She was also eager to get back to work. It was her responsibility to raise money for Wakil’s school, and she’d set up meetings with several NGOs involved with the welfare of Afghan children.
It was late morning by the time they said their good-byes and got into the same black SUV with the same driver who’d brought them here. Sitting close to Wakil in the back, their shoulders touching, she thought back to when they’d met and how warm and gracious he was, the way most Afghan men are. He’d invited them to his home if they were ever back in Kabul, and a month later when a meeting sent Richard there, she’d contacted him. She knew that night, as they ate their elegant dinner in his home, what she wanted to happen between them, what seemed destined to happen given the strong pull toward Wakil she felt in his presence, but had no idea that she would come to see him as a leader, a man of such importance. She had no idea then of his ability to persuade her to do almost anything. Wherever he led, she would follow.
Back up through the pine trees and out into the open, dirt-brown, rock-strewn plains, the car headed toward Kabul. Past shepherds tending their goats, wood-slatted trucks carrying chickens to the city’s market, transport donkeys carrying bags of produce, a convoy of army vehicles at the roadside with camouflaged soldiers, their rifles hanging from their shoulders. They passed a truck of men in white shirts and baggy pants, Pashtun vests, brown jackets, and turbans, all carrying rifles—probably Taliban. As they neared the city, they passed a dilapidated sea of tents, as far as the eye could see, set behind a high barbed-wire fence, where shoeless children played with a ball, its skin sheared partway off, so that it flopped instead of rolled, where men loitered and women crouched on the hard earth, huddled together, it seemed, to ward off the cold. There, a long line of people snaking out from under a tent. And there, several dogs pulling something apart with their teeth.
Candace looked at Wakil for an explanation.
He said, “A refugee camp.”
“Yes.” She had seen these before, had even entered their fences, when traveling the country with Richard. She’d never forget the eyes of one mother, her baby wrapped in tattered blankets, her three other children with stomachs swollen with hunger leaning against her as if she could provide them the shelter they needed. “But so close to Kabul. Where are these people from? From Pakistan?” she asked, turning back to her window. “How can they let people live like this? Look at the children. They have no shoes.”
“Shoes? They have no clean water. Little food. And they are Afghans. Displaced during the war, returning to nothing. Some have come back from Pakistan, where the government is shutting down their camps, forcing them to return home to nothing. Their houses gone, their land gone, no jobs, no money. The corrupt government has nothing to do with them,” he said bitterly. “The Russians, NATO forces, the Americans, the insurgency—with every war, homes are destroyed, people flee, and then they come back to nothing. To less than nothing. Destitute, living on top of land mines, living in squalor, in their own shit. Afghans living worse than prisoners in their own country.”
“So don’t you think the UN and the—”
“We must not be so naive. NATO, the UN … they have no power to make real change. Even the rich countries are not concerned. Afghanistan needs to rid itself of the people who only want to rape its women, enslave its children, destroy its land, its resources.” His voice spit anger. “And keep it far from God.”
Of course she agreed with him. After witnessing his school, his clinic, and the refugee camps, she knew he was right.
His face was reddened with frustration. “This is exactly why the Taliban are on the rise. Out of the depths of our people’s misery.”
But this stopped her. “You can’t be saying that the Taliban is a better alternative!”
“I certainly understand their growing popularity. That is all.” He turned to her, gentler now. “You have a good, open heart, my Candace. This,” he said, pointing to the tents, “is exactly why we need your help.” He took her hand in his. “You will change these people’s lives. And many more.”
His tone quieted Candace, who kept her eyes on the camp as they passed. They sat in silence a long time.
As they entered Kabul’s outskirts, they went from makeshift city to makeshift memorial. A forest of green flags, raised high on thin wooden poles that were stuck into the dusty earth, stood bent in the wind. Candace had seen these many times before. They marked the graves of martyrs—Afghan boys and men who died fighting in battle. There was a real cemetery for foreign fighters, the Sherpur Cemetery, but an Afghan was buried on the hillsides, on the plains, in the valleys, with only the small green piece of fabric on a wooden pole to mark his grave.
Then they reached the city walls, plastered with posters and sprayed with bullet holes and graffiti, mostly in Dari, with antigovernment slogans. These words Candace knew. Her husband had spent a lifetime trying to turn the spread of this feeling in Iraq, Pakistan, and Afghanistan, without doing the real work of raising funds to invest in schools, hospitals, and businesses. Now, after spending time with Wakil, she realized how futile and wrong-headed Richard’s efforts had been.
Through the clogged streets, they finally made it to Wakil’s house. The car was whisked through a double gate, guarded by two armed chokidor, and drove up a long U-shaped driveway paved in smooth stone. Wakil’s house wasn’t just large; it was a mansion. It had five floors, and the tiled mosaics covering much of the exterior reminded Candace of a mosque, but without the domes. They were greeted at the front door by a servant in a silk turban, who escorted them to an inner courtyard where a blue-tiled fountain gurgled with water into a small pool and potted trees reached up to the stained-glass skylight five stories above. The stone-pillared canopies surrounding the courtyard gave the building the feel of a palace. It was simply breathtaking, even after she had been in it many times. Another servant then rushed in and whispered something to Wakil, who turned to Candace.
“I must go. There is an emergency. I will see you at dinner, my love.”
She smiled at him, though she felt rejected. They’d come to Wakil’s home precisely because he was supposed to have more time for her. Was she being a spoiled baby or had some heat diminished in their relationship?
She was shown to her room on the third floor. While she was unpacking, her cellphone rang. It was her contact at the embassy telling her that a renowned Indian doctor was speaking tonight on children’s health issues at a local coffeehouse. He thought Candace would be interested in meeting the doctor given Candace’s recent work on behalf of Wakil’s clinic. She closed the phone and sat on the high bed that was covered in gorgeous handmade silk fabric, rich with color and texture. As she ran her hand across the luxurious bedspread, she smiled. This was a sure way to get Wakil’s attention. The doctor—her skills as well as her ability to get attention for her projects—was just what his clinic needed. She knew he’d cancel any plans he might have to attend this event with her so that she might entice the doctor to help the clinic. So what that Candace wasn’t the main attraction. She’d be more than happy to share the spotlight with the good doctor.
Yazmina hadn’t been feeling well all week. She was exhausted. On some mornings she found it difficult just to get out of bed. And then the chores were almost impossible to complete. But she smiled and did everything in her power to pretend she was fine. It worried her, this feeling of lethargy, and she wondered if the baby was well or whether her fall from the car, or the disinfectants she used to mop the floors, or the filthy sewage-strewn streets could have injured the baby deep inside her belly. But she couldn’t risk anyone’s suspicions—because that would be even worse for the life growing inside her.
And it was Wednesday again. If last week there had been twenty people, tonight there would be double or even triple that, if the number of calls Miss Sunny received on the phone she wore around her neck like a talisman was any indication. People asked directions, confirmed the time. Already many had arrived to eat well before ton
ight’s event began. And there had been much preparation as well—the errands, the baking, the ordering, the cooking, cleaning, and straightening. It seemed as if all week led to this day.
Yazmina was resting now on her toshak, her hands on her belly, dreaming that her baby was well, warm, and afloat in her womb. She hoped the baby had found her thumb to suck and that she had every limb in its rightful place. She wondered if the baby was dreaming of her.
At that moment, the nausea she’d been feeling for days swept over her like the winds over the mountains, and she barely made it to the washbowl that sat on the chest. Sweating, she vomited for what seemed like hours. Eventually, she was emptied, and she took the bowl to the toilet in the rear courtyard. On her way back, she encountered Halajan, who was leaning against a wall, smoking. Yazmina had never seen a woman smoking, and on another night, she might have been startled. But considering her own physical condition and how terrible she felt, she had no judgment left for anyone else. The sun’s setting light shone on the trail of smoke as it rose into the air. But everything else was in shadows, which Yazmina was thankful for. She knew her sickened face would betray her.
“Are you all right, lost one?” Halajan asked.
“I am fine, thank you,” answered Yazmina. “I just needed to use the toilet and clean my bowl.” She looked up. “It will be an interesting night, won’t it?”
Halajan kept her eyes on Yazmina. “You are curious about the doctor’s stories?”
Yazmina lowered her eyes. “We all must be concerned for mothers and children.”
“Yes, we must,” Halajan said. “But what matters is how quickly you do what your soul directs.”
Yazmina’s eyes widened. “You quote Rumi. I know this from my mother, who used to sing his poems! She loved Rumi from the time she was a young girl, when her own mother recited his poems. From generation to generation his words were beloved in my family. One day, a trader came through on his way from Kabul and he had a book of Rumi poems, and though my mother couldn’t read, she had to have the book. So my husband bought it for her.” She laughed a little. “My Najam would have bought a blind man a sewing needle if he had wanted it.”
“I suppose it must be, then. Rumi it is.” Halajan took a long puff from her cigarette and let it out with a loud breath. “Now finish your rest because it will be a busy night.”
Yazmina noticed that the moon had risen behind a low cloud. Rumi. Mother. Layla. Perhaps it was the memory of them or her thoughts of Najam. Yazmina was surprised to be feeling better. She had but one prayer that night: that Sunny would come to need her before she learned of her secret.
Sunny was elated. Almost every chair, every table in the coffeehouse was taken, and people were busy eating and talking well before the doctor was to begin. The crowd was mostly women, split almost equally between foreigners and Afghans. She had hired an extra chokidor for the night, at Ahmet’s urging, but she needn’t have. Women didn’t stash guns in their purses, especially when they were coming to hear a renowned doctor talking about children’s health issues in today’s Afghanistan.
Isabel had returned to talk further with the doctor. She was sitting with Petr at a table nearby, already sipping the “tea” that she had brought in her large saddlebag, and which Halajan had quickly dispensed into a teapot. There were two empty seats at the table, which Sunny was saving for herself, once the doctor started to talk, and for Jack, if he showed up. She hadn’t heard from him since their last instant message. She didn’t know whether to be worried or pissed—but above all she just wanted to share another successful night with him.
Meanwhile there was serving to do, coffees to be made, and tables to clear. Sunny imagined the wall outside bigger, the evenings profitable, and the money coming in so fast that she had to figure out what to do with it all. Stop, she thought. You’re getting way ahead of yourself.
And then there was a loud crash that made everyone turn and stop talking. Yazmina had dropped a tray of cups and saucers on the floor, shattering them into tiny fragments. The poor girl looked shocked, but beyond that she looked gray and tired, too. Sunny wanted to kick herself for letting Yazmina work so hard, and was quickly at her side.
“Yazmina, khair asti? Are you all right?”
But she didn’t answer. She went to the closet and returned with a twig brush and a dustpan.
“Yazmina, I’ll do that,” said Halajan.
But Yazmina was already on her knees sweeping up the shards.
“What’s up with Yazmina?” whispered Halajan. “She doesn’t look good. Is she sick?”
“She’s okay, I think,” said Sunny. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Maybe she’s just lazy. Maybe not used to this kind of work.”
“Are you kidding? She doesn’t stop, and she’s as strong as two men. We wouldn’t survive without her on a night like this.”
Halajan smiled, put a hand on her hip. “We survived before and we’d survive after.”
“Too much competition for you, Halajan?” Sunny teased.
“Me? You joke. Look how fast she has become important to you. Be careful not to need her too much. She won’t be here always.”
“Well, I’m going to make sure she’s okay,” Sunny said.
She went behind the counter to the kitchen, where Yazmina was throwing the remains of the china into the garbage.
“Sunnyjan. Emorz, I no good. I will work to repay the damage.”
Sunny understood that she was saying that she was very sorry and today she wasn’t feeling well. “It’s just pyalas, a few cups. We have many more. No problem.”
Sunny saw the stunned look on Yazmina’s face and realized her family probably couldn’t afford even one cup like the many she had just broken. She’d have to try to be more sensitive. Right now, though, her mind was on Yazmina’s health.
“Are you feeling khub, all right? Are you mareez, sick?” Sunny cocked her head to the side and tried to see into Yazmina’s eyes, but they were downcast. “Would you like to see a daktar?”
Yazmina looked up. “No, no, tashakur, thank you, I ba khoda,” she said. “As God is my witness, I promise to be more careful.”
Sunny knew she was saying she was fine, but she could see that Yazmina was flushed. Beads of perspiration formed on her brow and her eyes were glassy.
“Maybe you should go to your room and rest,” said Sunny. “Perhaps after the daktar has finished speaking, she could come and—”
“No, no, please. Besyar, many people. How will you—” She looked afraid, as if she was certain she was about to be punished.
Sunny took the pan and broom from her and said, “Okay, no daktar. But you go rest so that tomorrow, when it’s very busy, you will be ready to help.” She saw the concern on Yazmina’s face. “Don’t worry. You still have your job and your home here. And you will, no matter what happens. Okay? It’s natural, I think, to feel nauseous when you’re …” Sunny caught herself.
Yazmina widened her eyes and looked at her with fear.
“It’s okay, it’s possibly something you ate. But if you don’t feel better tomorrow, we’ll have to go to the daktar.”
“Yes, but I will be okay. I’m just a little tired,” said Yazmina.
Sunny watched her as she untied her apron and hung it on the hook next to the refrigerator. Yazmina started to walk out the back door but stopped and leaned against the wall. Sunny rushed over with a chair.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Please, sit.”
“I’d like to stay and hear the doctor,” Yazmina said.
“Yes, of course,” Sunny answered. She put a hand on Yazmina’s shoulder.
The door of the coffeehouse opened, and in walked a woman who was dressed like a celebrity, with knee-high boots, tight jeans, a huge, bespangled designer bag over her arm, and a tight, cropped white down jacket. Except for the shawl she wore over her head, she could’ve been at a ski resort. With her was an imposing, much younger Afghan man wearing traditional clothes and an el
egant turban. He was very handsome, broad and tall, but also serious, with a rigid stance. It was his eyes that drew you to him, dark eyes with a stern gaze that was mesmerizing.
The woman took off her shawl to reveal long, straight, bleached platinum hair. She leaned on one foot and tapped the other, clearly used to entering a restaurant and being seated immediately.
Instead of waiting for Halajan to make her way over from the kitchen, the woman scanned the room and then she sat herself and her companion with Isabel and Petr, in the seats Sunny had been saving for herself and Jack. The two men shook hands and began to talk.
Sunny was tempted to say something snarky about waiting for a table, but she stopped herself. This night was meant to bring in paying customers and a new wall was more important than correcting someone’s sense of entitlement. So she went over to greet them.
“It’s Candace, Candace Appleton,” the platinum blonde said, holding out her hand to be shaken, while looking Sunny up and down, and waiting for her response.
“Welcome. I’m Sunny.”
“Sunny?” She smiled. “That’s a cute nickname. What’s it short for?”
Sunny narrowed her eyes. “It’s just Sunny, the name my mother gave me.”
“It sounds, well, rural.” She turned an ear toward Sunny. “Like your accent. You must be from the South.”
Sunny looked at Isabel, who raised her brows and smiled, basically daring Sunny to respond. But Sunny just cocked a shoulder and put a hand on a hip, thinking, and yours makes you sound like a stuck-up bitch. She knew that her accent made her sound like a hick. But hell if she was going to let this woman get away with being rude. “And what’s Candace long for—Candy?”
Isabel barked a loud laugh and said, “There’s my girl.”
Sunny couldn’t help herself. She’d met women like Candace before. They came to Kabul in the guise of wanting to help, bringing their privilege and Western expectations with them, often hooking up with a man just like the one this Candace was with, but when they were unable to deal with the bureaucracy and the corruption, the filth and the violence, they left, feeling that this place, and its people, were of no use.
A Cup of Friendship Page 8