“I am rich, thank you very much. And you are excused for being shortsighted. It is Americans, you British, and all the other Westerners who think they know what’s right and what’s wrong, who make money from the sale of heroin and opium with one hand, and yet pay mullahs to preach that growing poppies is against the Koran with the other.” He laughed. “Hypocrites, all!”
She looked up at him then and nodded to show she understood. He had a point. The corruption when it came to any drugs in any part of the world—and she knew this from her experience reporting in Africa—was astounding. But she persevered. “I just don’t see how you can justify the addiction of workers in your fields,” she said, noticing the drug lord gesturing to his right-hand guy. “Of women who get the sap for you and then become addicted to it themselves. You’re causing …” She stopped herself, alarmed at how biased and unprofessional she sounded. Her job was to get the story, not show her hand.
“But what about the poisonous spray? Do you really think they can contain it? What about our fields of fruit and vegetables? What about the air our children breathe?” He was interrupted by the ring of his cellphone. It played the William Tell Overture, which would’ve made Isabel laugh had she not been angered by their conversation.
“Bali, bali,” yes, yes, he answered, then said to Isabel, “Excuse me, please,” and got up and left the room.
Perfect timing, she thought.
And he never returned. Instead another man came in to escort her out. It was, apparently, the end of the interview and time for a tour of the facilities. A superbly orchestrated PR effort—it pissed Isabel off, but how could she have expected anything else?
The man first took her to a small mud-and-brick outer building that served as a dormitory for men, lined with toshaks from wall to wall. Some men were napping, some were listening to a small AM/FM radio, and others were drinking tea.
Then they went through a gate to a separate compound for women and children. It was dark, lit only by a single lightbulb that hung from a cord overhead. She could hear the hum of the generator that stood in the corner, the clack of several looms. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could see women weaving rugs, using large wooden looms that took several of them to maneuver. Children helped with the yarn, which hung on ropes strung across the room to dry after being dyed. They gathered the yarn into balls, then sat on long wooden benches and worked closely with the women, presumably their mothers, while wearing woolen wraps to ward off the cold. The women’s knuckles, Isabel could see even from across the room, were swollen. The children looked up at her, their black eyes dull from the painstaking work, and then turned back to their heavy skeins of yarn.
Something—a sound, a movement, she wasn’t sure what—made Isabel turn to her right where an open door led to another room. While her guide was talking to one of the kids, Isabel carefully, slowly, made her way over to see what was there. The distinct smell of opium—sweet, rich, intoxicating—wafted out through the open wedge of space. She saw a woman in the corner, holding a baby wrapped in worn brown blankets. The woman was smoking an opium pipe, her fingers reddened from it. And what Isabel saw next shocked even her hardened journo sensibilities. Each time the mother exhaled, she blew the smoke directly into the baby’s face. The baby was silent. No crying, no screaming for a breast. The other children, too, she now realized, were eerily quiet and moved slowly as if in a daze. It dawned on her that they were stoned—opium junkies—probably from the time they were infants as well. This must be how mothers kept their babies from feeling hunger or the cold; they “medicated” them with the same drug they were addicted to.
Isabel had to get a shot of this. She dug into her bag for her camera. She pulled it out and immediately felt a firm hand on her shoulder.
“No cameras, please,” the man said in his native language. “Come this way,” he said, and guided her down the hall to wait while he returned to the room where the women were. Isabel heard a thud and a small cry, and she rushed to the doorway to see the opium pipe lying on the floor as the man hit the woman again right across her face with a loud whack. Isabel was sure that, given the force of his raised arm and the sound of his hand against her cheek, no amount of opium would prevent her from feeling it. She knew the pain of a hit like that herself.
The man turned and was shocked to see Isabel there. “Beya! Come!” he yelled angrily.
Isabel followed him, but not before turning for one last look into the eyes of the opium-addled mother, her mouth bloodied, her lip already swollen, and her intoxicated baby in her arms. The woman turned away, covering her face with her scarf, probably hoping, Isabel sensed, simply to disappear.
That night, after bedding down in a local house that had been arranged for her by Petr, Isabel made some notes while the events were still fresh in her mind, and determined to return the next day to check on the woman. For Isabel knew that had she not gone to the door, had she not seen her smoking, the woman would not have been hurt. It was because of her that a woman had been beaten. She paced her room, unable to sleep, horrified by her error, ashamed of herself.
What Isabel didn’t understand was the real danger she’d put the woman in, simply because she’d seen the man hit her. Shame in Afghan society occurs only when something is witnessed, not when something happens behind closed doors.
The next morning she returned to the poppy field, despite her driver’s warning against it. Returning could result in angering the drug lord, putting herself in danger, even risking her life.
In the end the risks and the probing were for naught; the woman and her baby had vanished into thin air.
Candace opened her eyes to blackness and an empty bed. Once she was able to focus, she realized from the bedside clock that it was only four-twenty in the morning and already Wakil was gone. She had a faint memory of him kissing her on her cheek and whispering that he had to return to his room. His smell lingered in the air and her skin still tingled from their lovemaking. And yet, he was gone. This she knew, not only from his physical absence. He had left her emotionally. It hadn’t happened abruptly but slowly and steadily over weeks, the way the sun makes its way across the sky from the heat of its midday height to its low burn as it settles on the horizon. The thought made her sigh audibly, for comparing the trajectory of their relationship to the sun’s orbit was a desperate cliché and she wanted to kick herself. But it was pretty apt. She ran her hand over the sheet where Wakil’s body should have been and it was cold.
She knew she’d never be able to go back to sleep, so she got up to take a shower. Normally one of the servants Wakil provided for her at his mansion would help her, but the hallway outside her room was empty at this hour and she was, gratefully, alone. She tiptoed to her bathroom and closed the door behind her.
A beautiful mirror, framed in intricately carved dark wood, covered the wall. She stood close and with an index finger touched the fine lines under her eyes, at the corners of her mouth. She pulled her hair off her face and checked its thinning at her temples, either from age or her regular bleaching treatments. She stood back and sucked in a deep chestful of air, as if it had the power to help her accept her age, her looks, her life.
She breathed out and knew it hadn’t worked. She stepped into the shower.
She had an early breakfast meeting at the Serena Hotel, the most luxurious in Kabul, where she’d arranged to meet an American delegation of wealthy philanthropists. The Serena was Kabul’s only four-star hotel, built only a few years before by Prince Amyn Aga Khan, and it obviously took great pains to maintain a facade of luxury and security. She’d prepared her presentation, and she knew exactly how to pitch to them, having lived among women just like them for the past ten years. Some may have come from wealthy families themselves, but more likely they were like her: They had wealthy husbands to rely on so they didn’t have to work. Some had children, others did not, but all were bored. They searched for the right projects that would make them feel important. Feeding the hungry in their own backyards
wasn’t good enough. They sought prestige in Africa or the Middle East, wherever there was war and media attention. Good, Candace thought. She’d vowed to herself—and Wakil—that she wouldn’t take no for an answer, nor anything less than several million.
She understood women like this. She’d been one, and she was still one. Pathetically relying on a man who seduced her, fucked her, and pretended he’d loved her—just to get what he needed from her. Not that she hadn’t gotten something in return, not as if she were a total victim, but what she really wanted—a life together—didn’t seem to be in the cards.
She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a large, plush towel. She went back to her room, blow-dried her hair, put on her makeup, and dressed. She certainly looked the part. In her Chanel suit she appeared stylish, wealthy, and conservative enough. Her nails had been done the day before in the Serena’s salon. There was no way anybody at this breakfast would ever guess that she’d been sleeping with an Afghan.
She went to her dressing table and picked up a pearl earring, tilted her head to the side, and inserted it into her pierced ear. What had happened? she wondered. They’d been so passionate, but gradually the sex became less frequent, the touching out of bed almost nonexistent. He kept saying it was because they were back in his country, but she wasn’t a complete idiot. She knew something else was going on. She put the other earring in, then looked at herself again in the mirror. She was still attractive, she was, she told herself. Yes, Wakil was much younger, but her body was as taut and shapely as those of most twenty-five-year-olds. She still turned heads, she knew. She let out a sigh and reapplied her lipstick. He was just distracted, that’s all, he’d told her. And why shouldn’t she believe him? He loved her. He’d told her that, too.
And still. She sat down on the edge of her bed and noticed the sky was already getting lighter. It wasn’t his words that bothered her. Maybe he did love her, in his way. It was that she was so damn disappointed. Yet again. She gritted her teeth and fought back the tears. Right now she felt as lonely as she had as a child, living with her poor aunt Lucy in the outskirts of a nowhere town.
She got up and went to the window where, past the courtyard, the chaos of Kabul was laid out before her. She sure was a long way from home, if only she knew where the hell home was.
She raised her chin then, and forced her shoulders back, determined not to be a fool like so many other women she knew who sat around and waited for something—or someone—to make their lives worth living. Look at Sunny. Look at Isabel. Though she’d only recently met them, they were inspirations to her. Sunny had the coffeehouse, Isabel had her career.
And she had a meeting to attend. She’d have the car take her early and she could have some coffee and prepare before the others arrived at eight. She smoothed the jacket of her suit, took one last look in the mirror, and, satisfied, she picked up her bag and walked out the door, confident in her ability to raise money. It was the Christmas season after all. She couldn’t have timed this any better.
Sunny stood at the door of the café, her hands in the pockets of the ridiculous Christmas apron that she’d worn every year since she’d come to Kabul, imagining she was a customer entering the coffeehouse on Christmas Eve for the first time. She’d gasp at how the room glowed with candles and thousands of tiny twinkling lights. She’d breathe in the aromas of roasted turkey, sweet potatoes, and apple pie. She’d laugh at the dog wearing the Rudolph red nose and antlers. Her eyes would widen at the size and beauty of the Christmas tree that took up a quarter of the room. And she’d hope that one of the many presents under the tree was for her. The holiday cheer in the room would remind her of the happy times of her childhood and make her miss her family and her country.
But this wasn’t her first Kabul Christmas. This was her sixth. Her apron was disintegrating; green glitter littered the floor with each step she took, and the appliquéd reindeer had lost one of its black-and-white bauble eyes. The tree was plastic and getting a little thin and crinkled after so many times being squished into its plastic bag, stored for a year in the back closet, and then taken out. The dog looked pathetic. And the gifts had all been purchased by her—one for each person who had RSVP’d to the dinner at the café that night. There were scarves for the women, pakul hats for the men, toys for the kids, and something silly for Jack.
And yet, the huge tree reached to the ceiling and filled an entire corner of the room, leaving room for only ten tables. It didn’t matter that it was plastic. It was a Christmas tree, here in Kabul, a bazillion miles from home. Sunny’s childhood felt even farther away. The truth was, hers had never been as warm and wonderful as they were in books or at other people’s homes. She was often lonely, maybe just her mother and her, with only a utilitarian gift of needed clothes or shoes, and always marked by her father’s absence or drunkenness, and she wasn’t sure which she preferred. Perhaps that’s why doing Christmas right had become so important to her as an adult. Back home, her best friend, Karen, had called Sunny the Hallmark Christmas Queen because of her bordering-on-obsessive commitment to Christmas—cards, gifts, bows, and the right wrapping, ornaments, decor, lights, music, and even clothing. The whole damn yuletide thing.
In Kabul, Sunny asked every café regular to pick up an ornament if they happened to see one on their travels, to take advantage of post-holiday sales if they were in the States, and to bring back Christmas paraphernalia. Border crossings were particularly hilarious for them. Instead of packing drugs or weapons, her friends had to explain the plastic crèche or the glittery star or the crystal dog with the green hat.
Each table had a centerpiece created by a shop on Flower Street. Sunny would bring them her boxes filled with Christmas knickknacks that she bought from the dollar store on Chicken Street and the shop would add flowers and make festive, if sometimes hilarious, designs. Flowers and plastic Santas, little reindeer and rubber snowflakes. Sunny loved them.
Bashir Hadi was bent over the open oven, his Santa hat flopping in the wave of heat, basting the turkeys. Thank God for all the people she knew going to and coming from the States, who got her the canned pumpkin and stuffing mix. The ones who were able to go home for the holidays felt especially guilty and would bring back a suitcase full of food for the following year. But the turkeys, now, they required special ops and the talents of Tommy’s friend, her military black-market connection, Buddy Donaldson, with his fat cigar and mirrored aviators, who seemed to know how to get anything for anybody for the right money. Finding four of them was, apparently, difficult, and they’d cost her an arm and a leg. But Sunny didn’t care. It was Christmas.
Finding red wine was another matter. Kabul was quickly becoming dry, yet another impact of the return of the Taliban. There was only one place in all of Kabul where Sunny knew she could find it. And that was in the Chinese brothels. On a cold day two weeks before, she’d taken the car, with Poppy as her escort, and driven across town, where she went door to door until she had accumulated two dozen or so bottles. It wasn’t enough, but everyone coming from the French or Italian embassy knew they wouldn’t be admitted without a bottle of wine.
Behind her the door opened and clanged shut. She turned, and a group of NGO workers from New York said hello and began to take off their coats. All of a sudden Halajan was at her side to show them to their table. Sunny checked their names off her list, and Yazmina, who looked so pretty tonight, wearing a new orange scarf and dress, offered them each a menu.
When the door opened and closed again, there was Jack. He was dressed in a handsome new shalwaar kameez. He was holding roses. He smiled.
And when he smiled, Sunny smiled. It just happened that way. Maybe it was his eyes, or the way his mouth turned up at the corners. Maybe it just was.
“I like the apron,” he said, “and the earrings.” He lifted one of Sunny’s dangling Christmas tree earrings with his index finger.
“You see, I do like diamonds,” Sunny said, referring to the fake ones that dotted her earring trees.
“But Poppy looks a little under the weather. Look at her.” Poppy loped over to Jack and he squatted to scratch her ears. “Poppy, my girl, look what they’ve done to you. My sweet, poor girl.”
“She looks cute.”
He stood and looked deeply and seriously into Sunny’s eyes and said, “Never, ever, put clothes on a dog. It’s the number one rule of dog ownership. It’s abuse, grounds for arrest.”
She ignored him but took his flowers. “For me?”
“Well, now they are.”
“I’d say ‘you shouldn’t have’ but then I’d be lying!” The urge to kiss him, to say what she was really feeling, was so strong that she turned away from him and headed to the closet for a vase.
Halajan, wearing an elf hat over her scarf, sat Jack at a table and poured him some wine from a teapot. She was nervous. What if Rashif were to come here tonight as he said he would? Ahmet was working inside; his friend Khalid was at the gate. Ahmet would surely recognize Rashif as not only the tailor from the market but as his opposite—the young man representing the old Afghanistan, the old man representing the new. How could she conceal her feelings for Rashif? It would be impossible. And according to tradition, which her proud son took so seriously, feelings had no place when it came to a man and a woman. All that mattered were correct introductions and managed courtships, under the unspoken social rules that squeezed the life out of life.
She tried to squelch her bitterness and ignore her worries. There was so much to attend to anyway. Four courses of dinner, the wine, the water. Serving and clearing.
But it was a beautiful room and Sunny had never looked so happy. She was sitting with Jack and the affection in her eyes was obvious to everyone but her.
And then Halajan felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and there he was—Rashif, still in his coat and scarf, his hat over his brow, a huge smile on his face. She immediately looked over his shoulder to be sure Ahmet was out of earshot.