A Cup of Friendship

by Deborah Rodriguez

  When she and Halajan returned to the coffeehouse, Sunny would enjoy emptying the bags onto the counter before putting the items away. They would open the chocolate and finish the Mountain Dew in one sitting.

  Sunny was like that. She got very excited about things, which made Yazmina feel uncomfortable. At home, she and Layla could laugh and cry, but never in the presence of their uncle. She hadn’t been able to help feeling uncomfortable sitting at the table the previous night in the café with Jack and Bashir Hadi. To sit together like that was something Yazmina had never done before. And they were drinking wine! Everything in Kabul was foreign. Everything was uncomfortable and everything was wonderful—except Layla wasn’t with her.

  She put on her clothes and sighed deeply at the plain dress she wore. At the Mondai-e, there were clothing shops with dresses and shalwaar kameezes that looked like they’d fray if you sneezed on them. Nothing like the ones made by Sharifa, the woman back home who had taught Yazmina how to sew the loveliest garments by her own hand out of fabric she herself had embroidered and embellished with beads and shells and old coins. Someday, Inshallah, she dreamed of being able to sew like Sharifa. Someday, she thought, looking out her window to the rising sun, she would sew in the colors of that sky. A dress in a pale orange. What a sight she would be. With golden bangles on her wrist. And shoes of real leather. And her eyebrows threaded and her hair strung with beads under a scarf of the finest silk, like the ones Sunny wore.

  She’d want to share it all with Layla.

  Ahmet opened the car door and watched Yazmina climb into the backseat. She was completely hidden under the burqa, but as her hand reached out to close the car door, the sleeve slipped up her arm, revealing her narrow wrist. It was brown and slender. His mother climbed into the backseat after her, and he slammed the door with a little too much strength. He had other things to do than act as her driver, but it was going to rain and how could he be a good son and let her walk through the muddy streets? Rain or not, he felt that two women should always be accompanied on the streets of Kabul, even though his mother often felt otherwise.

  He got into the driver’s seat, shut and locked his door, and adjusted his rearview mirror, seeing Yazmina behind him. He turned and locked her door, too. Behind the mesh of the burqa, he could make out her stunning green eyes—or imagine them there. Where did she come from, he wondered, where was her family, why was she alone? He’d seen no signs of her entertaining customers, which confused him, for she had to be a prostitute—there was no other reason for a woman as beautiful as she to be without a husband. And if she had one, where was he? Ahmet had heard of women leaving husbands who beat them or worse, which was something he swore he’d never do, but that was the husband’s prerogative, was it not? And it was the wife’s duty to endure. There was only one reason she could be excused to have left him: if he was dead.

  He told himself to pay attention to the crowded streets as he headed toward the Masjid-e Haji Yaqub, the mosque where he frequently prayed, not because it was more righteous than praying on his own rug in his own room, but because the mosque was so beautiful. He loved its blue tiles from Herat, and the acacia trees that framed the patios. It was the mosques of Kabul that were its proudest achievements.

  As if Muhammad were laughing from above, when he passed the mosque he would have to turn onto Butcher Street, the ugliest in all of Kabul, where animals were slaughtered right on the streets, their carcasses left to hang in the sun. He made sure the windows were up, the vents closed, so that the stink of entrails and blood wouldn’t permeate the car. At the end of the street was a roundabout, and past it the wide road with the Chinese Embassy, with its high walls, where beggar children approached the car, their arms outstretched. Women sat on the edge of the road begging near the open sewers, holding their babies in their laps. Here the traffic was at a standstill as it always was, the exhaust fumes were inescapable, and makeshift shops, selling the used clothing donated to Kabul out of pushcarts and hanging on barbed-wire fences, lined the streets.

  Ahmet didn’t have to wait long to hear his mother’s rant, the same words she said every time.

  “In the days of the king, you’d never see this. Kabul is not a beggar’s city. This is because of years of war and displaced people with no homes, no way to make a living. And it’s because of the Talib. Their violence has created an entire city of people under the city.” She frowned. “Afghanistan is not India! And this is not my Kabul.”

  “Mother, your Kabul has been gone for a long time.” He knew she was right. But if it were him, he’d rather die of starvation than beg in a ditch on the side of the road.

  Traffic was slow and dense, but eventually they could see the beginning of the Mondai-e ahead, where it began on this side of the Kabul River. But you had to cross the river, over the bridge, to really get to the center of the bazaar.

  He could feel his mother getting anxious, as if she couldn’t sit another minute.

  “Hurry up, Ahmet! Is there no other way? I have an errand. And it’s looking like the heavens might open at any minute.”

  “We’re almost there, Mother,” he answered as patiently as he could. But there was so much traffic that he knew they’d be sitting there for at least another ten minutes.

  Then his mother said, “We’re getting out. We will be faster on foot.”

  “You will wait until we get there,” he insisted. “It isn’t safe.”

  “Come, Yazmina. Let’s go. Ahmet, we’ll meet you at the bridge.”

  Ahmet threw up his hands. He could do nothing to prevent his stubborn mother from getting out of the car with Yazmina and then walking away into the crowded street.

  He got through the roundabout, parked as quickly as he could, paid a teenage boy to watch the car, and ran to catch up to them, but they were already out of sight. The sky had blackened and rain was imminent.

  Walking toward the river, Yazmina felt her heart beat faster. Her legs felt as though they’d gained length and strength with each stride. But she knew the rules even under the burqa: Keep your head down and your eyes to yourself. It was unacceptable to look at a man straight on or to laugh aloud or to smile at a small child or to gaze longingly at a dress in the market. In the country, she was freer to be herself, to show her feelings, but there had been no place to go with them. All she had, after her Najam died, was her uncle’s house, the hills, farm, and barn, and perhaps the local market when the traders came through. Here she had people of all colors and clothing, people from all parts of the world, an entire city of changing faces. And yet she couldn’t allow herself to show her excitement.

  They walked briskly, keeping their eyes to the ground, moving faster than the cars that were being stopped at the corner by police. She had seen this many times since coming to Kabul. Police in full uniform, rifles drawn, standing at intersections and bending over into car windows, searching the backseats and the fronts, and sometimes the trunks. She had no idea what they were looking for, and she hoped they didn’t find it while she was there.

  It had begun to rain by the time they arrived but it didn’t matter. Yazmina couldn’t stop herself from looking fully, head up, eyes wide, a rush of blood to her cheeks. Everything looked marvelous. But it was the dresses, the shalwaar kameezes, and the chaderi that she was after. She checked her pocket to be sure the money that Sunny had given her was still there.

  Suddenly, Halajan turned to her and said anxiously, “I have some errands. I must hurry—the rain. Let us meet back here in ten minutes.” Yazmina was both afraid and relieved. Sunny had been very careful to tell her not to leave Halajan’s side, but she wanted time to explore the clothing shops.

  “Do not leave this area and do not speak to anyone,” Halajan continued.

  “But Sunny gave me money for a new shalwaar kameez.”

  Halajan quickly gestured to a store nearby. “That one is good. I’ll meet you there.”

  Halajan was frantic that she’d miss him. The sky grew dark, the clouds burst, and the rai
n was coming now, soaking her. She didn’t care. She rushed down the street without caution. Though one rarely saw a woman running on the streets of Kabul, she had to get to Rashif’s before he was gone. She stayed straight and fast, her heart racing to the beat of the downpour.

  When she got to his stall, she immediately realized she needn’t have worried. There he was, holding a large red and white Coca-Cola umbrella, his other hand in his pocket. He smiled at her and looked relieved to see her.

  “Shukur Khodia, thank God,” he said softly as she drew near. He looked from right to left to be sure they wouldn’t be seen, but the street was empty because of the rain. He handed her the letter, wrinkled and damp, from his pocket. His fingers touched hers. They were warm, and he let them linger there for a moment.

  “Be safe, take care,” Halajan answered, pulling her hand back and quickly burying the letter in the folds of her chaderi. She smiled then, and opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her words got caught in her throat. She spun on her heel to hurry back to meet Yazmina.

  But there was Ahmet, waving to her from the corner. Her heart rapped hard against her chest. Inshallah, he saw nothing, she thought. If he did, she’d say that Sunny had asked her to go to the tailor to check on her new dress. Or maybe that he was fixing a tablecloth. But, no, Ahmet couldn’t have seen much, if anything, with all the rain. She willed herself to calm down. Her stomach tugged at her for a moment, but she waved back and smiled. He was a good boy, her Ahmet, but sometimes she wished she could get him to do something—anything—more than worrying about her, more than his chokidor duties. Like his sister, off in Germany studying at the university. If only she could get Ahmet to loosen up a little, maybe be just a little modern instead of holding on with reddened knuckles to the old ways. Then she would have succeeded as a mother.

  The dress shop was filled with color and light. Dresses of every color hung suspended from the ceiling, while hundreds of others, under plastic covering, lined the walls. Yazmina had never seen so many dresses. Some had mirrors, some beads, some plain, but all beautiful.

  The shopkeeper came over to her and said, “Salaam alaikum. It’s a bad day to be out. You are wet. But can I help you find a new dress perhaps?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. “I’d like pants with it, too.”

  “So you want the Indian-style shalwaar kameez.”

  “Yes,” she said, “like in that picture.” She pointed to a brightly colored photograph of a beautiful young Indian woman wearing the gaudy, bright Bollywood style of dress. Even in her remote village, everyone was obsessed with Bollywood movies. Her uncle had a tiny generator, enough to power a small VCR. And Yazmina, Layla, and their neighbors would watch movies they got from traders, who’d gotten them on the Pakistani black market.

  The old man looked at her, from ankle to neck, making her feel very uncomfortable, and then walked to a rack. “Come, young one,” he said. “Here are dresses in your size. They all come with pants. Did you have a color in mind?”

  “Orange,” she said, “like the sun. But I’d like it a size or two bigger than me. It’s for my mother.” She had to lie, for how could she tell him that she needed room to grow?

  “Why the tailor on such a day?” Ahmet asked his mother as they walked quickly in the rain, the muddy ground giving way beneath their feet.

  “Sunny asked me to check on her curtains, but they were not ready. There is no time for talk. We must get to Yazmina before she becomes drenched.”

  He looked at her but she didn’t turn to look at him, and he felt foolish. He sounded suspicious and silly, but he knew of Rashif from the elders at the mosque and he didn’t like him. It was a long time ago, but, as the story was told, when Rashif was younger he’d been active in a reform group that aided Afghan refugees, one of those antitraditionalist groups of so-called intellectuals that received American money, embraced Western values, and helped Afghans in only one way: to forget who they were and who they are and who, in the eyes of Muhammad, they were destined to be.

  That tailor had the heart of a modernist, just like his own mother. Ahmet had to love and respect his mother, according to the precepts. But he didn’t have to like Rashif one bit.

  “What’s with you?” Sunny asked.

  Jack had come in that morning distracted and cranky. He hardly said hello, sat, gulped his coffee, and buried himself in his newspaper.

  Finally, he looked up. “You,” he said. “That’s what’s with me.” And he went back to his paper.

  “Excuse me?” Sunny said, putting a hand on her hip. “When you’re ready to discuss it, you know where to find me.” She turned and walked away.

  But behind her she heard, “Two things.”

  So she turned around, walked back to his table, and said, “So give me the bad news.”

  “Driving that damn car around town like you did yesterday.”

  He sounded as closed minded as an old Afghan man talking to his youngest wife. She knew he hated the car; he’d warned her about it and had explained why a woman shouldn’t be out alone in Kabul, many times.

  She sighed loudly. “And?”

  “Jesus, Sunny, it’s dangerous,” he said with frustration. “And two, Bashir Hadi gives you this great idea to build your wall higher so you can make more money and be safer and then you just sit on your ass, as nice as it is,” he said, craning his neck to look at her butt.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said in return. “What am I supposed to do? Nobody came.”

  “Give them a reason, for God’s sake. We came up with a hell of a lot of good ideas last night. I know you’re not stupid. So, what is it, are you stupid?”

  She scowled then, and he smiled. She sat down at his table. Picked up his fork and tasted his egg. “Um, that’s good.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Okay, so I liked the idea of getting a speaker. But who?”

  “If I knew I wouldn’t tell you because you’d only blow me off, Ms. Stubborn Know-It-All.”

  She smiled again, this time fully. He could be cute, this fat old fart, who wasn’t so fat or old, and he was only sometimes a fart, not to mention handsome with his square chin and deep eyes.

  “You’re right. I’ll think of someone.”

  “But I do know of a doctor from India working here in the field. Passionate about women’s health issues in Afghanistan, and I know she wants to get the word out about the dire straits these women are in. Besides, I helped her once with something. She owes me.”

  Sunny’s eyes widened. “Really? You think she’ll come speak here at the café?”

  “Only if you beg me.”

  She put her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Please.”

  “But promise me one thing.” He paused, waiting for her response, which she took a while to provide. “Hello?”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  “You get people here. Otherwise I’ll be embarrassed.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that,” she said.

  “Come on, Sunny,” he answered with some impatience. “Out of respect for the doctor.”

  She realized, then, how serious he was. “Don’t worry. I’ll get people.”

  One week later, on a bitter cold Wednesday night, Sunny lit the candles, Halajan poured the wine into the teapots, Bashir Hadi arranged the cookies and pastries on platters, Yazmina set the tables, and the windows rattled on their hinges. Whistling drafts came through the caulked edging of their casements, and it seemed only a matter of time before the roof blew off and the house lifted up into the sky.

  Jack had confirmed that Dr. Ramita Malik would come and speak about her work. So Sunny had gone to the bazaar to buy poster board and tempera, and made dozens of signs that she took to the Women’s Ministry, the hospital, the schools, the French House, the UN, the American Embassy, and the other guesthouses and compounds—everywhere she knew where female foreigners lived, worked, and gathered—and pleaded with people to put them up. She’d thought about emailing her wom
en friends, but they’d all left Kabul over the past few months. Sunny had never been one to need or want more than one or two close friends at a time, and really had to know someone well before confiding in them. Her Kabul friends—Chris, the schoolteacher from South Africa; Ellen, a cousin of a cousin of an old friend who had been in town studying Dari; and Suzanne, whom she’d met on her very first day in Kabul, and who ran a beauty school—had all left. Kabul was a temporary stop or a momentary adventure for all but the stalwart or foolhardy, of which Sunny realized she was the latter. Recently she’d felt a little lonely, and not only because Tommy had been away so long this time, but because she didn’t have someone to talk to with the kind of shorthand that only a close friend understands. A look, a raised brow, a down-turned mouth.

  It wasn’t that men weren’t invited to the evening talk. It was just that Kabul was such a world of men, a place where women’s concerns and voices were secondary at best, so why not give women a place and a reason to come to hang out and talk and just be together? The more she thought about it, the more excited she was about the idea. Wednesday nights for women: food, drink, and something to think and talk about.

  The coffeehouse was ready, and hopefully Jack would show. He wasn’t a woman, but he had the heart of one. She hadn’t seen him since he’d made the offer to pull in Dr. Malik, and it made her realize that she too often took him for granted. He was one of those people who make others feel safe and comfortable, make them sit up a little straighter and feel good about themselves.

  The front door opened with a whoosh of wind from outside. It wasn’t Jack. But it was people, and Sunny was glad for that. One, surprisingly enough, was Petr, a tall, gorgeous Uzbek whom she’d met at a party last year at L’Atmosphere—or “L’Atmo,” as the regulars called it, the French nightclub that hosted the Eurotrash, the ex-pats, the wealthy and the wannabes, the drug dealers and the warlords. In short, it was a place where she didn’t belong, but not because they didn’t accept her. She just didn’t want to associate with those types anymore. When Tommy first left, they were all she had. But then she came to realize that they were the same people she had wanted to get away from in the States, only in Arkansas they wore cowboy boots instead of Hugo Boss and carried .38s instead of Uzis.