A Cup of Friendship

  “To be honest, yes,” answered Candace. “And it’s taken my whole life to shake it. So I thought we had something in common.” She shrugged. “Guess I was wrong.”

  Sunny felt bad. Maybe she’d judged too soon, as she so often did. Now she was curious. “Where are you from?” Sunny asked, unable to place Candace’s accent.

  “Boston,” she answered. “Beacon Hill.”

  “Oh, Beacon Hill,” Isabel said pseudo-seriously, “quite posh.”

  “Funny,” Sunny said, “you don’t have much of a Bahstin accent.”

  Candace hesitated, looked from Isabel to Sunny, and then said, “I wasn’t born there, just from there.”

  Sunny liked her honesty. “So where were you born, since we’re getting personal?”

  Candace hesitated again, turned to look at the man she’d arrived with, who was clearly enjoying his conversation, and said, with a deeply Southern accent, “Darn it, you got me. Willow Springs, Mo.”

  Sunny had to laugh and told herself to give the girl a break. “Welcome, Missouri. I’m Arkansas.”

  “And I’m afraid I’m London,” said Isabel. She put out her hand and introduced herself.

  Candace smiled warmly and took Isabel’s hand in hers, and shook it, and then took Sunny’s and shook it the way they did back home: hard.

  Sunny was about to ask Candace why she’d come to Kabul and, more specifically, to her coffeehouse, but one look at the handsome, charming man beside her explained it—or at least part of the story. Besides, it was time for the doctor to speak. So she walked to the makeshift podium and introduced her proudly, looking out on all the faces of those who’d come to hear the doctor speak. Then she returned to the table and listened to Dr. Malik report on, with the help of the English translator, what happened to babies born to women whose husbands had died. And what became of babies born to women pregnant out of wedlock, usually from rape, sometimes from a love affair without the sanction of the family. And how female babies weren’t given the same care if ill, since girls were going to be given away eventually to their husband’s family. She mentioned the old Indian saying “Why water your neighbor’s tree?” and everyone laughed.

  The doctor paused for some questions. Sunny was distracted by Candace and her friend, who sat riveted throughout, his coal black eyes on the doctor. Periodically he’d whisper something into Candace’s ear and she’d whisper back. It was clear they had a natural intimacy, making Sunny feel a twinge of jealousy. But then he whispered something to Candace, causing her to sit up in her seat and wave her hand.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me!” Candace whispered loudly, holding up the palm of her hand as she tried to get Halajan’s attention. “Well, finally,” she said when Halajan eventually approached. “I’d like a cappuccino. And make it decaf, please.”

  Halajan raised her eyebrows and hesitated. But eventually she answered, “Certainly, madame. Of course. And your friend,” she said, now directing herself to the man sitting next to Candace. “Would your friend like something as well?”

  “The cappuccino is for me, thank you,” he answered in Dari.

  To Sunny, Halajan said under her breath, “Afghan men who are too big to order their own coffee are too small to enjoy it.”

  “Rumi?” asked Sunny.

  “No, but it could’ve been!” And she rolled her eyes, cocked her head toward Wakil, and went to the kitchen.

  The doctor finished her talk by answering dozens of questions, offering the name of a website where you could make donations, and promising to come back the following week. Then Isabel and Candace approached her. First Isabel asked to interview her about the health concerns over crop-dusting the poppy fields. Then she introduced Candace, who spoke to her for a few minutes before she brought Wakil over.

  During the few moments Wakil was out of earshot, Candace seemed to relax. “What a night! Thank you so much, Sunny. I’ve been spending so much time trying to get help for the children, I don’t know when the last time was that I got to hang out with some regular girls. I can get very tense, I know,” she said, looking at Halajan.

  Sunny took that as an apology, but from the look on Halajan’s face, she wasn’t sure that she did. In any case, Sunny was willing to give Candace the benefit of the doubt.

  “And thanks for introducing me to Doctor Malik,” Candace said to Isabel.

  “Anytime, Candy,” she said with a smile.

  “If it weren’t for that charming accent, I’d have to kill you.”

  “Then, see you all next week?” Sunny asked, surprising herself that she really hoped she would.

  “Definitely,” said Isabel, as she walked out with Petr.

  “Yeah,” said Candace in her thick Southern drawl. “We’ll all come back, now, ya hear?”

  Sunny laughed and watched the two women leave, one following behind an Afghan, and the other arm-in-arm with a Russian.

  If mornings made Ahmet feel restless from the pull of the mountains, then Kabul nights made him feel his self-imposed limitations as sharply as if he were lying shirtless on the rubbled roadway before him. He readjusted the rifle on his shoulder and arched his back as if to shake off the imprints of the stones. It was dark and the last guests were leaving the coffeehouse. Few cars were on the road; the streets were emptied of people. The sky was black and filled with stars; all the soot and smoke that gave the daylight sky a thick, brown haze had vanished into the night air. Those stars, which looked so close and glittered with life, only angered him. He kicked the wall with the heel of his boot. He was only twenty, but he felt eighty years old.

  He blew out some air and laughed to himself. That’s what standing at a gate for fourteen hours will do—make you feel old and tired. He thought of his father then, and how he’d gotten very old very quickly and didn’t live past sixty. His father, whom he respected, who taught him how to use a gun, fix a roof, and install a toilet but had few words even though his heart was as kind as his mother was stubborn. He missed his father. He’d have expected Ahmet to stay at home, to not dream big or go too far. He wouldn’t have been as disappointed in Ahmet as his mother seemed to be.

  The woman with the straight golden hair let the coffeehouse door slam behind her as she walked toward the gate, the tall Afghan she’d arrived with next to her. She was pretty, Ahmet thought, though much too modern for his taste, with her high boots and brightly colored clothes. She covered her head with a scarf but wore her hair loose under it, he could tell from the many strands that blew in the wind. She was much older than the man. Ahmet saw this over and over again: foreign women with local men, forging a kind of bond around money and mutual need. This was not for him. But he wanted a bond with a woman. He was waiting to be introduced to his bride the right way, the proper way: family to family, under the rules of Kabul, within the laws of Islam. Not to be moved by green eyes; never to gaze into his bride’s eyes until the wedding day.

  He wanted his own business. He wanted to protect his mother and at the same time to be free of his responsibility to her. He wanted this and that and everything. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted—much more than a steady good Muslim should. Much more than Muhammad would sanction. Much more than his beliefs would allow.

  He swallowed, hoping his desires would go down with the bad taste in his mouth.

  The man and woman walked out, and he closed the gate behind them. As the gate banged shut, the man turned back to him and looked him in the eyes. And with that one look, Ahmet summed him up, using the instinct that had served him well for the four years he’d guarded this post: no good. The tall Afghan with the flashy American woman was simply no good.

  Rashif sat at his table, pen in hand, the vellum before him. His room was black like the sky out the one small window across the room except for the table that was lit by a lone bulb overhead. It was late and he was tired, but he had a letter to write before going to sleep.

  He looked at the blank paper and touched his pen to it.

  My dearest Halajan,

  Tomo
rrow is Thursday and you will come to the bazaar. I am dreaming of seeing your eyes and praying to Allah that you will not be wearing a burqa. I know it is safer that way, but it makes me so angry. It’s as if a woman’s eyes, a woman’s face, are evil. We, who are old enough to have lived through one regime after another, know the burqa is about a man’s fear, not about a woman’s malice.

  Hala, I would like to write about your eyes and what they do to me, but today I am angry. I’m sorry, I know it’s not the way of Islam to waste your heart on anger, but I can’t help it. Two of Karzai’s soldiers entered my shop this morning. Both with rifles, one with two military coats over his arm. Winter has come, one said. We need these coats made to fit us, the other said, or we will freeze. They’d been previously worn by soldiers killed in action. Winter was upon them, the army’s resources were low, and the coats were to be reused. But a tall man replaced a short one, a stout one took the place of a thin one, and tailoring them to fit was a big job.

  I gave them each a coffee. And it was then I saw that they were no more than boys, maybe fifteen, sixteen. And I thought that their lives had been stolen from them.

  I know you feel in your heart as I do. The Talib are returning in larger numbers than the last time, and there is nothing our military can do to stop them. There is nothing the Americans can do. Their presence here only fuels the fire of the Taliban hatred. It’s as if everybody thinks that Afghans are theirs for the taking. It’s as if we’re not real people with hearts and minds of our own. It’s as if we’re animals who need humans to shape us. By Muhammad, I know that if more of us had some education and could read, we could be a mighty force. We could rule our own lives.

  Don’t worry, Hala—I know I’m only a tailor and not a leader. But I can dream like one!

  I am afraid for you and for us and for our beloved country. As you and I both know, life can turn quickly. How recently did we walk around in jeans and sweaters? I still have my Nike shoes, but now I wear them only inside my home. Silly, I know. There I am in my pajamas and my Nikes. Am I telling you too much?

  And so I am angry that we cannot be together because of foolish rules. My wife is dead, your husband is dead, and yet—if the wrong men were to read this letter, you would be stoned to death.

  I know what you will say to me, if you would ever write me a letter. You would quote Rumi, who said, “Patience is the key to joy.” Well, I am sick and tired of Rumi!

  Tomorrow, my love. Have a safe trip. One day I will visit you at your coffeehouse. You say don’t come because of your son, but one day I will disobey you, my love, and show up at your door. I will smile at your son and he will be like a son to me.

  Yours,

  Rashif

  Bashir Hadi was sitting on a stool at the counter, and with a calculator, totaled the earnings from the night before and posted them in the accounting book. He looked up and said, “Just one or two more nights like that and we’ll have our wall.” He smiled broadly. “And then, nothing will stop us. Here, look.”

  Sunny pulled the book toward her and leaned over it. “Today the wall, tomorrow the world.” She laughed.

  “Where is that girl?” Halajan asked, rushing in from the kitchen. “Has anyone seen Yazmina?”

  Oh, great. Sunny felt like kicking herself. She had planned to check on her this morning, but she’d gotten distracted. Yazmina normally came down before the first muezzin call, when the sun appeared over the mountain peaks to the east of Kabul. The sun was already spilling in through the windows, leaving a blinding glare as it bounced off the tile floors.

  She stood and said, “Not yet. I’ll go and—”

  “I will get her,” said Halajan as she headed toward the back.

  “Halajan, wait. I’ll go,” insisted Sunny, putting a hand on Halajan’s arm. She felt responsible, knowing Yazmina’s exhaustion had to do with her pregnancy, and she did not want Halajan to find out. Halajan was a modern woman, but she would do anything to protect her son, the café, her home. Harboring an unmarried, pregnant woman was dangerous for them all.

  But Halajan said, “I am going,” and she was already out the back door before Sunny could stop her.

  Halajan knocked on Yazmina’s door. And when there was no answer, she opened it slowly. She hadn’t been in here since Sunny had fixed the room for her, and what a lovely job she had done. Even a mirror! She saw that it was turned to face the wall, and she understood, for this girl was from the mountains. Yazmina was still in her toshak, apparently sleeping. But Halajan couldn’t tell because her face was turned away.

  “Yazmina,” she whispered, as she knelt down next to the bed. “Yazmina, it’s time to get up.”

  Yazmina rolled over toward her without saying a word. Her skin was a greenish gray, her eyes sunken. Her flimsy nightdress revealed a swollen belly.

  Halajan’s skin bristled with fear. She’d seen that look before on the faces of other women when she was a midwife many years before. And on her own face when she was pregnant with Ahmet. Twenty years ago and she could still remember the nausea. She glanced behind her to be sure the door was closed.

  “Yazmina,” she whispered. “Are you with child?”

  “Of course not,” she said, pulling her blankets over her and turning back to the wall.

  But Halajan pressed further. “You must tell me, young one. Who else can help you?”

  “No one. And if you try to, you will be punished just like me,” Yazmina said fearfully.

  “But who is the father?”

  “My husband,” she cried.

  “Where is he now? Does he know?”

  “He is dead. An explosion on the hillside.” She spoke as if her world had ended on that day.

  Halajan hadn’t asked about the circumstances that brought Yazmina to the coffeehouse, though she suspected it was something like this. For what other reason would a woman of Yazmina’s beauty be alone with nowhere to go? She let out a deep breath and wiped her brow. She was perspiring even in the chilly room.

  “How far along are you?”

  “About halfway,” she said, panicked. In the lightweight kameez she wore for sleeping, she couldn’t hide the roundness of her stomach. It protruded like a small melon.

  “You’re a silly girl not to tell Sunnyjan. We must now.”

  “But how can I?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Once she knows she will have no option but to throw me out. And then I will have nowhere to go, nothing to protect my baby. Please, Halajan, let me keep hiding it. I want this baby. It is my only connection to my Najam, who went to paradise too soon. I beg you. Do not expose me. I will lose the baby. I will lose everything. Didn’t you hear the doctor’s words last night? Her stories about baby boys stolen, baby girls killed? And I have lost everything already.” The tears fell down her cheeks onto her pillow.

  “You underestimate Sunnyjan. She will understand. And she will find a way.” Though Halajan knew firsthand what happened to women who had babies with no husband. She didn’t require a foreign doctor to tell her that often the infants were stolen to be sold as slaves, warriors, or sexual playthings, the women jailed or killed.

  “There is no way. Not in Kabul, not in all of Afghanistan. A woman and her baby are only as good as the man who takes care of them.”

  Halajan hesitated, looked into Yazmina’s eyes, and then made a decision. “We will have to hide it until we can hide it no longer. First, though, we must make you well. I will go to the market for some herbs. It is Thursday, after all. It is market day.”

  She leaned toward Yazmina to kiss her forehead but then stopped herself, realizing this wasn’t her daughter. Instead, she touched the tips of her three middle fingers to Yazmina’s forehead, then brought them to her own lips and kissed them, and then touched them again to Yazmina’s forehead.

  Halajan whispered, “I will tell Sunnyjan that you are with a fever and that I will get you a remedy in the market. You do not move today, understood?”

  Yazmina put her hand on Halajan’s hand and said, ??
?Thank you, Halajan. Thank you.”

  Then there was a knock on the door, and Sunny entered. She closed the door softly behind her and looked at the two women’s faces and knew that Yazmina’s secret was out. But she was going to play it cool. She approached the bed as Halajan stood, giving her place to Sunny, who knelt on the floor next to it.

  “How are you feeling, Yazmina?” asked Sunny softly.

  “She has the tab, a fever,” interrupted Halajan.

  “Is that it?” asked Sunny. “You have the tab? We should get her to the doctor.”

  “She just needs to rest,” said Halajan.

  Sunny turned to her and said, “Halajan, please. May I talk to Yazmina? I know my Dari isn’t great, but she understands me.”

  Yazmina nodded and smiled weakly.

  “So, don’t you think you should see a daktar?”

  “She doesn’t need a doctor!” insisted Halajan. “She just needs to take things easy.”

  Sunny stood and faced Halajan. “But”—and now she bent forward and whispered into Halajan’s ear—“she is pregnant. And she needs to see a doctor.”

  Finally, Halajan was silenced. She looked at Yazmina and nodded.

  Yazmina began to cry.

  “You knew?” asked Halajan.

  “Yes,” Sunny said quietly. “I knew, but I was waiting for some time to pass so that Yazmina would trust me. I didn’t want to frighten her, or shame her. And I wasn’t sure how others would react.”

  “But when did you know? How long not a word?” asked Yazmina.

  “At the wazarat-e-zanan, the Women’s Ministry, when I first saw you.”

  Halajan smiled and nodded. Sunny was a good woman, very annoying, but good.

  “You knew I was hamla and you took me to your house?”

  “Of course,” said Sunny, knowing the word for pregnant. “How could I not?”