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I ran to the toilet to rinse my face. I stuck my head under the tap, and there I was, with my head bent over the washbasin and the blood flowing and—I don’t really know how to explain it, but I felt as if it wasn’t only the blood that was flowing out of me, it was everything I’d been through, the sand of the desert, the dust of the streets and the snow of the mountains, the salt of the sea and the lime of Isfahan, the stones of Qom and the sewage from the gutters of Quetta. By the time the blood stopped flowing, I felt great. Better than I’d ever felt in my life. I wiped my face.

As I was looking for somewhere else to sit, again on the top deck, and again so that I could look at the horizon, I walked past a line of benches which were all occupied, and to avoid a little girl who was playing I brushed against someone’s knee. I’m sorry, I said. I gave the boy a fleeting glance and was about to walk away, but then I stopped and gave him a closer look. It isn’t possible, I thought. Jamal.

He looked up. Enaiatollah.

I’d met Jamal in Iran, in Qom, playing football in the tournament between the factories. We hugged.

I didn’t see you before, he said. I didn’t see you in the port.

I just arrived.

But I didn’t even see you around Mytilene.

I only arrived on the island yesterday.

Impossible.

I swear.

How?

In a dinghy. From Ayvalik.

Impossible.

I swear.

Yesterday you were in a dinghy and today you’re already on a ferry?

It must be luck. In fact, I’m sure it’s luck.

We sat down next to each other and chatted for the rest of the journey. He’d spent four days in Mytilene without managing to get a ticket for Athens, and in the end he’d given eighty euros to someone who spoke very good English to buy it for him. But the worst thing was that, at one point, the police had picked him up. And fingerprinted him.

We reached Athens about nine the next morning. Some of the passengers hurried down into the belly of the boat to get their cars, others embraced their relatives on the last step of the gangway, still others put their cases into the boots of taxis and joined the traffic. The port was full of people greeting each other and patting each other on the back. Jamal and I weren’t expected by anybody, and didn’t know which way to go. Not that it made us sad. It was just that it’s strange seeing all those relaxed, calm, confident people around you when you’re the only one to feel lost. But that’s the way things are, isn’t it?

Let’s go and have breakfast, said Jamal. Let’s get a coffee.

I had the twelve euros left over from the ticket, and he had some loose change. We went into a bar and bought two huge paper cups of very weak coffee, like filter coffee, to be drunk through straws. I tasted it. It was disgusting. I’m not drinking that, I said.

Don’t drink it if you don’t want to, said Jamal. But hold it in your hand.

In my hand?

Like a tourist. Let’s walk carrying the coffee. That’s what tourists do, isn’t it?

It was afternoon by the time we ventured into the city. We got on the underground. Every four stops we got off and went to see where we were. Then we went back down and set off again in the same direction. After going in and out three times, we came out and saw a big park, and there were lots and lots of people there because there was a concert, right there in the park, which was called Dikastirion, if I remember correctly.

When you don’t know what to do, it’s not a bad idea to mingle with a crowd. And in the crowd we heard people speaking Afghan. Following the voices, we found ourselves in the middle of a small group of boys, more or less our age, some of them a bit older, playing football. Here’s a piece of good advice: if you ever spend time as an illegal, look for the parks, you always find something good in a park.

When evening fell, we waited for those boys to go to their homes so that we could ask for hospitality and something to eat, because we’d made friends with them after the match. But after a while, when it got dark, we saw