Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “At least you have a house.”

  “You’re right. There is that. And like I said, the door is open for you as long as I’m here.”

  “I don’t belong here,” Kat said, shaking her head.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course—”

  “I don’t belong anywhere,” the girl interrupted with a sudden sob.

  A lump formed in Sunny’s throat. “I know how you feel.”

  “Really?” Kat asked as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her arm. “You think you do? I doubt that.”

  Sunny cocked her head at the girl. “Yes, I do.” Sunny felt a little stung by the girl’s accusation. “You don’t really know much about me, do you?”

  Kat didn’t answer.

  “No, you don’t. You’re just too busy being all critical and angry all the time to learn much about anybody.”

  “I know more than you think I know,” Kat shot back. “And you’re so busy telling everyone about how it’s so much better in Afghanistan than it is over here that you don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.” Sunny felt the crack in her voice.

  “You don’t even make sense!”

  “Whoa there, ladies, whoa,” Joe interrupted, waving a white napkin in the air. “Listen to the two of you. A couple of top-notch goldbrickers I’ve got here. Enough already. Are we going to make those two pick the rest of the grapes by themselves?” He reached across the table for the empty plates, stacking them one on top of another with exaggerated care.

  Sunny knelt down to lace up her boots, her own tears invisible to the others. No, this was not at all how she had pictured this day. And she was pissed.

  “You know,” she said to Kat as she straightened up on the bench, “I’m sorry that you’re feeling so bad. I truly am. And I’m sorry you lost your parents. But you do realize you’re not the only one around here to lose somebody they loved, don’t you?”

  Kat lowered her eyes toward the table.

  “And I know it hurts, believe me. And it will always hurt. But your anger isn’t going to fix that, not at all.”

  “I wouldn’t go there if I were you,” Kat muttered, as if talking to herself.

  “You have your parents with you forever, you know,” Sunny said, her voice softening a bit. “They’re who you are. You’re a lucky girl, having the blood of those people, and all those who came before them, inside you. You’re the daughter of thousands of years of incredible history, of a resilient and noble spirit that’s lived forever. You should be proud of who you are.”

  Kat brushed off Sunny’s words with a snort. “Yeah, well I also have the blood of a monster in me.”

  “Oh come on, Kat. What are you talking about?”

  Kat sat up and looked Sunny straight in the eye, as if sizing her up for a difficult task. “You really want to know? Then I’ll tell you. My father isn’t dead, at least I don’t think he is. He’s back in Afghanistan, that wonderful country you love so much, where nobody gives a shit that he murdered my mother.”

  Sunny felt as though she’d been kicked hard in the stomach. Across the table, Joe was nodding with a faraway look in his eye, as if he were trying to recall something he’d forgotten. It was he who spoke first. “Your mother, she died in a fire, am I right?” Kat nodded. “I remember now, from the newspaper. A terrible story.”

  “I’m so, so sorry.” Sunny placed her hand on Kat’s arm. This time the girl didn’t pull away. Sunny didn’t need to hear the details. She’d heard all too many of these types of stories in Afghanistan. Honor killings. There was certainly no honor to be had for those left behind, she thought.

  They sat for a long while in silence, under the bright midday sun. Kat suddenly looked to Sunny like a little girl, her eyes soft and round, her lips relaxed and full. Joe, on the other hand, seemed stirred up. She could practically feel the wheels turning inside his head as she bent over to finish lacing her boots. Sunny felt as depleted as a flat tire on a desert highway. She’d give anything and everything for an afternoon alone with a long shower and a cool pillow. But there was work to be done, so instead she heaved a sigh as deep as the blue Sound itself, and started back down toward the waiting vines.

  36

  Halajan had wanted to do things properly this time, unlike with Najama, who had come into this world so suddenly, and under such difficult circumstances, that they’d never even considered a celebration. She had been picturing a big party for months, one where every woman she knew would gather in their finest glittery party dresses under her roof. She had hoped her daughter Aisha would fly in from her home in Germany; it had been so long since they had seen her. She would invite Bita and Tamra from her driving class, along with their teacher, Anisa, of course. Fattanah from down the street would arrive, perhaps with some bread still warm from her ovens. And maybe even crazy Candace would pop in on her way to who-knows-where, with her bright yellow hair and sparkly jewels that would make the other women stare with wonder. Together they’d all dance to the beat of the harmonium and tabla—the reed organ and goat-skinned drums played by Bashir Hadi’s wife’s brother and cousin—until they were dizzy with laughter, collapsing onto the toshaks in Halajan’s sitting room with exhaustion, eager for the hawasaana, special treats she would have asked Bashir Hadi to prepare for them. They would feast on lamb and sheer-brinj, the sweet rice pudding with almonds and rosewater that was Halajan’s favorite, aashak dumplings filled with chives, and sweet baklava, all washed down with Coca-Cola and green tea. The women would present gifts for the baby; little clothes and soft blankets and gracious offerings of money. And they would all be fussing around Halajan, offering their congratulations to the proud grandmother for the new addition to her family.

  But, of course, none of this would be happening now. Not with all that had occurred at the coffeehouse, and with the news of Omar’s death arriving just seven days earlier. Now Zara was back in Herat with her family, driven there by a Canadian couple, NGO workers Candace knew, who had arrived two days after the baby was born. Halajan could still hear the girl’s brokenhearted sobs as the woman helped her gently into the SUV. But Zara was young, and had a good family who would do whatever they could to help ease the pain of losing Omar, and make her whole again.

  Ahmet seemed to be taking Omar’s death hard as well. It was as though he had been walking around in a daze since that day of the baby’s birth, as if he were the one up all night offering his breast, as opposed to Yazmina. She couldn’t help but wonder if part of it was disappointment at having a girl. But perhaps it was just panic at the new responsibility that comes with a child, especially for a man so uncertain of his own future. Whatever it was, he had hardly looked at the baby since Yazmina had returned from the hospital. Lately it had become nearly impossible to tell what was going on behind her son’s wooden eyes.

  So today’s shaw-e-shash celebration would be a quiet one. Just their little family, with Layla and Sunny attending from across two continents, thanks to the computer they’d set up in the middle of the carved wooden table.

  Rashif turned the screen and tilted it back to allow them all to see. “Hey, everyone!” Sunny’s voice boomed across the miles. Rashif rushed to turn down the volume, so as not to wake the child.

  “Hello, Sunny. Do you see our new daughter?” Yazmina tugged at the long yellow scarf she wore across her body, revealing a tiny pink face with kohl-smudged eyes peeking out from a tight cocoon of blankets tied up with a ribbon, like a gift-wrapped peanut in a shell. Sunny’s hands flew to her mouth.

  “Hello, my little niece! Khosh aamadi. Welcome!” Halajan could see Layla craning her neck to get a better look. Then she disappeared from view. “Kat!” they heard her call. “Bya tefla bebi! Come and see the baby!” Then there were three people crowded into the screen, their faces stretched and warped, as if they were made of rubber. Halajan was puzzled by this Kat’s hair, part white and part black. And Layla speaking to her in Dari? Was this the one who
was teaching her English? But it was the look on this girl’s face that unsettled her the most. She clearly seemed as though she wanted to be anywhere but here, a part of this little gathering in Halajan’s home. Yazmina held the baby closer to the screen. Then Halajan noticed the girl’s hard eyes softening.

  “She’s beautiful,” Kat said. “So beautiful.”

  “Nazar nasha!” they all shouted out at once. “Nazar nasha!”

  Kat, and Sunny, looked confused. Halajan had to laugh. “It is not good to let someone compliment too much, or bad luck may fall upon the child. Nazar nasha is what we say to keep the baby from becoming jinxed.”

  “Sorry,” the girl said as she slipped out of view.

  Yazmina settled back onto her toshak and tucked the baby back in her sling. Rashif sat leaning against the wall with a sleepy Najama in his lap, Ahmet silent and solemn beside him, picking at a dish of bolaani, the spinach-filled flatbread Halajan had put out at the last minute.

  “Well then,” Halajan spoke, suddenly aware of the stillness of the room. She wished they had at least thought to play some music on the radio, something, anything to liven things up a little.

  It was Sunny who broke the silence. “Now what do we do?” she asked eagerly.

  Yazmina shifted the bundle in her arms and leaned in a bit toward the screen. “Today,” she explained, “we are mixing some of the things we normally do right away when the baby is born with some of the things that we do on the sixth night. It is better this way, given the sad news we received on that day she was born. And I am happy that my sister, and of course you, can now be a part of our celebration.”

  Sunny nodded. “Me too. You have no idea.” She moved in closer to the screen. “So what happens first?”

  Yazmina picked up a date from the dish on the table. “A baby’s first taste must be of something sweet,” she said as she popped the date into her own mouth and chewed. Then she withdrew the sticky morsel with her fingers and gently pried open the baby’s tiny beak, and rubbed the softened fruit onto her gums. “This is called tahneek,” she explained. “It is also supposed to strengthen the jaws and the muscles of the baby.”

  “She likes it!” Sunny laughed. “Better keep that one away from Bashir Hadi’s cookies.”

  Halajan could see Sunny and Layla, with the shadow of the black-and-white-haired girl behind them, smiling and gushing over the baby’s every move. She also noticed Ahmet’s eyes darting back and forth from the screen to the bundle in his wife’s arms as he straightened on his pillow. “Please, get me the bowl and razor,” she said to him. He stood and crossed into the other room, and returned obediently with the two objects in his hands. “Now we will shave the baby’s head,” Halajan explained.

  “What?” Sunny gasped. “And ruin her little ’do? The poor thing will be bald as a cue ball.”

  “She seems to have enough to spare.” Layla laughed at the mop of black hair that sprang from the knit cap pulled from the infant’s head.

  “Well then maybe we should just shave a part of it, because according to the traditions, we must make an offering of silver equal to the weight of her hair to the needy,” Halajan said.

  “Mother!” Ahmet scolded in a harsh whisper.

  “It’s just a joke. Of course we will give to the poor. And don’t worry, Sunny. It is said that shaving will make the hair grow back even thicker.”

  “So is that why you shave it? To make it thicker?”

  Halajan shrugged her shoulders. “That is what some people say. They also say that the shaving of the head provides the child with strength, and opens up the pores of their skin, and that it is good for their hearing and eyesight—just like the kohl—and improves their sense of smell as well.”

  “Wow. I might just go shave my own head. What do you think?” Halajan and Yazmina laughed as Sunny pulled back the mop of curls on her head into a smooth flat cap.

  Halajan pushed up her sleeves and dipped her knobby fingers into the warm, soapy water, then ran them gently over the baby’s head, feeling the soft spot where the bones of the skull had not yet joined. She breathed in the sweet, familiar scent of a newborn’s scalp, then picked up the razor and dipped it in the water as well.

  “Be careful, Mother!” Ahmet leaned in, as if to grab the sharp tool from his mother’s hands.

  Halajan paused and smiled a little, then began to stroke the razor lightly across the baby’s head. “It is important that I get it all, and not leave one strand on the head,” she continued with her explanation to Sunny. “That is called qaz, and is disallowed. It is not fair to the head to make some of it bare and keep the rest hidden. Like wearing a shoe on one foot, and none on the other, which is also forbidden. It would be as though a part of the body receives sunlight, and the rest of it shade.”

  “Just like the grapes!” Layla exclaimed. Halajan stopped for a second and tilted her head to the screen. “We pulled off the leaves to give sun to all the grapes,” the girl explained.

  “Okay,” Halajan said as she returned to her task. “So we are pulling off her leaves to give sun to all her grapes.” With the baby’s eyes seeming to stare straight into hers, she finished the job without even the tiniest of nicks, and extended the bowl and razor toward Ahmet. “Done.” Her son took them from her hands and released a breath he seemed to have been holding inside the entire time.

  Yazmina dried the baby’s scalp with the edge of the scarf. “And now,” she addressed the laptop screen, as if she were instructing a class, “it is time to recite the aazaan. The call to prayer is normally supposed to be the first words a newborn hears, to invite the child to embrace Allah, and to keep away the temptation of Shaytaan.” Yazmina held out her arm to Rashif, who stood and helped her up onto her feet. She lifted the bundle from the sling and held it out for him to do the honors. He solemnly took the child from her with a ceremonious nod, and cleared his throat.

  “No,” came a voice from behind them. “I will be the one to do it.”

  Halajan could barely contain the grin that was fighting to take over her face. She bit down hard on the insides of her cheeks and looked over at her daughter-in-law, who appeared to be frozen on the spot. Finally Halajan noticed her breast rise as she took in a deep breath, one that seemed to make her grow three inches taller in front of their eyes. Then Yazmina lifted the baby from Rashif’s arms and placed her gently in her husband’s embrace, their two pairs of eyes meeting with a bolt of passion that could be felt throughout the room. With Yazmina’s help, Ahmet carefully lowered himself down to sit on the pillow, where she perched on her knees behind his left shoulder. He then bent his head toward the baby’s right ear, and a soft sweet tune began to flow from his lips. “Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar,” he sang. “Allaahu Akbar, Allaahu Akbar.” Halajan and Yazmina’s eyes connected through a blur of tears that were fighting to spill from their eyes. “Hayya’ alas Salaah,” Ahmet continued. The baby cooed in his arms, as if the sound of her father’s cracking voice were a lullaby meant just for her.

  “Laa ilaaha illa-Lah.” Ahmet had barely been able to finish the aazaan. Yazmina reached out for the child but Ahmet held her tight, against his heart, as a rosy glow filled his face. Halajan had not seen him look this way for months. It was as if he had awoken from a stupor. “Do you see my girl?” he asked as he leaned in toward the screen with the baby, a tear sliding down his face onto hers. “Sunny, do you see my daughter?” he wept.

  Halajan willed the lump in her throat back to wherever it came from, with no success. She took the hem of her chador and dabbed at her own tears that came bursting out like water from a shattered dam.

  Ahmet gently bounced the tiny bundle as he crooked his neck to wipe his cheek on the back of a sleeve. “My precious Aarezo,” he whispered. “My daughter of hope.” A soft coo escaped from between the blankets. “I have so much to say to you too!” he answered with a smile. “But first, my little one,” he paused to kiss the top of her head, “I want to make you a promise, today on the day of your naming. It i
s a special promise for you, and also for your big sister Najama.” He tilted the swaddled baby up toward the girl now asleep on Rashif’s lap. “It is for you two, but also for your Aunt Layla, that I say this now. Actually,” he leaned in close to the baby’s ear and whispered loudly enough for the others to hear, “it is also said for all the bossy women in my life, the ones who have made me as crazy as I am.” He paused and looked at his mother and Yazmina, and then at Sunny, who chuckled a little as she wiped her own eyes. Ahmet turned back to the child and then went on. “For it is thanks to your mother and your nana and also your auntie Sunny that I have eyes that see what they see, and a heart that feels what it feels.” He spoke softly, his face almost touching hers, as if there were no one else in the room. “We are lucky, are we not?” Again the baby cooed. “But today, my precious daughter, it is you who I am grateful to, you who has made me discover a love that feels oceans bigger than what can possibly fit inside of me.”

  Across the room, Halajan reached for Rashif’s hand.

  “How, my tiny girl,” Ahmet continued in a voice breaking with emotion, “how can I not wish a life full of promise for you, a future where anything you dream of can be possible? You are my sun and my moon and my reason for being, and there will be no man who will keep away the happiness I crave for you.” Behind him, Yazmina tightened her grip on her husband’s trembling shoulders. Ahmet’s eyes remained fixed on the baby. “But I cannot just wish this life for you,” he said, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “No. I must make it so.” He inhaled deeply, as if attempting to force the tears that were now falling like rain back inside. “Here is my promise to you, my beautiful Aarezo,” he continued, pulling himself up straighter on the cushion. “From this day forward, I will devote myself to fixing what is wrong for the girls and women in this country. It is my duty. Because without you, we would have no country. And when we silence you, we are cheating ourselves of half the power that is needed to make this place whole again.”