must have known each other, because when they caught sight of each other, they hugged and exchanged kisses on the cheek.
Halfway through the journey, the bus suddenly slowed down. Sufi squeezed my arm.
You’re hurting me, I said.
What’s going on?
I moved aside the curtains, which we’d drawn to shield ourselves from the sun. Sheep, I said.
What?
Sheep. We stopped because of a flock of sheep.
Sufi collapsed in his seat, his hands over his ears.
An hour later we arrived in Isfahan.
1) I’ll take you where I want. 2) You’ll work where I want. 3) For four months I’ll take your wages.
Those were the conditions. Everything may have gone smoothly up until then, they may have taken care of me when I was sick, the train may have been comfortable and the coach may not have been stopped by the (Iranian) police but only by a flock of (Iranian) sheep, but now Sufi and I were going to find out where we would be spending the next four months—at least—of our lives, and what work we would be doing. That was why the journey from the bus station in Isfahan to our destination
—destination
and
destiny
are very similar, aren’t they?—seemed to me longer and more dangerous, I swear, than all that getting on and off of trains and buses in the middle of nowhere that had gone before.
But when we got to a sparsely populated area on the southern outskirts of the city, our trafficker took us to a building site where they were building an apartment block, four storys high, but very, very long, with lots and lots of apartments side by side, all of them the same. There were different firms operating there, each of which had won the contract for one section. It was very hot and dusty. We walked around to the other side of the building. A tall Iranian
.
And when you were in Iran?
As tall as a child often or eleven. How tall are they? I don’t know
.
How much time had passed by then, since you’d started your journey?
Since I’d left Nava, you mean?
Yes
.
Eighteen months. Yes, I’d say about eighteen months
.
And we said you left at the age often
.
That’s what we said, Fabio. Although we don’t know
.
Although we don’t know, of course. Right
.
And what time of year did you arrive in Iran?
In spring
.
Good. At least time is certain
.
No, Fabio. Nothing’s certain
.
Time is, Enaiat. It runs at the same speed in every part of the world
.
Do you think so? You know something, Fabio? I wouldn’t be so sure
.
On the way to Qom. Speeding on a top-notch train across Iran. Seen from a distance, through the windows, Iran looked much greener than either Pakistan or Afghanistan. It was a wonderful journey, I remember: sitting comfortably, together with dozens of local passengers, the smell of eau de cologne, the dining car, clean seats soft enough to sleep in.
Our trafficker and his partners sat three or four rows from me and Sufi and all the other Afghans, so they could stay hidden among the passengers and still keep an eye on us. At the station in Kerman, before the train doors closed, they had said, Whatever happens, we don’t know each other. Is that clear? You must never ever say you’re with us. If the police get on the train and check you out and then tell you to follow them, do as they say. If they take you to the border, don’t worry, we’ll come and get you. Is that understood?
We nodded and said yes. They looked at us and asked us again if we’d understood correctly, and we said yes asecond time, all in unison. Then, just to be sure and to do things properly, they asked us a third time.
I think they were a little nervous. When the ticket inspector got on, they immediately went and talked to him and showed him some papers. I think they even gave him some money.
We got off the train at Qom. For some the journey ended there—the traffickers phoned some people to come and pick them up—but Sufi and I and a few others got on a bus to take us from Qom to Isfahan. Our trafficker and the bus driver must have known each other, because when they caught sight of each other, they hugged and exchanged kisses on the cheek.
Halfway through the journey, the bus suddenly slowed down. Sufi squeezed my arm.
You’re hurting me, I said.
What’s going on?
I moved aside the curtains, which we’d drawn to shield ourselves from the sun. Sheep, I said.
What?
Sheep. We stopped because of a flock of sheep.
Sufi collapsed in his seat, his hands over his ears.
An hour later we arrived in Isfahan.
1) I’ll take you where I want. 2) You’ll work where I want. 3) For four months I’ll take your wages.
Those were the conditions. Everything may have gone smoothly up until then, they may have taken care of me when I was sick, the train may have been comfortable and the coach may not have been stopped by the (Iranian) police but only by a flock of (Iranian) sheep, but now Sufi and I were going to find out where we would be spending the next four months—at least—of our lives, and what work we would be doing. That was why the journey from the bus station in Isfahan to our destination
—destination
and
destiny
are very similar, aren’t they?—seemed to me longer and more dangerous, I swear, than all that getting on and off of trains and buses in the middle of nowhere that had gone before.
But when we got to a sparsely populated area on the southern outskirts of the city, our trafficker took us to a building site where they were building an apartment block, four storys high, but very, very long, with lots and lots of apartments side by side, all of them the same. There were different firms operating there, each of which had won the contract for one section. It was very hot and dusty. We walked around to the other side of the building. A tall Iranian
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