I refused to take his money. When Luna saw me leaving early, she followed me out of the salon.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m fine. I’m just heading home early. I have a headache.”
She took my hand and shook it lightly.
“Okay, get some rest. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nodded, then turned and took my time walking back to our flat in Lambeth. By the time I got there the sun had already set, and the stairwell was dark. I groped my way downstairs. Suddenly the door across from ours swung open, and I saw a shadowy figure. It was the Nigerian woman who lived next to us.
“Oh! It’s you,” she said. “I was hoping it was …”
I wondered what she was doing in the dark. The lights were turned off inside her flat as well. The window that looked out onto the courtyard let in some light from outside, but it wasn’t much.
“Is the power out?” I asked.
Finally she flicked the lights on, as if she’d simply forgotten about them. I took out my key and started to unlock my door, but when I saw she was still standing there, I said without thinking: “Your husband isn’t home yet?”
“No, I’m waiting for him,” she said.
I opened the door, but before I stepped inside, I glanced back again. She was leaning on the wall next to the door. I looked at her for a moment.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked.
I held the door open, and she slipped inside without a word. When I followed her in and closed the door, she collapsed against my shoulder and burst into tears. I was bewildered, but patted her on the back and asked what was wrong. She pulled away from me and sank onto the floor.
“My husband was arrested.”
I helped her up and led her over to the big, cushy armchair that Luna and I were always fighting over. Her face was streaked with tears.
“Someone who works at the petrol station with him called me. They took him because he doesn’t have a work permit.”
My heart sank. So it was true!
“We went through so much to make it here …” she said. “We have nowhere to go back to.”
I put a kettle of water on to boil and took out the teacups.
“He doesn’t have a work permit, so he was paying a hundred pounds a week to borrow someone else’s. But there’s such a big age difference between him and the person he borrowed it from, that if they investigate him in person instead of just checking the paperwork they’ll catch him right away. You know, you get paid less if you don’t have a permit — only half of what legal workers make, and sometimes as little as thirty percent. But if you borrow someone else’s permit, you can make up to seventy percent of the regular wage.”
I poured her a cup of tea; she seemed to have calmed down already. She took a few deep breaths, and sipped her tea.
“If he’s deported,” she muttered, “I’ll run away.”
She stared down at the floor.
“We left our children behind,” she said. “All three of them. And we still haven’t finished paying off the men who brought us here.”
I couldn’t tell her that my situation was similar. I wasn’t in a position to trust anyone yet. I’d been working hard to pay off my smuggling debt, not paying attention to anything else around me, but now I understood the seriousness of my situation. It occurred to me that I had to console her if I was also to console myself.
“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe they’ll let him go and he’ll come back home …”
She shook her head weakly.
“That miracle already happened. There was a crackdown and he was sent to jail, but then there was a shift change and the new officer called names off of the list of work permit holders without bothering to check them against their photos. My husband told me a kindly old man who was among those being released took pity on him and had him take his place. Of course, they probably found out later what happened. Everything is the will of God.”
I kept my composure, but there was no doubt in my mind that danger was approaching. Her husband would be investigated; it would be discovered that he’d borrowed his work permit from someone else; they would find out where he lived; and his wife would be exposed too. The police might be there as early as the following morning. It was actually a good thing their children weren’t living with them. She looked like she was out of her mind and giving up hope.
“Is there anywhere you can hide out for a few days?” I asked.
The gravity of her situation seemed to hit her all at once.
“Ya Allah … They could be here tomorrow!”
She pressed her hands to her chest and shook her head in panic. She seemed to freeze for a moment, then sprang up and opened the door.
“I’ll call the woman I work for to see if I can stay with her. Who knows? Since I’m already looking after her house and children, she might prefer it that way …”
After she left, I paced nervously. I didn’t know whether or not I should run away somewhere until things had calmed down. Soon there was a knock at the door. I checked the peephole before opening it. It was the Nigerian woman again.
“She said I can stay with her for a few days. Luckily, her husband is away on business. She said to come to the house first to discuss it. Also, I called my husband’s friend. He said he’ll go to the detention centre tomorrow to try to get visiting hours with my husband.”
“That’s good! I’m sure your husband will be back in no time.”
She threw her arms around me and murmured: “Thank you. Why can’t the rest of the world be like our building?”
After the door closed behind her, I paced some more and then came to a decision. I left the flat and went straight up to the second floor. I paused in front of Grandfather Abdul’s door long enough to catch my breath, and tapped the bronze knocker. I heard him clear his throat, and then there he was. He lowered his reading glasses and peered down at me.
“Well, look who’s here! Come in, Bari.”
I sat down across from him, but couldn’t speak right away. I had my head down, deep in thought. He didn’t rush me but simply waited, a soft smile on his face. Finally I explained why I’d come home early from work. I told him what had happened to the Nigerian couple across the hall from me. His smile vanished and he nodded, his brow furrowed.
“This country is very concerned with ‘public safety’,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he meant.
“It’s the same everywhere you go. The powerful wealthy do whatever it takes to shore up their privilege. This crackdown is one example of that. I suppose you don’t have a passport either, Bari?”
“Technically I do …”
“But of course, it’s forged.”
Although I was still wary about trusting people, one thing I’d learned over the course of my travels was that if you needed help from a good person, you could best earn their trust by being honest with them. I told Grandfather Abdul where I was really from, and briefly described my journey through China and all the way here. He nodded now and then, and waited with a smile whenever I got worked up and had to pause to catch my breath. When I ended with my arrival in London, he sighed.
“Indeed. Let’s consider what it is that keeps tearing the world apart. I came to London under very similar circumstances as you. I’m sure it’s the same for the Nigerian couple. But I believe you’re right, that you’d better be ready for the worst tomorrow. I don’t think anyone else will be affected, though I worry about the young Filipino man on the first floor. By the way, have you had dinner yet? I can’t imagine you’ve had a chance to eat.”
“Oh! Luna will be hungry when she gets home!”
“Hold on, now. I have some tandoori chicken. Let’s eat that with chapatti. I’m tired of eating dinner alone. It would be nice if you could join me.” He put some marinated chicken in the oven and warmed up chapattis in a dry pan.