Chapter 32: Goodbye Paradise - My Name Is Samim

Italy, summer 2021

After lunch, Auntie Taara gave us a pair of backpacks. “I packed warm clothes, a phone charger, toiletries and other essentials. Plus food and water to last you a few days.”

“Thank you, Auntie.” We bowed to her.

“Alright then,” she sighed. “No point in dragging out the inevitable. Say your goodbyes, and let’s go.”

We hugged the boys, and we bowed to the girls. Little Masood and Nur’s eyes gleamed with tears as they waved goodbye.

Omar held Zayn in a long embrace. “Take care, brother,” he told him. “You have a phone now, so text me.”

Zayn patted his back. “I will.”

Just as I opened the front door to leave, Zayn said, “Can I say goodbye to Auntie Amina?”

“Of course,” Auntie Taara said.

Blood drained from my face as we rushed upstairs into Auntie’s bedroom. I feared she’d convince Zayn to stay at the last minute.

“I was hoping you’d come to say goodbye,” Auntie Amina said, stretching her arms towards Zayn.

He rushed to her side, and she held him close.

“Sit. Both of you. For a minute.”

We sat on opposite sides of the bed, Zayn closer to Auntie and me further away.

“Promise me you will look after each other.”

“We promise,” we replied in unison.

“Promise me you will message me when you can.”

“We promise.”

“Promise me that I won’t regret letting you go.”

Zayn dropped his head.

My throat grew tight with panic, and I hurried to repeat, “We promise.”

Auntie forced a smile and gave us a nod.

As we were walking out of the room, Auntie Amina’s trembling voice halted us. “I was praying,” she said. “Until the very last second you were in this room, I prayed that you’d change your minds and decide to stay. But not all prayers are answered, and I only hope that means God has a better plan for you both.”

Zayn’s eyes dulled with sadness as he gazed at Auntie.

I lowered my head, my chest stinging with guilt.

“Goodbye, Auntie,” Zayn choked out. “And thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown us,” he said, before storming out of the room.

I chased after him. “Zayn!”

Downstairs, Zayn wiped his eyes and said, “We’re ready to go, Auntie Taara.”

I exhaled with relief. He was coming with me. That was all that mattered.

We were silent the whole car ride. Auntie Taara glanced at us through the rear-view mirror, probably wondering what was going on.

At the train station, she bought our tickets and a couple of fizzy drinks.

“These aren’t good for you because they are full of sugar, but sugar gives you energy, and you’ll need it on your journey,” she told us, with a sad smile.

“Thank you, Auntie,” we said, taking the drinks.

“You speak English, Samim, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Good. You must find a bus to Calais when you get to Paris. It’s all written down here, the bus name and number,” she said, pointing at a piece of paper in her hand.

I nodded again.

“Alright then,” Auntie Taara sighed, her kind eyes filled with worry.

“We will be okay,” I reassured her. “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for us.”

She smiled briefly. “If anyone asks, you’re students going to Paris to study art and photography,” she said, taking a camera out of her bag. “Wear this around your neck. And you, Zayn, take this.” She gave Zayn a book called The Art of Street Photography. “Refugees don’t travel with cameras and books. So it will be your cover story.”

We bobbed our heads, trying to take everything in.

“When a conductor checks your tickets, be polite, speak English, smile and pretend to have a good time,” Auntie continued, while walking us up to our platform.

Our train was already there, ready to depart.

“Well, this is it.” Auntie Taara drew a deep breath and hugged us both. “Take care, boys. I hope you find your uncles very soon.”

We thanked her again and boarded the train.

We sat down at a small table across from each other, staring out the window, avoiding eye contact. Auntie Taara’s figure got smaller as the train hissed and lurched forward.

“Goodbye,” Zayn whispered, his breath steaming the window as he pressed his face against the glass.

Auntie Taara’s wave became a distant blur, and Zayn’s eyes glistened with tears. I hated myself for causing him this pain.

“Nothing in the world weighs heavier than guilt,” my mother used to say. My heart pinched, and I squeezed my bracelet tight.

* * *

“So you traded a great life in Italy for the hope of finding Uncle Jalal, even though you had no idea where he was?” Mr Higgins’ question is like a hammer-blow; it shatters my memory and brings me back to the room.

I look at Zayn, and he turns away from me.

If not for me, he would be alive now, in Rome, kicking a ball, laughing with Omar, breathing…

But making Zayn leave Rome wasn’t the only thing I did that led to his death.

Will I have the courage to tell Mr Higgins the whole truth?